Sin Coffee for the Morning

Forgive Me For I Have Sinned.

It is 9 pm New Years Eve and we do not have coffee for the morning. Sleep-in morning and no coffee. On the way home from the Iowa State football party -- Iowa won -- we stop at the nearest grocery store because it's open. Please don't tell God but I bought sin coffee. I paid money to sin.

Some people grew up believing that there's a devil under each chair at a dance. Some people grew up believing that beer and wine lead to sex and drugs. Some people grew up believing that birth control leads to the end of civilization. Some people grew up believing that the gay lifestyle is inherently immoral.

I grew up believing that if you don't buy fair trade coffee you are perpetuating the oppression of the poor which directly violates most all of the Ten Commandments, plus gets you an inferior grade of brew beans.

I have behaved badly and will go to extra church in 2010. Grace doesn't matter.

But the thought of waking up with no coffee seems worse.

Happy New Year!!

With love, T

Blame It on Little House

There's noway around it. Raising kids is a loose-loose situation. The ultimate goal of a parent is to not produce spoiled rotten brats. But these days it's really hard not to offer up to the universe just that -- spoiled rotten brats. It's not their fault. It's mine. And my question is this: how do you know whether or not your precious babies are actually, in reality, spoiled rotten brats?

So when your kids fight for who will sit in the front seat of the car -- fight like they're live on the Jerry Springer show with pushing and shoving and hitting and kicking and crying -- that's when you've confirmed the fact that you've raised a pair of spoiled rotten brats. And you're a total loser mother because it's your job to teach them basic automobile entry etiquette.

Parental expectations. I'm blaming it on all those Little House on the Prairie books that my teachers used to read to me. Where the kids were happy to receive a lump of candy for Christmas, where Pa played the fiddle for entertainment, where Ma sacrificed her calico fabric so that she could stay up all night and hand sew new calico dresses for good-girl daughters, Mary and Laura. How do you live up to that?

And then there's the poor mother of three who's cleavage just isn't what it used to be. And so for the inspirational makeover story of the year, this mother was awarded an experimental high tech pair of brand new silicon breasts. Not so good for nursing babies, but great for perkiness, firmness, and overall less jiggling. Seriously, I saw this on the local news broadcast while in California. They even showed the mother being wheeled into surgery, smiling and waving from her gurney.

So what exactly does it mean to avoid raising spoiled rotten brats? I dunno. But I can tell you that I did the unthinkable today with my own kids following the Jerry Springer event in the parking lot. I hope you don't judge me harshly when I tell you what I did . . .that I postponed our Burger King dinner that had been promised all week. Huge blow to the kids.

And then there's the "I'm sorry." Not my son, but my daughter responds by profusely apologizing. I don't want her apologizing. I don't want her to grow up thinking that she needs to apologize to anyone for anything. Unless she is the former president of the United States of America and has led the world into multiple unnecessary endless expensive pointless wars. Other than that -- no apologizing. So how do you teach that? My son has no urge to apologize. I'm trying not to generalize male and female tendencies, but I'm just saying, I don't like my daughter apologizing.

We end the night with television -- the good cheerleader/bad cheerleader movie. Fortunately the bad cheerleaders win. And now it's time to bake cookies.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

The Supersonic Spa is Open

The Supersonic Spa is open day and night. Around the clock dressings for burning skin available here. We specialize in nursing wild bile that itches from the inside. No need for suicide. Treat from the outside. An oatmeal scrub. An oatmeal based lotion. An ice pack. Cover up and lie very, very still. Shhhh, no talking.

The Supersonic Spa treatment works for any part of the body that might be on fire at any given time. If by chance the whole body is ablaze, the Supersonic Spa operator will randomly choose a body part, say, an arm or leg, and apply the treatment with instructions to focus. It’s proven to work for at least an hour.

The Supersonic Spa operator can hear things like never before. Whispers, rhythms, and breathing from another room, out in the hall, inside a burning body. Like a sixth sense that came when the force of the poison was revealed.

‘Are you OK?’ All night long. She's talking to a vital organ. She can hear it.

The infinitesimal bile ducts in the liver are starting to disentangle themselves. They’re starting to arrange themselves in a way that will let the bile process properly. The injury is in process of repair, yet the body has a long way to go. It’s shedding its entire old skin and completely new skin cells are producing rapidly. So rapidly that the burning remains. Like growing pains or birthing pains. Or a Phoenix rising. And so that is why the Supersonic Spa is open day and night. To comfort the afflicted.

The Supersonic Spa operator wears pajamas a lot and tries to take afternoon naps. The Supersonic Spa operator is afraid of the blood labs due tomorrow. The Supersonic Spa operator wants to take NyQuil and not hear everything anymore.

[January 3, 2007, Bob's Care Page]

*

In reading the book, Hunger: An Unnatural History, by Sharman Apt Russell who may be my MFA mentor, I was reminded of our own deterioration when Bob was diagnosed as severely anorexic courtesy of liver failure, in 2007. The book describes several hunger experiments and one finding--besides physical and mental breakdown--is enhanced hearing. Which is what happened to me to the point where I was convinced I could hear Bob's liver.

It's amazing how things pull together even after years. I am in the midst of glorious reading of books articles, poems, essays, and websites in preparation for my first day of school in December. Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog. xoxoxo

With love, T

New Moon Fever

If you haven't heard, the second Twilight movie -- New Moon -- premiers on Friday. And I have been assigned my roles which mainly involve driver and financier. Last year I was actually invited to attend the premier of the first Twilight but ended up getting stuck in the Detroit airport. The main bummer was that I really wanted to hear all the tween screams in live time. Don't worry, when I saw it later with Amanda, she recounted to me each scene where the audience squealed with delight during the premier, the first one being when the brooding Edward enters the school cafeteria. Admittedly, it's incredible even in slow motion.

Don't worry, we've had the tickets for a long time. We do know enough to get advance tickets for this one.

I could go into the crazy marketing of it all, but won't except to say that I am totally jealous of Stephanie Meyers and her book series which has my daughter and a gazillion others mesmerized. Why? That is for all of us to figure out. Or not. It's the romance, stupid.

Thanks for coming to the Charmer blog and I hope you all have a fanciful day.

With love, T

P.S. Amanda would like to clarify that she is mostly over the Twilight hoopla. Just a normal Edward fan these days as opposed to a totally obsessed one.

Eliminated and Terminated? Write that.

So last year I read some books by John Steinbeck and fell in love. Mr. Steinbeck is dead 40 years but when you write you live forever. Hence, the potential for mutual affection goes as far as do words and ideas.

Going to California, Mr. Steinbeck's homeland, seemed like the right thing to do. Then I saw an ad for a school out there. Filled out all the forms. Wrote my entrance essay. Paid the application fee. Sought advise and references. By the grace of God I got all that paperwork in, twice. Then my husband started asking reasonable questions. (Gotta love reason.)

Bob: What's the program like?

Me: It's in California.

Bob: How much does it cost?

Me: Five miles from the beach.

Bob: Do they give out scholarships?

Me: Yes, they have Beverly Hills, sunshine, and moving stars.

You get an idea for what Bob puts up with and I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking how can that lady learn in California when she lives in Iowa? When she has two children and a husband and a middle class, suburban, do-gooder lifestyle to live. Not to mention an income to earn. Two words: low residency.

Telecommution, baby! A thousand miles in the other direction. A 180 degree turn around. In Biblical terms, that's reconciliation, restoration, rehabilitation, transformation. CHANGE.

Now in plain English.

I'm pleased to announce that I have been accepted into the Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program at Antioch University in Los Angeles, actually in Culver City. It is a low residency program which means I do my writing projects from home. Real classrooms are so last century. I go there twice a year. And yes, I did finally carefully look at the program and it looks AWESOME!

I am already planning my Iowa-based writing projects, as there is a lot to explore here, with the many amazing people that I keep meeting. And I am already dreaming about my outside-Iowa writing projects. My themes will be artists, farmers, theologians, parolees, musicians, plumbers, mothers, brothers, and others, dead or alive, including the terminated and eliminated. And as always, my dear family.

Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

photo: steeple shadow and tree, St. John's Lutheran Church, Des Moines

THE DRAMA KING IS ALIVE

Dear Charmer Friends,

If you are still here, you get the medal of honor. A gold star. A big batch of homemade mac-n-cheese. What the hey, I'll even throw in some Velveeta.

Why?

Because last Sunday at church a friend asked me what I was reading. I mentioned the John Steinbeck book that I happily reviewed last dispatch. That's grim, he said. Evidently he knew the book, The Moon is Down. Still awesome, I think. I'm trying to talk Amanda into writing it into a screenplay, but she's not going for it.

Anyway, the thing is, he's right. It is grim. I was on the verge of Grapes of Wrath or The Iliad. Depression, despair, war. Why am I reading this kind of stuff??

Thank goodness for Kathy Lee Gifford (photo). You see, Aidan now impersonates her.

Shhhhhhhhhh. Tonight I was reading bedtime stories to Aidan and my ten-year-old secretly molded himself into his childhood position of cuddling inside me as I read to him in bed. But I realized that I could not see his face and these days that's a big deal. These days when I read to him, he listens with his Kathy Lee Gifford facial position. No, he doesn't know Kathy Lee Gifford, but he does know the Saturday Night Live comedienne who impersonates her and SNL is his new favorite show. (Gotta go to NYC soon and get tickets.) Anyway, it's all very funny.

Kathy Lee Gifford actually has a place in our family. Back in the good 'ol days when Bob was a full time stay at home father I would come home from work and he would tell me about the attempts to replace Kathy Lee on the morning talk show "Live with Regis and Kathy Lee." They were doing this contest thing and trying out a whole bunch of potential replacements for Kathy Lee when she resigned from the show. Every night I came home from work and my husband, Bob, would give me a review. Today's audition was pretty good, but not quite right, he would say. When I realized he was not kidding, I knew we were in trouble. This stay-at-home father thing was not working. In a big way.

That's when we decided once and for all, Bob would become a full time seminary student. The rest is history.

Don't get me wrong, Bob was a great stay at home father. It's just that full-time parenting of young children is really hard work. Best pastoral preparation anyone could ever have.

Anywho, it's late and I'm blogging on Kathy Lee Gifford. Actually, I found her strangely comforting when I happened across her back on morning TV recently. I think it's because I always contrasted her commute to Manhattan with mine. She in a chauffeured car from Connecticut. Me in a stinky humanoid subway from Brooklyn. Whatever. She was smarter than me. I saw her on TV in July while at the golf clubhouse place where Aidan was taking summer classes and I was waiting like a good mother.

If you ever wondered if the King of Drama is alive -- he is and he lives in my house. I read to him and tuck him into bed every night.

Thanks for coming over. More war-themed book reviews coming soon.

With love, T

The Moon is Down

Just when you think this little coastal village would be a nice place to live, the woman you try to date or rape or whatever you want to call it ends up killing you with her knitting scissors.

This short book is a real page turner. A political thriller. Author John Steinbeck is a master at keeping you interested. He says so much with so little words, in less than 150 pages.

On one quiet morning a small town is easily occupied by a foreign miliatary force, whose soldiers were told that they would be welcomed as liberators to a better life. Indeed, at first the soldiers like their mission. Some even fantasize about settling here after the war. The people are pleasant, they offer no resistance. The landscape is beautiful. And really, it's an engineering operation, not military, as they are just seeking to make more efficient means of extracting the local natural resource: coal.

Published in 1942, the unnamed town is presumably in Norway. The unnamed occupier is presumably the Nazi's. The truths are universal. The characters are rich, as individuals on both sides are portrayed as humans with foibles, strengths and weaknesses. The town mayor. The occupying general. The townspeople. The soldiers. The servants. The officers.

It's absolutely classic. We all know this story. At first there seems to be no resistence. But it changes. What do you want to call it? Resistence. Passive resistence. Guerilla warfare. Terrorism. You decide. Steinbeck uses the word resistence.

What can the townspeople do? They must do anything and everything they are told to do. Slave in the coal mine. Give sex to soldiers. Say nothing extraordinary. Be publically executed otherwise.

What they do is work slowly in the mines. They badly cook meals. They don't talk or make eye contact. They blow up bridges and roads. They pretend to date and then kill their companions. And the mayor is in on all of it; although the occupying general believes he's cooperating.

An occupying force follows one leader. The townspeople are all full of leadership. If their leader gets killed, ten more pop up. If a hundred get killed, a thousand more emerge. You can kill a lot of people, but you can never fully eliminate their human capacity.

LOVE John Steinbeck!

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

In peace, joy, prosperity, and truth, T