What's More Romantic Than Hitchcock?

We celebrated Valentine's Day early this year.  Last month, while at the movies with my son, I noticed an advertisement at my favorite local discount theater that they were going to show "Psycho" on February 12th and 13th.  Oh yeah, baby.  There was no way I was going to miss Hitchcock on the big screen.

"Really?!  We're going to see "Psycho" for Valentine's Day?  Should I be scared?" was the response from my beloved when I let him know of the plans.  He was pretty stoked on the idea, as long as we didn't act it out later. 

I've seen "Psycho" numerous times, but there's just something about seeing a favorite movie on the big screen that is a whole different experience.  With none of the distractions of watching a movie at home, I was really able to get into it.  There was no surround sound.  It was grainy and the film was a bit scratched in places.  I can't remember the last black and white movie I've seen in a theater.  Knowing what was going to happen next just added to the suspense.  Seeing Leigh's wide, dead eye, upside down, filling the screen, as her body lies sprawled out of the shower after being stabbed by "mother" is just fabulous.  The camera turns right-side-up (and I swear I saw her eye flicker) and pans out to see her lifeless body.  The chocolate syrup blood running down the shower drain . . . perfect. 

I'm not a horror movie fan.  Previews for the flicks my middle-schoolers are dying to see leave me cold and seriously creeped out.  I spent too many years getting over being a fearful person to immerse myself in 1 1/2 hours of psychotic killing or demonic possession of mothers. 

I make exceptions for Hitchcock, however.  The way he used personal space (or lack of) and strange camera angles keep it great.  He uses the power of our imaginations to terrify us.  He doesn't need to show us every little gory detail.  We can fill in the blanks perfectly fine ourselves. 

My hubby started dozing off about 3/4 of the way into the movie.  When he ordered Sake during dinner, I knew it was inevitable.  Something about the dark and comfy chairs tends to lead him into dreamland for a bit during almost all movies.  (I am guilty of this from time to time as well.)  But there was no way he was going to be allowed to sleep when Mother's corpse was about to be discovered in the basement!  "Wake up!," I hissed.  "How can you protect me when you're sleeping!!!???".  He smiled and held me close.  "I wasn't really sleeping."  Yeah, right.

I really hope the theatre starts showing more classic Hitchcock.  Seeing "Rear Window" or "Rope" on the big screen would be fabulous.  Maybe I should send in a request.  Or maybe I should start playing the lottery and build us a movie room at home.  Nah.  Not the same thing.

Thanks for listening.

How Many Times can a Book Break Your Heart?

When I first saw the preview's for the movie "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close", my first instinct was to avoid this movie.  Although I enjoy Sandra Bullock and Tom Hanks, who co-star in it, the theme was 9/11, a topic, like the Holocaust, which is very hard for me to digest without a horrible stomachache and a lot of tears.

My husband, E, upon seeing the preview, said, "You might want to see this movie."  "No way," I said.  Can't handle the 9/11 theme, but my subconscious started chewing on what I had seen and I realized that I had already read the book, years ago, and had really been touched by it.

I ordered a copy for my school library, barcoded it, then set down to "review" it for my students.  (I love how my homework is to read books.  My job rules.)

Very quickly, the plot came back to me.  Nine-year-old Oskar Schell's father died in 9/11.  Oskar and his father had a pretty amazing relationship.  Being an only child, his father spent in inordinate amount of time with him, creating quests that took the boy all over NYC.  His father's death, however, and a mysterious key found in a cryptic envelope in his father's closet, sends Oskar on the wildest and most emotional journey yet.

Determined to discover what the key is for, Oskar meets people of every possible type.  Oskar himself is quite an unusual child, constantly creating in his mind new inventions, like parachutes for skyscrapers and water from your shower that was chemically treated to turn your skin the color of your mood, which would be helpful to signal to others when to be gentle with you, as well as to help you figure out how, exactly, you are feeling.

Interspersed with the story are photos representing what the character is experiencing at the time, as well as a story written by Oskar's grandfather for his unborn son, whom he abandoned before his birth.

"You look upset. Is anything wrong?"  I wanted to say, "Of course,"  I wanted to ask, "Is anything right?"

 

This book is a bit on on the adult side, so I may limit its check-outs to 8th graders only, and let them know there is some content they might not yet be ready for (sex) but I have found that the students here who can actually finish a book, are probably ready to read what I have in here.

As far as seeing the movie?  Yeah, I'll do it.  I might sit in the back row, by myself, with a box of tissues, but I feel I owe it to Oskar to relive his journey one more time.

Thanks for listening.

Who Would I be Without Books?

Sometimes I wonder who I would be if I wasn't a reader.  Decidedly less dimensional, and probably more bored with life, I've decided.

Where would my mind wander if I wasn't immersed in the safe world of others' drama (without the messy drawback of being emotionally tied to them in real life)?  When the game is on TV or conversation lags, my brain flits back to the unfinished story in my car or by my bed, working the plot pieces like a puzzle, happy both when I figure out that I was indeed right about what happens next or if it turns out I was clueless.

Right now I am fully involved in two plot lines.  (Three, if you count Discordia, which I am reading with my son.)  As usual these days, when reading something really good, I think, "I should blog about this book."  Problem is, I am often on to another book right away and my interest in sharing with you what I just experienced fades into memory.  So why wait until the stories are over before telling you about them?  I am excited about the plots right now.  Maybe I'll write more to you when I've finished the books, but probably not.  Maybe they will seem even more enticing to you with little clue as to the finale.

Right now in my truck, I am on disk 10 of the 20 disk audio version of The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall.  Who isn't fascinated by the world of polygamy?   As a person who loves books with intricate characters and their interactions with what life has in store for them, this book rocks.  Goldie (short for Golden) has 4 wives (and is being pressured to take on a 5th), 28 children (not counting the 4 stillborn or the daughter who died young and tragically), and is attracted to his boss's wife.  (This may make him sound like a scandalous scoundrel, but he is isn't.)  Raised by a chronically depressed mother who was abandoned by her fortune hunting husband, Goldie grew up overly tall for his age and decidedly less social than those around him.  (The school authorities let his mother keep him out of school because she was very difficult to deal with.)  When Goldie is about 17, he discovers letters from his dad, including money and a plane ticket to Vegas.  Innocent and awkward, he leaves mom without notice and goes to live with dad, who is now very rich and has survived booze and too many women and has become Mormon. 

The plot zig-zags back and forth in time, filling in the blanks of the Goldie's life.  Other chapters are from the point of view of 11-year-old Rusty, one of Goldie's son's, who is so desperate for attention and physical contact that he acts out in a myriad of ways.  Goldie's fourth wife, Trish, also has a voice in the story.  Lonely and feeling like she has not done her wifely duty, Trish is aching from 3 miscarriages and resentful of the amount of time she has to sacrifice her "Goldie" time with the other wives and their children.

Goldie is awkward, sincere, and a bit socially inept, despite, his huge family.  His attraction for the wife of his boss seems to stem from his need for a calmer and simpler life.  Alternately amusing and heart-wrenching, The Lonely Polygamist is making my commute a pleasure.

During my lunches and free time at home, I am thoroughly enjoying The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater.  Written for young adults, this hauntingly beautiful story is again, written alternately in chapters by the point of view of different characters.  Kate Connolly (Puck) is reminiscent of an older Scout (To Kill A Mockingbird with her unflinching look at life, sense of humor, adult observations, and gritty spunk.  Puck and her two brothers are recently orphaned and barely managing to keep food in their bellies.  They live on an island that is known for The Scorpio Races, which are like horse races held on the beach, but the horses are capaill uisce (pronounced copple ooshka), which are wild, blood-thirsty beasts who live in the sea and are often captured when they come up to the beach to feed on whatever flesh they can  find.  Sean Patrick, also orphaned, is a strong boy, older than his years, whose gift is to understand the capaill uisce like no-one else can.  When Puck's big brother tells his siblings that he plans to move to the mainland, she impulsively decides to enter into the races, knowing that it will buy her more time with her brother, plus win them some much needed money if she wins.  I am not even halfway through with this book and already it is among my favorites.  The feeling of dangerous foreboding in my stomach at the possible bloody fate of Puck or Sean is offset by humor and witty phrasing.  I know without a doubt that this book will sit on the rack labeled "Mrs. E's Favorites" when it is back in the Library.

I like TV and movies, don't get me wrong.  I get all caught up in plot lines and impatient when I have to wait a week to see the next episode of something that has caught my eye and attention for a time.  But what I think books have done for me and my personality is open my mind the infinite and varied personalities and circumstances that exist.  I know that things are seldom as they seem.  The students in my school who are "acting out" are dealing with so many factors, they themselves are probably not aware of them all, from family dynamics and friendships, to hormones and unexpressed emotions.  Not just the kids, mind you, everyone is so very, very complex, and being a reader has helped me to appreciate it all.

Thanks for listening. 

"Don't Worry if It's Not Good Enough . . ."

Sing.  Sing a song.  Sing out loud.  Sing out strong.  Sing of good things, not bad.  Sing of happy, not sad.  Don't worry if it's not good enough, for anyone else to hear, just sing.  Sing a song."

These are lyrics from a Sesame Street LP that I had as a child.  I can still sing pretty much the whole album by memory.  (Other classic hits included Ernie's "Rubber Ducky, You're the One" and the Count's "Bats in the Belfry".)  As a child, I spent numerous hours, lying on the floor with my head next to the speaker of my grandparents' huge record player cabinet.  It had sliding doors on the top.  In the left side was the record player itself, in the right side was storage for the records.  The unit was huge and took up the entire wall that was just inside their front door.  During the holidays my grandmother would decorate the top with something seasonal.  My grandpa sometimes hid our Easter eggs inside it.

In college I sang in two bands, with E.  We wrote our own music most of the time and covered a Black Sabbath song or two.  For my 40th bday last summer, having a Karaoke DJ was a must.  I broke out the Coldplay, which I'd been practicing for a month.  As the night wore on, and the keg grew empty, more and more friends and family let their inner crooners and rockers fly free.

For a few years now, I have been craving to sing on a regular basis.  Not just in the shower or in the car (or full blast in my closet with a pillow over my face to not alarm the neighbors), but with a group of people.  In public. 

I thought about joining the Fallbrook Choir and it may still be an option in the future.  They sing at public, patriotic events and dress in vintage costume for "Scrooge" every year at the local theatre.  But I recently found something that fits my style even more.

I have started singing as an extra with the Hilltop Center for Spiritual Living.  This sweet church is right across the street from our house and about 9 months ago, I decided to go to a service and see what it was all about.  For the first time in my life, I think I may have found a spiritual home.  AND . . . a few months into it, one of their singers moved.  I spoke to the lead musician and one thing led to another . . . and I'm singing.  Out loud.  In front of people.  And I'm smiling.
 

A Night to Remember

I have to tell you about the meal I ate last night.  Actually,  I didn't just eat it, I inhaled it slowly through all my senses.  I actively ate each bite as in the present as I could, feeling the textures and imbibing the scents like few I have before.  No, I'm not on death row.  I was having one of my last meals with a very dear friend of mine, who is moving too far away.  Also, it's the first "regular" meal I've eaten since starting the Dukan Diet on Labor Day.  So after 30 days of eating strictly lean proteins with alternate days of proteins plus veggies (and being down 18 pounds for my diligence), I broke the fast and ate a little chicken dip, had a shot of tequila, some pollo verde enchiladas, rice, beans, cesaer salad and scalloped potatoes.

It was the potatoes that did me in.  I have been fantasizing about my late Grandmother's scallooped potatoes, with the thinly sliced spuds layered with cheese and celery, baked with a milk sauce.  Omg.  Seriously.  I just had to decide to let up on my strict diet and give in to the call.

Let me back up a little.  This wonderful group of friends evolved from a restaurant job in town.  I was hired by a fantastic lady (Ms. Joni) to be her baker.  Next she hired Lora, an amazing chef (and forever sister of mine), then Marshall came along to round us out, with his artistic flair and wonderful sense of humor and compassion.  Unfortunately, these difficult economic times proved tough for our little small-town eatery, but the friendships live on. 

Marshall hails from Colorado and the longing to move back has been a part of him as long as I've known him.  Well, his dreams are coming true and to celebrate he invited a few of us over to cook with him.  I planned on bringing a notebook and taking copious notes from this Master, but I left the notebook in my bag and simply let the night be my teacher.  The sounds of onions caramelizing, the laughter of friends, and the chopping of thyme drew me in. 

Earlier in the day, I made up my mind to enjoy this meal, (taking one serving of each item) because it symbolized too much to let simply slide by because of diet concerns.  I had been "good" after all and will continue to do so until my desired healthy weight is reached.  Much rides on the success of being healthy, not to mention the bags of clothes eagerly awaiting me in my garage, items I used to wear and look forward to again.  On the other hand, I consciously threw myself into this bittersweet evening of friendship, love and potatoes. 

As we sat around the intimate table, enjoying a small glass of wine and a large glass of iced water, I suddently realized that my plate did not have all the necessary items.  "Where are the f***ing potatoes?!?" I blurted.  With mock indignation, Marshall gave me a hard time for my rudeness.  I was assured that they were in the oven for just a few more minutes.  My heartrate steadied back to normal and I patiently awaited the desired dish, although I was quoted throughout the night. 

This evening was imprinted on my memory and soul.  Although we may be miles apart, Marshall will always remain in my heart.  A roadtrip was planned and I pray it comes to fruition.

I will need more potatoes. 
Thanks for listening.