Friday, November 30, 2007

Guest Blogger is Back!

Christmas Song of the Day: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Now you know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen
Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen
But do you recall
The most famous reindeer of all

This song is special because we would sing it with Dad whenever we were in the car with him. You know, he must have had worries and anxieties but when we were little, we never knew it. We thought that there was nothing more important in the world than us and he would sing Rudolph with us over and over and over and over. I wonder sometimes if it bored the crap out of him.

Guest Blogger is back!!!

It was the day I always hoped would never come. I knew it was inevitable, sure, but I hoped nonetheless.

Growing up in a family full of girls, I was never exposed to the secret world of males. A world where groin grasping is commonplace and flatulence is funny. No, these were things I only heard of and, naturally, scoffed at. Things that had no place in my life.

Until today. When my beautiful son broke the father/son code, by sharing with me a fun little game his father had taught him...

...pull my finger.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Best Phrase Ever

Christmas Song of the Day: Snoopy and the Red Baron

The Baron made Snoopy fly to the Rhine
And forced him to land behind the enemy lines
Snoopy was certain that this was the end

When the Baron cried out, "Merry Christmas, my friend"

This song always chokes me up. Mortal enemies, whose stated purpose is to kill, hold each other in high regard, and claim a brief truce on Christmas Eve. It recalls the true story from World War I.
"A spontaneous truce resulted. Soldiers left their trenches, meeting in the middle to shake hands. The first order of business was to bury the dead who had been previously unreachable because of the conflict. Then, they exchanged gifts. Chocolate cake, cognac, postcards, newspapers, tobacco. In a few places, along the trenches, soldiers exchanged rifles for soccer balls and began to play games."
This is sexist and I'm assuming it was only men in the trenches, but men are wonderful. If I weren't so bitter, it would almost seem wrong to continue with the rest of my blog today.

"Eat Shit and Die"

Isn't that just like the best phrase ever? I said it to my brother just now. Well, it was my advice to him to say to a woman he is attracted to. She's married, with kids, claims she's "unhappy" (they all claim that) but that she can't get out of the bad marriage (they all claim that too) is still intimate with her husband (you're getting the pattern here aren't you?) but wants to get nailed by my brother (well, who wouldn't?).

Last week I pointed out some of her flawed thinking. I guess he listened because he told her she needs to deal with her marriage first before coming to him. She's on instant message now wanting to talk to him.

I told him to tell the hose bag to eat shit and die.

He's talking to her. A big sister can only do so much.


Christmas Song of the Day: Deck the Halls

Deck the halls with boughs of holly!
Fa la la la la la la la la

Deck the Halls is a holiday staple. But my daughter and I, ever since watching the end of “A Christmas Story” sing it “Fa ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra!” Sort of like, instead of LOL (laughing out loud in chat-speak), typing ROR. If challenged, I am prepared with a song off of the “My Name is Kim Sam Soon” official sound track. Which is Korean and which will vindicate me completely. As if my clear affection for the Asian culture is in question here.

I hit a new vocabulary low today and I’m devastated.

I often hit audible lows. I have the mouth of a rednecked 18 wheel-driving tourette’s victim. Sometimes I work on this character flaw, sometimes I don’t. (I swore once in front of my Dad when I was in high school. Carefully rendering an amusing anecdote of the day, I told him “Blank” Hughes licked bird sh*t on a dare for $20. I said sh*t in front of the man who called cow waste “manure”. I wanted the earth to swallow me whole when I saw the disappointment in my Dad’s eyes. You think I would have stopped cursing after that.)

Sorry for the digression. But any time I get to mention Blank Hughes, I like to take the opportunity. Oh, and yeah, he really did lick bird sh*t for $20. I thought the man was a god.

I like to test my verbal acumen with some frequency. I have installed a little gadget on my iGoogle desktop to test myself on a daily basis. My ego will shamefully admit to you that I do it just to see how right I always am. I can be such an ass sometimes. (see? See??!). I don’t always get 100%, sometimes I get 80% and sometimes, I will admit that I go as low as 60%. No less than 60% though. Ever.

Until today.

40%. I hate myself. 40%! And I tried! (Sometimes I don’t try. Hence the 60%) I’ve actually used 8 of the 10 words or phrases that you will see – so how could I get 40%?

You have to match the words on the left to the correct definition on the right (or in blue because effing blogger won't put in effing tabs.)

Vacillate Revile

Vituperate Hover

Obviate Condense

Prevaricate Tergiversate

Inspissate Rid_of

I only got vacillate and vituperate right. The rest…wrong…all wrong. F*ck. (It’s a cry for help.)

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Christmas Song of the Day: Happy Christmas (War is Over)

So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun

Leave it to one half of Lennon/McCartney to write a Christmas song that has entered into the world’s songbook. I don’t like political Christmas songs but I never considered this one of those. I think it’s about hope and wishes and love for all mankind. And that’s what Christmas is. McCartney will show up on my top list later on. He’s higher up the ladder for other reasons.

Not a fan of the political “Do They Know It’s Christmas Time In Africa Where Babies Have Flies In Their Mouths So Buy This CD And A Portion of The Proceeds Will Go To Save The Babies! Yes!! A Portion!!” or of the “Christmas Shoes For Mah Dyin’ Momma Mister So She Cin Look Pritty Fer Jesus” songs. I find them manipulative and offensive.

If they spur someone else to an act of goodwill, then fabulous. They just piss me off.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Warm and Safe and Loved

Christmas Song of the Day: Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer

Now we're all so proud of Grandpa
He's been takin' this so well
See him in there watching football
Drinking beers and playing cards with cousin Mel

The first of my "favorite Christmas songs". I listened to Christmas music almost exclusively on the ride home from New York today. I remember when this song first came out. I thought that the line "They should never give a license to a man who drives a sleigh and plays with elves." was frighteningly laden with meaning. For the first time, I was in on the joke. You know. The abnormally suggestive, he "PLAYS with ELVES."

I just finished watching my first episode of "Pushing Daisies". Overview: Young man Ned has a gift. He can touch dead people and bring them back to life. If he touches them for a second time, they die never to be brought back to life by any means. If he doesn't touch them the second time, someone else dies. For the most part, he will "wake up" a dead person, determine who or what killed them, touches them again to let them pass this mortal coil, and then collects the reward for finding the "real killers" (that's right, a la OJ!).

There are several interesting complications in the series, foremost is that of his lady love. Her name is Chuck. Well, her nickname is Chuck. Her real name is Charlotte. He loved Charlotte always, starting when they were young. Charlotte died. Ned touched her and brought her back to life. He can't touch her again, lest she die for good. That means they can't kiss, they can't touch, they can't anything. Sexual tension baby.

It avoids the whole "I Dream of Jeannie" jump the shark peril.

I have not watched "Pushing Daisies" from the beginning, though my daughter has urged me to do so. The show has an interesting geek vibe (we have already established that I am rife with geeky goodness) and has wrydry sense of humor.

The first episode I watched was about smells. Genius smellman author-type writes a book about the smell of success, attempts are made on his life, blah blah blah, twist twist twist, the end. I expected Paul Reubens to either be lead villain or the author of the adult "pop-up" books. He turned out to be the unexpected good guy...well, for now. Foreshadowing would indicate that he won't be a good guy for long.

I found the intro most appealing. The narrator talked about young Ned. Ned's Mom baked pies. Wonderful pies that would fill the house with their comforting aroma. Ned's Mom died. Ned saved her. Ned's mom came in to give him a kiss goodnight not long after that. She touched him, and the second kiss killed her for good. Macabre really (which intrigues me), and our young hero can't stop dreaming of his Mom. Wanting her back. Aching pathos. Young Ned in the orphanage sneaks into the kitchen, brings some rotten apples back to life and bakes a pie. Pie smells like his Mom. He's finally able to sleep. He is warm and safe and loved.

Utilizing his amazing gifts, besides going after all manner of twisted killers, Ned is the owner operator of a desert specialty shop. He calls it "The Pie Hole".

Interesting time of year to have that episode on. Thanksgiving. The start of the Christmas holiday. Scent transports. Turkey baking in a 325 degree oven all morning. Stuffing. Apples. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Dough. Thyme. My clean sheets. The furnace is turned on. The smell of heat. My daughter's hair. Pine needles. Pumpkin pie. New clothes. Snow. Fallen leaves. My mom's musky perfume. My Dad's neck.

Scent, like music, transcends space and time. I am five years old again. Mom is chopping onions, cooking giblets, snapping at us not to touch the black olives until dinner (we each of us sneak 10 and pretend we are e-vil monsters clawing our way out of the depths of hell). My Dad is still alive, there are seven of us siblings, and we are care free. Someone meets every one of my needs without my even having to think about it. My greatest challenge and my greatest accomplishment is remembering to yell "I CALL IT!!" before I jump out of the easy chair assuring my prime spot while watching Johnny Whittaker in "The Littlest Angel".

I am warm and safe and loved.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Happy Thanksgivings

Bee Gees Song of the Day: I Can't See Nobody

I cant see, I cant see nobody.
My eyes can only look at

Ahhhh, it’s a fabulous day! Traffic was blessedly light. I have a hot cup of decaf coursing through my veins. No executives in the office to speak of. The promise of apple pie later in the day. The weather is dank and gloomy. Spooky when it’s dark out; with all the leaves swirling around one’s feet. It’s autumn and it’s beautiful. And it’s Thanksgiving.

I’m driving to New York to have a few days with my kids. Talk about thankful.

I’ve had some very good Thanksgivings. Mom used to just go all out at Thanksgiving and Christmas. The house would smell of turkey and stuffing and rutabaga and good things. Mom is the best cook ever. Gramma would send over pumpkin, blueberry, cherry, apple, and mince pies. We’d watch the Macy’s Day Parade on television all morning, a few cartoons thrown in for good measure (Popeye, Bullwinkle, Bugs Bunny, Tom & Jerry). Later, we would play outside – there was almost always snow up on the hill where we live. We'd build snow men and women, dig tunnels, carve out snow caves, jump on them and eventually crush them. Then we would come in wet, dirty and exhausted. We’d lay down on the floor with Dad and we would fall asleep curled up by the heating vent watching football.

There was the year my Virginia cousins came up for Thanksgiving; probably the first Thanksgiving after Grampa died in 1978. It is notable because Salem’s Lot was on. My cousin and I recognized in each other a certain loutish behavior; an instant and lasting camaraderie was struck. We still share it. It’s crude and insensitive, and I’m not going to go into detail. But it still makes us laugh.

Lots of wonderful Thanksgivings during my marriage. The men would go hunting, the women would stay back and cook. All the cousins would play together – remarkably little blood shed; we all have such good kids they all got along - and still get along - so well.

One year, one of my boys had made a loaf of bread in school. It was the size of his fist and was about as light and fluffy as a hockey puck. We placed it on the table prominently, we all had a piece. It was awful, but it made my son so happy to have contributed something for dinner. And we ate it.

Then there was the last Thanksgiving I had with my Gramma. I had invited everyone over to my home for dinner. 30 people, little ones all over the place, it was wonderful. Gramma had alzheimers, but she was still communicative, very innocent. I sat on the floor next to her and asked if I could get her anything, tea, more potatoes, anything. “Nope!” her eyes shone, “Evie says that if I eat all my dinner, I can have pumpkin pie!” I smiled, “That’s right Gramma! You can!” We talked a few more minutes and Gramma said, “If I eat all my dinner, I get pie!” “That’s right Gramma, you do! Eat up!” We talked some more, I tended to the rest of the family. As I passed Gramma again, she showed me her plate, “May I have some pie now?” I don’t think I can think of anything more beautiful.

Wow, this is making me cry actually. A piece of pie. A loaf of bread. A stupid joke. Would that we all could find joy in small things, in small moments and keep them with us. I’m so glad I have that memory. And you know what? I don’t think I can type anymore.

Happy Thanksgiving :)

Friday, November 16, 2007

More Little Lacie

Bee Gees Song of the Day: Love Never Dies

To God above i swear
I only wanna live in the shadow you make
the soul never lies
but love never dies it goes on forever

Little Lacie of the Enormous Brain got some fabulous news. Her insurance company has approved her brain surgery at the premiere institute for her diagnosis. I'm happy. I'm scared. She's scared for herself; this is brain surgery. It's getting closer and more real than ever.

My tiny little friend is strong though. She continues to try to live a life as normal as possible amidst her symptoms; dizziness, crushing headaches, brain fogginess, sensitivity to sounds. She's pretty successful at it; and I think mostly, people tend to forget she is struggling.

We chatted today. "I have been a fighter all my life. I watched my brother die right in front of me ~ I could have fallen apart ~ but I soldiered on. I had two hip surgeries with six weeks in a body cast both times. I had to learn how to walk again ~ twice . I was told I would always walk with a limp and not be athletic, so I threw myself into sports; swim team, soccer, pep squad, ran, rappelled down mountains, climbed peaks. Now it's just brain and spinal surgery. I've always stared down challenges in my life. I don't know how to do it differently."

Lace just wants to be normal again. She "hates being so self absorbed" (can you imagine?) To combat this, she has made friends with other sufferers of Chiari. They seem to want to meet her, to flock to the light that radiates from her. She finds this astounding – because she feels like she fakes her clarity most of the time. It makes sense to me - they need her warmth, her strength and her faith.

Holding other people up is a big responsibility – she's a little thing and now she's this brain tail stuff sticking out of her cranium, but she's still holding people up. She's still working out. She's still going to her daughter's cheer competitions. She's hosting sleep overs for 18 giggly girls, she's still working full time.

But sometimes, people forget that she has needs too. She gives until she's got nothing left to give. She leaves nothing for herself. I think that during the day, the seams start to tear, in her little bag of sanity she keeps so close. The she furiously sews the bag up at night so she can get through the next day.

The reality of her surgery is shoving its face into hers. And it's scary. I don't want her to be scared, or tired, or struggling to keep it all together. I just want her to be better. So we can see the new X-Files movie together when it comes out. So we can just go out for lunch. So we can go to Tibet (we have that all planned out, she'll climb the Himalayas, I'll ride on the back of a little sherpa).

So if you are reading this, say a little prayer for Big Little Lacie. Please. And thank you.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

He versus She

Bee Gees Song of the Day: Come On Over

And if all my bad days came at once
You would know just what to do
Come on over
Baby, you would see me through


Remember the book "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus"? Well, here's a prime example offered by an English professor at an American University.

"Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandemstory. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth. Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be absolutely NO talking and anything you wish to say must be written on the paper. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached." The following was actually turned in by two of my English students: Rebecca and Gary - last names deleted.

STORY: ---------
(First paragraph by Rebecca)
At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

(Second paragraph by Gary)
Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. " A.S. Harris to Geostation 17, he said into his transgalactic communicator. "Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off, a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.

He bumped his head and died almost immediately but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.

Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through the congress had left earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President in his top-secret Mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized poor, stupid, Laurie and 85 million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. "We can't allow this! I'm going to veto that treaty! Let's blow 'em out of the sky!"

This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic semi-literate adolescent.

Yeah? Well, you're a self-centered tediousneurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium. "Oh shall I have chamomile tea? Or shall I have some other sort of F*CKING TEA??? Oh no, I'm such an air headed bimbo who reads too many Danielle Steele novels... I can't decide."

(Rebecca) Asshole.
(Gary) Bitch.
(Rebecca) Wanker.
(Gary) Slut.
(Rebecca) Get f*cked.
(Gary) Eat shit.
(Gary) Go drink some tea - whore.

(Teacher) A+ ...I really liked this one!

Wednesday, November 14, 2007


Bee Gees Song of the Day: Every Christian Lion Hearted Man Will Show You

Don't walk so tall
Before you crawl
For every child
Is thinking of something wild

I was lamenting the aging process the other day. When I was young, I'll be the first to tell you that I looked great. Firm, taut, strong, a size 4, my ass excited the ardor of upper classmen. Well, one upper classman. But he was hot and I had a powerful crush on him. I was dating someone steadily at the time and so didn’t give in to my baser nature.

I’m fortunate; my face still looks young. I’ve gotten used to the bemused wonder on the faces of those who find out I have 3 grown children. Still, I’ve changed over the last 25 years. My roots need coloring, my wrinkles are deepening.

I’m no size 4.

I was admiring my daughter’s hands the other day. Smooth, slender, and lovely. I compared her hands to mine and mine came up wanting. Wanting botox. But my youngest child exclaimed, “Oh, I LOVE your hands!”

“You are just being nice, they are hideous.”

“Oh NO. Look at them, they’re beautiful!”

“Oh, really.” I was unimpressed.

“I look at these hands and I see life! I can see all the foreheads you’ve checked for fevers, all the neck rubs, the aspirins you gave us, the peanut butter sandwiches you’ve made. Do you know you are able to make a peanut butter sandwich with one swipe of the knife?” she kept stroking and admiring my hands as I stared at her with an open mouth.

“How do you make peanut butter spread across the bread like that? That amazes me! I tried to do that once and I just ripped the bread. These hands have washed thousands of dishes, folded tons of clothes, swept floors, driven me places. These hands have loved and hugged and lived! Look at my hands! They haven’t lived! They’ve done nothing! I love your hands! I think they are beautiful! And your face,” she started to smooth my cheeks. “Look at those lines! Look at those smile lines by your eyes! I love those, you’ve laughed so much, you’ve smiled so much, they make you so beautiful!”

I doubt that we ever see ourselves as others see us. 43 years of living day to day, laughing, crying, loving, hating; all that living marks us emotionally, intellectually and certainly physically.

Do we ever see ourselves as someone who loves sees us? Did I realize that the insignificant act of spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread caused wonder? Did I ever stop to consider the eyes of my children and what they saw? When I wept? When I hated? When I forgave? When I clapped? When I smiled? When I hugged?

I looked at my hands again. And I looked at my smile lines again. And I looked at my not-size-4 body again. And I was beautiful.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Hi Dad

It's human nature to apply human characteristics to things which are not human. I think that's called anthropomorphism (what a great word!). You know what I mean; like identifying the man on the moon, or seeing the Blessed Virgin Mary in a toasted cheese sandwich.

Humans think they are so superior. It's all about us.

Sometimes though, it's all about ME. Just go look at my URL name. I'm sufficiently self-absorbed that I take anything even remotely within my periphery and discern how it affects me. ME ME ME.

So now you have some background.

I miss my Dad. He died January 10, 1995 and I think about him every day. I sure could have used his unexampled strength, love and support during the last 13 years. I've had some rough moments.

He has 'allegedly' appeared in one form or another to certain family members at different times. Dreams, visions. Even once, when we were burying him in May, he physically showed himself to my then-husband. Smiled at him, appeared sad that my kids were crying, walked over in his unique bow-legged walk and stood next to my Mom.

Yeh. Thanks for making an appearance Dad. To the EX. Whatever.

But he does come to me. And in ways that I think make him smile, because Dad was a joker and he loved a good laugh and he knows I'd get it. And just to get back a little of my own, I think of him most powerfully when I drive by a farm and smell manure. If I smell silage or freshly cut grass for hay I think of him too, but mostly Dad, you smell like crap. Heheheheheheheh.

He's surprised me too. On the day of my son's wedding, I was driving to the church when Roger Whittaker came on the radio singing "The Last Farewell". I haven't heard that song in many years. I think Dad was just letting me know he was around and that he was at my son's wedding. I started to tear up, but didn't want to ruin my makeup. He had made me so happy.

Lately, I've had rather a lot to think about too. And as is my habit, while driving in to work, I tuned into Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen's Life is Worth Living on EWTN. Bishop Sheen was a favorite of Dad's and mine; 15 or 20 years ago, we had a few sets of his talks on tape and we would see who had memorized the most. It made us laugh to recite long passages of his tapes together. Yeah, I know. Who does that?

And this morning Bishop Sheen recited a favorite poem of ours from all those years ago. I recited a specific passage with him (stunned that it all came back so easily), and could almost hear Dad reciting it with me. So Hi Dad. :) Enjoyed the shout out today. I love you.

This is for Pah. An excerpt from "The Hound of Heaven" by Francis Thompson:

"Strange, piteous, futile thing !
Wherefore should any set thee love apart ?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),
"And human love needs human meriting :
How hast thou merited --
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art !
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me ?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home :
Rise, clasp My hand, and come !"
Halts by me that footfall :
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ?
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest !
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."

Monday, November 5, 2007

The Book Whore

Bee Gees Song of the Day: Surrender

This is my life story, I've been lost and found
In the final hour, turn my life around

And I surrender. take me for all time
Love as warm as wine, and I surrender

I’d been emailing a good friend this weekend and among the many things we discussed, we talked briefly about bookstores.

I may have told you before that I am a book whore. I love books. I love to read them and I love to own them. I’ll wear a ratty old corduroy jacket until my friends make fun of me and my kids take it and burn it without my knowledge, but if there is one thing I will buy; it's books. I like to go to the library book sales and buy lots of books for $10. It makes me ridiculously happy. A Barnes and Noble a few miles away sounds like nirvana; I can spend hours there smelling books and reading books and loving books. I don’t know if that’s part of my geek-y nature, but there you go.

The book whore in me has this fantasy of a library in her house with shelves up to the ceiling filled with books she has read or wants to read or thinks she should read or that she has collected. In a special little place in this room is a first edition "Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen. The book whore sneaks into the room sometimes just to look at the book. She would never touch it because it cost upwards of $210,000. She also has a book written by Agatha Christie signed by the author and one by Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen, similarly annotated.

The book whore next moves over to the shelf with a set of 10 Colliers Childrens' Books. These are on the bottom shelf so that she has to sit on the floor to reach them. She likes to pull those off and look at those occasionally. When she was three years old, she taught herself to read these books. She would hide in a corner of a room upstairs, losing herself in the words and pictures. And if she couldn’t see anyone, no one could see her. No one would bother her. The world disappeared behind pictures of teddy bears skipping, children sleeping, five Chinese brothers smiling, Scottish Terriers named Angus chasing cats, scary witch pictures, lost little girls looking for their mamas. While the book whore sits in this room, she is three years old again and no one can see her.

Never in my wildest dreams would I expect this to be fulfilled, but it is a happy place for me. A room with no echo, that feels heavily laden, that smells safe and makes me smile.

blogger templates | Make Money Online