Roger, Copy That

Today I entered into the sweet sanctum of success via a battle of wits between yours truly and a 300-lb. copy machine. It was close, and could possibly be subject to interpretation, but I'm calling it a win for me.

In an effort to get out of my house and escape at least 30 minutes of football fanfare (it's a fantasy!), I went to school to make some copies for Monday. Things started pretty much as they usually do--paper in, 2-sided, press the start button--but quickly took a turn for the worst when the copier said it had made six copies and I had yet to see any. This started a familiar dance we like to do where I find all the crumpled ones, turn all the levers, close all the doors, start over, repeat. We danced like this for a while before I inevitably gave up and wrote a witty note which I taped to the top of the clearly inoperable machine.

I walked down to the staff lounge (where I came across one lonely lemon bar left over from Friday's lunch treats--destiny, you ask? I like to think so), sat down for a minute (long enough to alleviate any long-term abandonment issues that lemon bar would have inevitably suffered from), and tried to decide whether I should go to a different building to make the copies. One more try, I thought, as I gathered any and everything that could possibly aid me in my quest toward mechanical-ism.

Armed with two forks, a plastic pair of tongs, and an extra-large paper clip, I returned to the scene of the accident. I pulled out all the drawers for at least the eighth time, and realized there was a section I had missed in my many cleanings. Right there, in a tiny corner of the machine, lay 8-20 pieces of accordion-crinkled paper. It was like a literary-analysis-themed Japanese fan shop in there. One where they set the fans on fire and dance around with them. Which is what I undoubtedly looked like as I attempted to remove them all from places in this copier where surely no human limb had gone before.

The end result? 150 beautifully copied Literary Analysis Workshop #1 packets. And I managed to employ each and every one of the tools I had gathered on my odyssey. Although, I will admit, they won't all be returning home to their loved ones...

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World

Because the boob tube feeds us constantly, like a parent generally unconcerned with her child's obesity, we feel obliged to view her as a societal outcast. But even this slovenly parent occasionally, albeit possibly unintentionally, puts something in front of us that is savory, succulent, and completely out of our price range. Mad Men is a seven-course meal at a five-star restaurant where you can't read the menu because it's in a different language, but you don't care because just holding it in your hands makes you feel ten times smarter and a million times more interesting.

In an attempt to be about ten steps behind the rest of the universe, we just finished watching MM Season 2 last night. As I lay in bed, I couldn't help but wonder: what will happen to Don Draper? Will he maintain a strong military offensive, or will he let down his guard and become yet another victim of a metaphorical nuclear holocaust?

One of my favorite aspects of this feat of televised literary genius is the steady thread of historical context woven throughout the story line. I love the use of actual news footage from the 1960s, especially the presidential addresses. The Season 2 finale gave the viewer a real-life look into the fear our nation experienced at the foot of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Kennedy "daring" the Russians to shoot; mass exodus from major metropolitan areas; women discussing the inevitability of the end of the world as they sat under the dryer at the beauty salon. The parallelism drawn between current world events and our unwilling epic hero Don Draper was nothing short of profound. Here's a guy who has, for reasons we still are not quite certain about, laid waste to his prior existence, built up an arsenal around himself in an effort to look strong and confident, yet daily lives with a paralyzing fear that it could all be destroyed in an instant. It's as if he's built himself a bomb shelter, crawled in, trembling, and is trying to carry it around Madison Avenue.

A similar note that cannot be ignored: upon typing "missile" into Google, I came across this site. Apparently you can buy your own authentic Cold War launch command center. Unbelievable, that Google.

Hanging Out With Harry, Again

It is generally dissatisfying to see a familiar tale brought to life on the big screen. The magic of fiction reading lies in the creation of our own storyboards. Imagining what characters look and sound like. And how they say words or names. I always feel, no matter how great the previews make it look, like I am, in some way, betraying those weathered pages I so enjoyed turning.

I've seen four movies in the theater since the birth of my first child almost three years ago. It's true what they say: you really don't go to the movies. Maybe it's just that, on the monumental occasion that we actually get a babysitter, we feel the need to sit across a table from one another and have a conversation that doesn't revolve around the bodily functions of those other than ourselves, and/or is not intermittently interrupted by the stern use of the word "no". But every once in a while (well, four times in the last three years) a movie comes along that we feel we cannot possibly live without seeing projected 2000% in a room full of strangers. Such an event happened a couple weeks ago in the form of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Now you may or may not know that Harry occupies a throne of honor in the Hall of Fame of My Heart. I have eagerly anticipated all six of the film adaptations, only to walk out of the cinema each time with my head hung and feet dragging, clutching my own original and now wounded mental images to my chest.

That being said, once again I planned (and re-planned) our date to see #6. I arranged to hand off our kids to some very kind (yet generally unsuspecting when it comes to my 3-year-old) friends. I bought our favorite candy and switched all of my things over to my big movie theater purse. I put on make-up and counted down the minutes until Rhett would get home from work and we could get on with the inevitable imagination slaughtering.

And then, there we were: sitting in our tiny home-town theater as the opening scene flashed and the music began to swell; I, waiting for the disappointment to roll over me, clinging to my Milk Duds. And you know what? It never happened. As if, by some kind of magical means, I was able to appreciate the movie as a separate and wonderful narrative. It was exciting. It was funny. It was aesthetically amazing and audibly inspiring. Walking to the car, my arms were free to happily dangle at my sides.

Apparently it took me six films to let go and trust that Jo (as the Brits and I call her) would never let anything bad happen to Harry.

Mr. Pip Goes To the Tropics

Imagine Charles Dickens and J.J. Abrams decided to collaborate on a project. Then, once they had gotten started, felt stuck and asked for help from the guy who wrote Hotel Rwanda. There, now you are ready to talk about this story.

The children of a small village on an ambiguous, tropical island somewhere in the Pacific are left without a teacher when rebel invasions drive away all but one of the "whites". The only one to stay behind is Mr. Watts, an eccentic recluse best known for pulling his sad, obese wife around in a wagon whilst wearing a clown nose. The kids call him "Popeye" and live with a healthy fear of his strangeness.

Then, one day, they show up to the dilapitated schoolhouse (knowing it will be empty, but hoping differently anyway) to find Mr. Watts wearing a suit and holding a book at the front of the class. He doesn't claim to have much to offer them, but gives them the only thing he feels he has; he begins to read to them from Great Expectations. And here, a group of children just trying to survive on a war-torn island, and a young boy from 18th-century London who is reaching out for more than birth has given him, begin a journey together.

Lloyd Jones' Mr. Pip is a gift reminding you that literature is powerful, that something known silmply as a "story"can actually change one's life. This book was just what I needed to steer me out of the Nora Roberts aisle and keep me looking for "the one".

For the Love of the Doughnut

Rhett maintains that should a decent doughnut place or drive-in (dare I say the combination sounds irresistible?) be introduced to our little community, it would flourish. I maintain that we have the ability to financially back either a dozen of the doughnuts, or a single round of burgers. Not including the condiments. Alas, the dream remains in a box.

On a similarly-related train of thought, I came across this place yesterday while participating in one of my favorite summer activities: the watching of the television. All I can say is, "I want to go to there!" Also, if you are getting married anytime soon, don't rule out the possibility. Think about the pictures...

Rediscovering My Will To Blog

It is exceedingly ironic, but summer has a tendency to turn me into a crazy, lazy, unproductive, non-creative, generally uninteresting blah. I am one of those people who thrives on routine. I don't sleep-in on Saturdays (well, no one with kids does, but I would choose not to); I can eat the same thing for lunch 180 days a year, then find myself at a deli counter with endless palatable ecstasies from which to choose and say, "I'll have a turkey sandwich on wheat with mustard, lettuce, and tomato. Please." I am not spontaneous in the least. I need to know what I'm doing when I finish doing what I'm currently doing, before I start doing it. Oh, and I'll need to know how much it will cost. Including tax.

It works for me, though. Somehow I find the time to fit in workouts, new recipes, laundry, etc. It is as if going to work in the morning actually makes me function. Don't get me wrong, I love being able to hang around in my pj's with my kids until lunch time. And we have been doing some great exploring of the island and all. What I'm trying to say is that I've been meaning to post about my summer reads for some time now, but have not been able to fit it into my busy schedule. Somewhere between researching the interesting lives of others via Facebook and becoming addicted to Hannah Montana, I have lost the will to blog.

Coming up: a look at my love-affair with Mr. Pip.

First Sunburn of the Summer

Alas, I have been reading. However, the end of school seemed to approach this year with the tenacious vengeance of a rarely prodded mythical beast. Or maybe a two-and-a-half-year-old. Either way, the laundry list of literature I've consumed since last writing is unremarkable and nothing has really made me feel the need to report up to this point. But this afternoon (dare I say my first real day of Summer vacation?) I finished a lovely and noteworthy tale which will mark the beginning of my summer reading odyssey.

Stephanie Kallos' Broken For You chronicles the final years of Margaret Hughes' life as she seeks redemption for the sins her father (a Nazi sympathizer whose tremendous wealth was built upon priceless antiques stolen from the homes of interned Jewish residents during WWII) committed and a lifetime of guilt and shame associated with these sins. Margaret has locked herself in her grand old Seattle mansion (great local references in this one!) for most of her adult life, with the sole duty of caring for these incredible and incredibly sad treasures. After receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis, Margaret decides to take in a boarder, and here meets Wanda, a young woman whose broken heart is almost as fascinating as her cooky demeanor. Together, dare I say, they face their dragons.

Something about the "need for redemption" piece of this read reminded me of The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield--which I completely loved. This would be a great book for a group as it is accessible yet multi-layered.