Jesus Christ.

I love when I'm reading a book (particularly by an author that I admire) and I hit a passage that I simply know is coming straight from the author's head. I acknowledge, of course, the entire book is coming straight from the author's head. It's when I can see that the author is their character and not that the character has been conjured for the purpose of the story that I get excited.

I re-read Franny & Zooey by J.D. Salinger a couple of months ago and was delighted upon this re-read to discover a bit of Mr. Salinger in Zooey.

In the book, Zooey's little sister, Franny, is going through a bit of a nervous breakdown at the age of 19 when she realizes that she's surrounded by paper dolls at college and that many of her professors are there only to cut out more.

She discovers a book that enlightens her and makes her believe that, in order to find clarity, it would be prudent for her to begin praying all of the time (consciously at first until the praying on a loop becomes unconscious) in order to, in a sense, be one with Christ.

Unfortunately, she's not getting what she expects out of picking up the habit and, despite the incessant praying, is making herself sick.

Her brother Zooey, having read the book and knowing what she's up to sets out to fix her. He points out her inconsistencies in such a logical manner that it really made me sit up straight and say to myself, "This is true."

So, here it is (so purely logical):

Zooey is referencing a time when Franny was a child and decided that she didn't like Jesus.

page 162-165
"...I don't think you understood Jesus when you were a child and I don't think you understand him now. I think you've got him confused in your mind with about five or ten other religious personages, and I don't see how you can go ahead with the Jesus Prayer till you know who's who and what's what. Do you remember at all what started off that little apostasy? ...Franny? Do you remember or don't you?"

He didn't get an answer. Only the sound of a nose being rather violently blown.

"Well, I do, it happens. Matthew, Chapter Six. I remember it very clearly, buddy. I even remember where I was. I was back in my room putting some friction tape on my goddam hockey stick, and you banged in- all in an uproar, with the Bible wide open. You didn't like Jesus any more, and you wanted to know if you could call Seymour at his Army camp and tell him all about it. And you know why you didn't like Jesus any more? I'll tell you. Because, one, you didn't approve of his going into the synagogue and throwing all the tables and idols all over the place. That was very rude, very Unnecessary. You were sure that Solomon or somebody wouldn't have done anything like that. And the other thing you disapproved of - the thing you had the Bible open to - was the lines 'Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.' That was all right. That was lovely. That you approved of. But, when Jesus says in the same breath, 'Are ye not much better than they?' - ah, that's where little Franny gets off. That's where little Franny quits the Bible cold and goes straight to Buddha, who doesn't discriminate against all those nice fowls of the air. All those sweet, lovely chickens and geese that we used to keep up at the Lake. And don't ell me again that you were ten years old. Your age has nothing to do with what I'm talking about. There are no big changes between ten and twenty - or ten and eighty, for that matter. You still can't love a Jesus as much as you'd like to who did and said a couple of things he was at least reported to have said or done - and you know it. You're constitutionally unable to love or understand any son of God who throws tables around. And you're constitutionally unable to love or understand any son of God who says a human being, any human being - even a Professor Tupper - is more valuable to God than any soft, helpless Easter chick.

Franny was now facing directly into the sound of Zooey's voice, sitting bolt upright, a wad of Kleenex clenched in one hand. Bloomberg was no longer in her lap. "I suppose you can," she said, shrilling.

"It's beside the point whether I can or not. But, yes, as a matter of fact, I can. I don't feel like going into it, but at least I've never tried, consciously or otherwise, to turn Jesus into St Francis of Assisi to make him more 'lovable' - which is exactly what ninety-eight per cent of the Christian world has always insisted on doing. Not that it's to my credit. I don't happen to be attracted to the St. Francis of Assisi type. But you are. And, in my opinion, that's one of the reasons why you're having this little nervous breakdown..."

Salinger, J.D. Franny and Zooey. Little, Brown, and Company: New York. 1989.

Fragile Little Girls

I was at work doing really fun things like folding clothes that evil customers were throwing all over the place for their amusement when something rather disturbed me. There was a girl about my daughter's age (9) who stomped past me, threw down a pair of jeans and, in a huff, told her slightly older sister, "God! I'm getting so fat!" to which her slightly older sister said with a sinister little laugh, "yeah, you are."

Their mother completely ignored the exchange and walked with them out the door.

I looked at the girl and she was perfectly normal, not overweight by any means (not that that's my point).

The jeans she unsuccessfully tried on were a 10 Slim.

I was enraged that this young girl should have these thoughts even enter her mind at such a young age or that they would be cultivated within her family. If her regular size didn't fit her, chances are that it's because she's not done growing yet.

Girls are so fragile and I can guarantee that the insecurities this girl was feeling about her body are only going to become worse. There is no defense at all for any woman to verbalize her body image issues in the presence of a young girl. Hey, I know! Let's make sure they look at themselves with the same critical eye that we do! Let's make sure that they hate their bodies for life!

It's so frustrating to try to raise a girl in the culture our society has created. A society where I can't take her into a drugstore without worrying about if she can see the blatantly visible covers of magazines like Cosmo offering to teach us "50 Sex Tricks Your Man Will Die For."

With everything that we know about self-esteem it sickens me that we still barely notice that we cultivate some idea in girls that they have to be skinny and good in bed to feel like they're special.

My Mom Called Me a "Dildo" and Other Useless Facts

Thanks to Laura for tagging me because I felt like writing but didn't have a subject.

1)  As Lyn discovered in a recent blog comment exchange, my mom used to call us "dildos" when we were kids.  She would use it in place of words like "silly" or "goof."  She'd laugh and then say, "Don't be such a dildo!"  When I found out what a dildo actually was, I couldn't help but wonder how many times I had used it improperly and, thus, made a total dildo of myself.

2)  I take a shower every night.  I have a bathroom in my bedroom with a shower stall as opposed to a bathtub/shower combo and the stall is relatively small but it works for me.  When I've had a stressful day (I've had many in recent weeks), I get in the shower and sit down on the floor and just let the water run over me.  Yes, I could do that standing up but it's more relaxing for some reason to sit down. 

3)  Perhaps it's the tight space that calms me.  During the final 3 years of my marraige, I primarily slept on the couch.  I literally couldn't fall asleep in bed next to my husband.  But I slept like a baby (and often with my baby) on the couch. 

4)  If I hadn't stumbled upon Laura's tag, I was going to enter this short essay contest.  In 200 words or less, I was to address "Tom Cruise's Scrotum."  I actually did a bit of Scientology research for this.  This was to be my thesis statement:  "Naturally, because he is the highest-ranked Scientologist ever, Tom Cruise has a very real responsibility to his scrotum as well as to the scrotums of past, present, and future Scientologists."  I'm not really sure where I was going with that but I'm pretty sure it was going to be funny.

5)  My best friend and I used to steal hood ornaments off of cars.  It was the cool thing to do in seventh grade.  Her mom used to help us by dropping us off in parking lots and keeping watch.  I forget about this.  I often pride myself on the fact that I've never stolen anything.  As it happens, that's not really a fact at all.  We turned out okay, though.  After all, I'm a student on the 15 year plan and she's a vagina doctor (who text-messaged her hubby that she wanted and embryo for Christmas).  Well, she turned out okay, anyway.

6)  My oldest friend Abbey and I spent 11th grade American Literature passing notes back and forth consisting of song lyrics.  The object was to guess what song it was and then come up with one of your own.  I kept up pretty well even though her knowledge of music is way more extensive than mine.  She introduced me to Erasure, after all.

7)  I still played Barbies in sixth grade and Dew(ed) knows exactly what I mean by this.  I set up furniture, dressed and primped them, but never actually got around to playing with them.

8)  I had several different boyfriends in junior high (2 weeks here, 3 days there) but didn't actually have my first kiss until I was in high school.  And I'm sure it showed.

9)  My mom let me have a big 16th birthday party.  She bought tons of food, a cake, the whole nine yards (Beth even pulled me aside to ask if any of my friends would be smoking pot and, if so, could they please do it in the basement?) and left the house.  Then there was a big snowstorm and only 3 people came.  One of them lost control of his car in the driveway when he was leaving and ran over the mailbox.

10) When my brother and I would play with his He-Man toys, we'd have He-Man and She-Ra make out.  Even though they were brother and sister.

I can't in good conscience tag anyone as I did that 2 blogs ago.  If you decide to do this, link it in the comments.       

Because I'm Special!

received a gift card for Christmas and couldn't think of anything I needed so I contemplated the things I might want. I decided to browse stationery. I didn't find any I liked; thus, I still have to find something to spend that gift card on.

For fun (yes, FUN!) I browsed websites for stationery. I found bunches and bunches that fit my fancy but I did not buy as I am trying like mad to save me some money! Upon browsing, however, I did happen upon something that really made my pulse quicken.



I've always wanted a wax seal stamper for the letters I write. I didn't buy one, though. I'm trying to save money.

I like to write letters. No one does it anymore. They should.

Really, I just like how happy it makes people feel to actually open their mailboxes and receive something other than junk and bills. For forty-one cents, I can make someone feel special.

Currently, there are only two people I write letters to. One of them is my daughter. For the most part, I let checking the mail be her job. If you're going to send a letter to someone in your own household, it really needs to be the someone who gets the mail. Reading the letter is only half of the fun. Seeing the letter in the box with your name on it is the best part.

I don't speak from experience. I don't actually receive many letters. But I don't give with the expectation of receiving. That's the reason I (usually) still send Christmas cards. People like getting them, I don't care if they have time or energy to send one back. It's the same with letters. I write them solely to make someone's day. No other reason.

When I first started reading Brad Listi's blog, he was doing a letter writing project. He wasn't as big a blogger then as he is now. I hadn't read his book yet and hadn't read his blog long enough to feel good about requesting a personalized letter. I wish I had because then I could tuck it into his book (now read) and I'd have a personal letter from the author.

Today, I challenge every single person who reads this blog to take fifteen minutes of your time to make someone feel special and write them a letter. Tell me who you're going to send it to and what (if it's PG, of course) you're going to write about.

Need ideas? Tell them what you did today, no matter how dull. Tell them about what you were thinking the last time you thought of them. Tell them about the one quality they have that you wish everyone in the world had. Tell them about what you're going to do together the next time you see each other. Tell them what makes them special.

Write to your kids, your significant other, your mom, your best friend, a sibling, or your boss. If you're going to write to someone in your household, make sure they pick up the mail the next few days. If you're writing to your child that doesn't live with you, send it to their primary residence so they know that you think about them, even when you aren't together. If it's to your spouse, send it to them at work. You get the picture.

My intent is to see how many people I can get to write a letter to brighten someone's day. As an added bonus, I'll do a "Brad Listi" if you'd like but it would require you messaging me your address and that might be uncomfortable to some.

Letters are beautiful things. Truly a lost art. Mine don't look artful, poor handwriting, scribbles and such, but I'm pretty sure I make someone feel special when I write. That's all that matters.

Soft Words Spoken, Promises Broken

That title's not mine.  It belongs to Buffalo Tom's Sodajerk.  That song is about masturbation.  This blog is not.  This blog is not about much of anything, to be quite honest.

I arrived home tonight after my spending the better part of our Christmas break in Wyoming.  I can't begin to tell you how weary I am (clearly, not too weary to begin catching up on MySpace).  Yeah, according to Google, it should have taken 20 hours to drive there (I'm sure they don't include gas and food breaks, naturally).  It took 25 there and 24 home.  The tricky part is that I'm relatively certain that the entire 25/24 hours took place in Nebraska, the longest (?) and most boring state ever.  I was like Jack Nicholson in The Shining by the time I got through it.

I have to get mushy now.  I'm sorry, I'll post random pictures to amuse you afterward, I promise.

The last 4 hours on the way there were horrible.  The roads were clear, the weather was amazing- until I crossed into Wyoming.  Initially, it was merely ridiculously high winds blowing immense amounts of snow about making it nearly impossible for me to see anything.  That wasn't so bad.  Then, I drove on a thick, solid sheet of ice for my final 1.5 hours.  That really blew monkey butt.  That period of time had me using my daughter to talk Josh at our destination because I was too freaked out to talk and drive.  Ultimately, I yelled at him to stop calling me.  He laughed at me and, as I was possessed by demons at that time, it really pissed me off.  He said I wouldn't be mad when I got there, I'd be happy.  Whatever.

He was right. 

When I got there, he was waiting outside to show me where he wanted me to park and he was genuinely happy to see me.  Moments like that, seeing that expression on someone's face, are what life is all about, people.  I wasn't irritated anymore.

I won't tell you about how everytime I neared a destination on the drive home, thick currents of fog ensured that my speedometer wouldn't exceed 45 mph.  Wait a minute, I just did.

Promises broken?  Everytime I see him, I promise myself I won't cry on the one night we go out, just the two of us, to drink and have a good time.  I failed.  Again.  I hate being female sometimes.  Sometimes, I feel sorry for men for having to put up with us.  I'm totally lying.

Pictures, pictures:

First, I'd like to note that, in Nebraska, there was an exit sign (couldn't whip out camera fast enough) announcing the exit to "Boy Town" immediately above the exit sign for some Mormon retreat.  It was awesome.

 

The beverage to the right of my Diet Coke is my mom's famous "Vodka...with a splash of cranberry juice."  Literally, it was just a splash.  I'm surprised it changed colors.  After two of them, I didn't look like this.

This is what happens when I ask my daughter to take a picture of the bridge over I 80 in Nebraska.  It's a museum or something.  All I know is it's in the middle of nowhere and completely uncalled for.

Here is a picture of the actual bridge.

This picture says it all.  It was above the entrance to a convenience store.  In Nebraska.

Good times.  As long as you don't shoot.  Shoot what?  With what?

This is a picture of Josh when we took the kids to play Glow Golf in a mall.  We haven't actually discussed it yet; still, I'm positive that we are psychically synced (sp?) enough to agree not to ever take our kids to mini golf again unless they are old enough to be dropped off.

This is what happens when children play X-Box for 4 solid days because their parents are busy remodeling a bathroom as a Christmas gift to one of the parent's mother and it is taking much longer than expected.

This is a picture of my sister's ass.