Woe to Poe

"The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge."--Montresor, "The Cask of Amontillado"

Oh Poe, it's as if you are married to Halloween. A twisted kind of marriage; one where you can't quite figure out who is wearing the pants. Sometimes I think you crafted this holiday in an effort to promote the hauntings of your mind. Other times I see how All Hallows' Eve may have pushed you over the edge, inspiring you to use your post-high school vocabulary skills to give people nightmares. In this marriage, do you make each other better or do you make each other worse?

Americans love horror. We are obssessed with it. And Poe (who would be the first to tell you this) is the master of horror. He found ways of creating terror that the average guy just gets. In "The Cask of Amontillado", Montresor is motivated by an all-consuming sense of jealousy and rage. Not only does Fortunato have what Montresor once did and now does not, but he flaunts it openly, taunting Montresor every chance he gets. So, what does Montresor vow to do? Get revenge, of course. And what's more American than a good old-fashioned plot for revenge set in Parisian catacombs?

Explore the many woes of Poe here.

Jobfulness

I'm a worker. I just love it. I love the feeling of being jarred into existence at 5:04, 5:13, and sometimes again at 5:29 am, scrounging under the couch in a desperate attempt to locate two matching toddler or baby-sized socks, and wondering how it could be possible that James does not have one single pair of clean pants. I love that, when I finally arrive at school, my students occasionally say, "We thought you were going to be gone today!" which I half-ignore while attempting to blot out the coffee stain on my freshly pressed white shirt.

Then the bell rings and I am on. My day is filled with the romance of literature: ideas, epiphanies, tragedies, allegories, parodies, comedies, and second chances. And the frustrations of technology that can't keep up, situations that have never before presented themselves, and, oh did I mention? TEENAGERS. And to boot, in the midst of it all, young minds ask questions like: "Are we allowed to wear wife-beaters here?" I laugh, cry, dance, sing, stutter, explicate, and lose my mind every day. It is not a boring job.

Sometimes, however, I fantasize about a different job. I find myself (usually at times, like now, when I am having a stand-off with a pile of ungraded Personal Narrative essays) searching CareerBuilder.com or Monster for something else. Something perfect. And usually I find it, but it is in New York City and requires seven years experience in publishing (which, technically, I have, btw). So I give it the test. The simple, simple, simple, simple test. The one I wish I could use to make all great decisions in my life. I ask, "Is it going to be hilarious?"

Because if it is not, then it is not as good as the job I have. For example, I just heard my BF across the hall say in a sing-song voice: "Please place your rough drafts on your desks. Lalalalala." Then a muffled response, and finally, from her: "Then I shun you."

And now I have the church giggles.

Thoughts on Traveling

I have put off writing about this book for months. Mostly because it was one of those reads that so profoundly affected me it left me speechless. Cormac McCarthy is not a writer; he is a man who makes love to words. Yes, I said it. And I feel, lacking this natural ability to seduce letters and make them bow to me, fall at my feet, beg me to shape them into something great and beautiful and monumental and MORE than they are on their own, my words just can't measure up.

The best I can offer you is this excerpt I found on BookBrowse. I think then you will see what I'm talking about and understand why I wouldn't see this movie if you paid me whatever sum of money seems large to you:

"He woke before dawn and watched the gray day break. Slow and half opaque. He rose while the boy slept and pulled on his shoes and wrapped in his blanket he walked out through the trees. He descended into a gryke in the stone and there he crouched coughing and he coughed for a long time. Then he just knelt in the ashes. He raised his face to the paling day. Are you there? he whispered. Will I see you at the last? Have you a neck by which to throttle you? Have you a heart? Damn you eternally have you a soul? Oh God, he whispered. Oh God."

Teach Me, Why Don't You...

I work with some brilliant people. Like sometimes I find myself waiting for the electricity to start flickering or the light bulbs to start spontaneously bursting brilliant. I believe that is what the Brits might call "bloody brilliant". But I think that may be a curse word, so let's move on.

Last week I took a page from a colleague's book and wrote my own idiosyncrasies essay. It was so much fun I challenged some of my colleagues to do the same. I charged them with an assignment, if you will. And, being the ardent lovers of school that they are, they came through. Here is a sampling of what I got back (names have been changed to protect myself from copyright infringement):

Professor McGonagall:
I will never eat a hotdog. Moreover, you will not find me eating anything stuffed into a casing. If my mother tries to show you a picture of me in a high-chair with a hot dog on the tray, cry “Fraud!” and don’t believe any subsequent tales of my adolescent endeavors.

You might find me sounding my barbaric yawp from the top of my desk wearing the latest fashions, leaping across rooms with my perfect jeté, tiptoeing around my kitchen so as not to disturb my prize-winning soufflé, or expertly solving Sunday’s crossword in a yellow taxi on my way to perform in the matinee show. Just don’t put me on a bike, in a luggage car or in a banana forest. If so, I might go all mimsy and slithy about your mome raths and you’d have to read about it all...

Professor Lockhart:
Growing up in harsh climate of these bitter, soul-crushing suburbs, the sweet milk of childhood soon curdled into the bitter cottage cheese of adolescence. Why couldn’t my fellow middle school students accept that I enjoyed wearing pantaloons and a cape?

And today, my life is like a sheet cake, made from sugar, unicorns, happy thoughts, and candy-colored rainbows. As I awoke this morning, and stood on my veranda, apostrophizing the dawn, I smiled inwardly at my dashing, idiosyncratic, and, dare I say, insouciant wittiness.

Professor Slughorn:
Born in L.A., raised in Electric City. And Pissed off about it until college. I wanted blond hair and a surf board. Instead I got a shotgun and friends wearing Wranglers. Half of my town was on a reservation which meant we had Native American Day once a year and suicides and drunk driving deaths year-round. Native American Day was a chance for native kids to celebrate their culture and a day off from school for the white kids. Wranglers and arrows and ne’er the two shall meet. Except for the occasional fistfight. The best thing I did in high school? Being Robert St. Pierre’s “favorite white boy.”

Professor Grubbly-Plank:
I love to go to the zoo and sit by myself and draw pictures of the animals. I love the pure beauty of their design. Sometimes I cry when I look at them because I am in awe of the artistry of evolution or God or aliens. Whatever force shaped life on this planet is miraculous.

My greatest lesson in life is that life can change in an instant. Sometimes it changes for the better. Sometimes it changes for the worse. It is what it is. What makes all the difference when these changes come? Family and friends. Surround yourself with friends and embrace their idiosyncrasies.

Professor Trelawny:
I always leave boxes in the cupboard even though I know that they are empty. I think it is because I was spoiled as a child.

Professor Sprout:
I was not an only child during my vicissitude of childhood – I had an older sister who was more than willing to trail blaze the abyss of mischief making and get in trouble first. She was, however, quite mean on occasion (as most older sisters are) and was prone to throwing forks at me – I’ve always thought my glorious naïve innocence was hard for her to abide. One hit me in the forehead – thank goodness it didn’t scar.

Professor Sinistra:
My lack of being able to see most of my childhood led me to have horrible hand-eye coordination. So, I was terrible at sports. I couldn’t hit a ball or catch one because I couldn’t see it flying at my head until it was a foot away. I became a runner.

Professor Flitwick:
My sneaking suspicion that I was a foundling was finally confirmed at the tender age of 11. My mother incorrectly referred to a faux lace tablecloth as white. It was the holidays. I was outraged. I adamantly insisted the covering was of a cream hue and impatiently demanded an explanation for her inability to make this simple distinction.

Madam Hooch:
I have a bilateral lisp; an unfortunate speech impediment that was diagnosed when I was 21 years old. I have not quite outgrown this condition; probably because I never quite finished therapy. There was something horribly uncomfortable and embarrassing about attending a group therapy lesson with a 60 year old thumb sucker and 7 year old mute. Two lessons sounded like progress to me. Ironically I love reading books out loud. I am now okay with admitting that I stutter after reading too many s-sounding words. Drew Barrymore has a bilateral lisp too.



Hats off to these fine folks. And a big thank you to the public school system.

A Dog's Life

I didn't want to read this book because I knew the dog was going to die. He says so right up front. That he is waiting for death. I almost put it down, gave it back to its rightful owner, and went back to looking for secret Lost plot leaks on the internet. Tropical polar bears or not, I'm glad I didn't give up on this one.

This is the story of Denny, an up-and-coming race car driver, his wife Eve, and their daughter Zoe, told from the perspective of their beloved canine, Enzo. I'll admit that a lot of the racing references and metaphors got away from me at the start, but by the end I was right there in the passenger seat, yearning for that checkered flag.

As Enzo tells, Eve is sick. Very sick. Dying sick. And Denny suffers one gut-wrenching blow after the next as he watches his life fall apart. Nothing is stable, consistent. Nothing stays the same. Nothing is predictible. Nothing except Enzo.

It's funny how sometimes we forget how to take care of one another. Forget that life is not easily lined out for us, just one dot after the next. Who better than a dog to teach us that, should we neglect the small nuances of life, we run the risk of losing the race? The car goes where your eyes go. Don't focus on the road.

You should read this book.

An Idiosyncractic Affair

My good friend Sinibloggi recently referenced a William and Mary admissions essay prompt which asks students to creatively introduce themselves through a stream-of-consciousness activity. The student responses were so entertaining I thought I would attempt one myself. Here you go:

It is not easy to sum up one’s cleverness with a glimpse at her quirks. However, I’m known to possess a fastidious adulation for the written or spoken word, so I’ll give it a try.

In an effort to avoid hyperbole, I will say that I have spent what equates to at least 3 months of my life dreaming myself into the lead role of a Broadway, community, or high school musical. I’m a self-taught master of tap, jazz, and ballet dancing. As a young girl I would hole up in my room for hours (under the guise of organization) while Mariah Carey hit the high notes and I rehearsed. No one has ever seen me (that I know of) perform these amazing feats of dance, but trust me, I’m pretty good. I may have fallen down a few times in the shower practicing, but they say the road to success is paved with small, slippery missteps.

Which brings me to another point: I often misquote clichés. But let’s not go down that gopher hole, we could be here all day. The writing’s on the board, but sometimes I can’t see the forest for the rodents.

I want to be healthy so badly! I want to be that woman who wears spandex pants like there’s no next week and eats yogurt for a snack. By choice, not necessity (like if yogurt were the only snack left on the planet). Alas, I hate yogurt. And I love candy. And TV. Need I say more?

I bite my fingernails and (I’m SO embarrassed admitting this) I pick my toenails when I read. Every night before I go to bed I pick out my clothes for the next day. If I don’t, I will be in a bad mood, never fail. You don’t want to be married to me on those days.

I have a bottle of lemon juice in my fridge that expired in 2007, yet I maintain that it is still good. Something about how acid defrays the effects of fermentation. It has moved with me to a new house twice. I used it just recently and haven’t gotten sick, so there. Stick that in your cup and drink it.

Once, in college, I bleached a large streak of hair that fell across my forehead. The bleach didn’t set long enough, I looked like a Bengal tiger, and have feared hair color ever since.

In my household, I fulfill the role of Chief Disciplinarian, Canine Division. This job includes monitoring furniture usage and human food distribution between toddlers/babies/husbands and german shepards. I am very strict. But sometimes, when no one is looking, I let the dog lick my ice cream bowl.

And typos—ugg! Don’t get me started. I hate them in a book or on a test my students took. I do not like them on a box. I want to erase them with my socks. I cannot stand them on a bus, not even whilst talking to a guy named Gus. I wish I knew a guy named Gus.

I take up and put down hobbies like it's always in style. Often I will produce one round of the desired product, then move on to another, more interesting task. These hobbies have included, but are not limited to: painting (this lasted the longest); sewing stockings (this one ended mid-course when I lost the stockings for two years, then picked back up when I found them last December); sewing baby blankets (one round); knitting cute children's hats (I threw myself whole-heartedly into this task, learning as much as I could via the internet, then never got around to buying yarn); and gardening (I'll be honest, I really haven't done more than think about this one).

I’ve birthed two children and run (part of) a half marathon, but still hold on to the moment when, in a conference, a college professor I was madly in love with told me he “envied my ability to write the end.” That may have been the proudest moment of my life. The one that takes the taco.