Dawn

The new light streaming through the windows at dawn colors my quiet time. Family still comatose, but I hear stirring, like static on the consciousness line. Alone, the world is as I imagine it. No other agendas. Made room for restless spirits when my children were young. Then, the moody years arrived and just as quickly were gone. My empty nest is filled with a resurgence of my senses and a recognition of blessings: a husband I love, adult children making their way, new friends saying what they mean and meaning what they say.

Phalluses, Flip Phones, and Judgment in a Tech World

Back in the day-like maybe 5 years ago-on a couples' date, we waited in line to see a comedy revue in Hollywood. One of the men in our party reached into his pocket and removed his cellphone. He cocked his hips forward and flipped his phone open. This triggered a reaction with more men, up-and-down the line, also flipping their phones open. They looked so manly and assertive. The women didn't take their phones out, but we all had them, of course. If flip phones had existed in ancient Egypt or Pompeii, the statues of sovereigns would have revealed them regally seated on their thrones . . . holding a flip phone in their laps like a gigantic phallus. 

Cell phones are status symbols, but it's only with the introduction of smart phones that women seem to be equally consumed with them. They're as likely as men to walk with head bowed over phone. When just standing in line, no one talks to strangers anymore. They're too busy tweeting that they're standing in line.  I don't have a smart phone.  I'm on and off my computers all day so a walk without being wirelessly connected to the world is a blessing. Plus, I like to people watch and I'm curious which of my "friends" will glance at me with pity when I pull out my . . . flip phone.

The following letter is from Peggy, a friend of 40 years (A 70's Redux). She wrote to me in response to a link I sent to her regarding my Huffington Post blog, Bullied: Diversity, Differentiation, Distinction. Her letter has no condescension when discussing technology . . . only wonder.

Sandra, 

Well I clicked on the HuffPost site. I realized that technology for me is like an octopus.  You can be very comfortable with one appendage (doing texts and using a smart phone at the beginner level), but what goes on in other appendages can make us feel like blithering idiots (envision a resident of an asylum, straight jacketed, drooling after a session of drugs and electricity to the brain!)  

The day we met at Venice beach, I got there way before you.  So I did what anyone would do.  I tried to call you to see where you were. Gerald answered your home phone and told me you don't always have your cell on! So after several attempts to contact you that day, I resorted to the old-fashioned method for coping in today's world: I sat and waited for you to show up.  What to do when you can't instantly reach your friend? Made my skin crawl as I had nothing to do till you showed up.  Oh, there was people watching.  I enjoy it.  But honestly, I felt I was so superior thinking I was so advanced cuz I USE MY PHONE CONSTANTLY THROUGHOUT THE DAYLIGHT HOURS, BUT YOU OBVIOUSLY DIDNT.  

Fast forward to this blog thing and I am right back at the idiots table.  In the old days everything on machines was obvious!  There were buttons and their functions were instantly recognizable.  We knew what each button did cuz it only did one thing: on/off, channel, volume, horizontal control, vertical control! That was it. Now you have to know the codes for each letter, number, icon before you can encode the messages and negotiate anything on technology!   

So my dear friend, I read the info about you and I have too many questions to type.  I guess I'll just have to do the old fashioned thing- and call you.  That modality still is available and it doesn't involve magical icons and codes.  

I'll try to call this week.  I must say I'm so proud to be the friend of such an accomplished author.  And Im very happy that you are working on the next installment.  Which pleases me so much.   I loved the first one and knew as I read each precious page that I wanted to spend more time with the Sandoval sisters than just one book. 

Talk soon.  Congrats.  Much love! Peg

Sent from my iPad

Yael's Hamentaschen Bake

I rarely do recipes, but I like a daytime party.  I love women and to occasionally break out of my writerly isolation with them is a joy.  

My friend Yael hosts a Hamentaschen Bake in her home during Purim, and never forgets to invite me, for which I am extremely grateful.  Not only do I get some group girl fun, in the time-honored baking tradition, but I get to eat all these delicious cookies which are not that fattening (unless you eat 20 all at once. Which I've never done. Really.) They're three-cornered cookies with a fruit filling. Purim ended on the 20th.

Since I'm a history and mythology nerd, the background for these delicious cookies needs to be noted.  Hamen, for whom the cookies are named, was the villain of Purim which is a Jewish holiday that commemorates the deliverance of the Jewish people in the ancient Persian Empire from destruction in the wake of a plot by the aforementioned bad guy.  So when you eat the cookies, you're also getting sweet revenge.  

That's Yael in apricot putting egg on the folded cookies before popping them into the oven. Rose is listening and watching, while Rochelle, in foreground, is mastering the art of Hamentaschen shape.

 2 1/2 cups flour

1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup oil
2 eggs
1 teaspoon baking powder
water or orange juice
poppy seed or other fruit filling.  I like apricot and strawberry.
Directions:
1
Mix everything together until you have a nice dough.
2
Take piece by piece from the dough and roll it out with a rolling pin on a floured surface until you get a nice disk.
3
Taking a drinking glass, use it to make a nice circle.
4
Fill it up with fruit filling and close it in the shape of a triangle.
5
Schmeer some egg on uncooked dough.

6

Bake it in a preheated 350 F degree oven for about 30 minutes. Makes 50 to 60 cookies.

 By the expression on Helene's face, I don't think the commentary is regarding the recipe.   Rochelle looks  amused, so we may have started our Shades of Grey discussion.  

More women arrive.  Eris, on the end facing camera, flew in from Pittsburgh especially for this event.




Yael's grandson being tended by Jaime.

           

 

   Yay, the last batch, and now time to sing and dance.

Men are there to eat and listen to gossip. Don't let them fool you, they love it.

      Yael, and the best toddler ever.  He didn't fuss or cry once.

On a non-dietary note, Rudy Ch. Garcia, whom I introduced in last week's Next Big Thing blog, has posted more on his new book Here.

8 Ways To Say I Love My Life

         Saturday was a fun and fulfilling day that began with a reading from The Sandoval Sisters at the Los Angeles chapter of the Historical Fiction Society.  I had the opportunity to not only meet other writers, but also readers of historical fiction who were looking for something new.

            That evening was very special.  Not only did my husband and I get together with old friends we hadn’t seen all summer, but we headed out to Boyle Heights and Casa 0101 theatre for the play, 8 Ways to Say I Love My Life. The 2009 Imagen Award-winning show has been restaged in celebration of the publication of the book by the same name.

            As you might guess from the title the subject is self-affirmation, but the plot turns on how the eight writers whose stories are performed got to this point.  It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t always pretty.  The monologues are short, tight, and focused on domestic violence, the loss of a friend and mentor, latchkey children taken from their mother and put into the foster care system, a father diagnosed with schizophrenia, the choice not to have children, attraction to losers, and taking a chance to live your dream.

            These women don’t feel sorry for themselves, both in terms of what life dealt them, and their own choices.  Mistakes and screw-ups are described with humor, and their Aha! moments are met with forgiveness for any part they may have played in their in own low self-esteem days, which also happens to be the title of  Josefina Lopez's story, My Low Self Esteem Days, performed by Yvonne DeLaRosa. Pilar of Strength, a monologue written by Margo De Leon and performed by Kikey Castillo, struck a personal note with one of my companions, and Bel Hernandez Castillo's The Power to Say You Belong spoke to me loud-and-clear when she related her youthful ambition and the chances she took to achieve it.

        

A Woman Should . . .

Maya Angelou wrote this and each one is worth a blog post:

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own, even if she never wants to or needs to.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...something perfect to wear if the employer, or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour.



A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..a youth she's content to leave behind.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .....a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal, that will make her guests feel honored.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...a feeling of control over her destiny.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...how to fall in love without losing herself.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...when to try harder... and when to walk away.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents..

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...that her childhood may not have been perfect...but its over.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..what she would and wouldn't do for love or more.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW.. whom she can trust,whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...where to go...be it to her best friend's kitchen table...or a charming inn in the woods...when her soul needs soothing.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...what she can and can't accomplish in a day...a month...and a year...

Deconstructing "Go Dog. Go!"

This was a flash exercise from 2002 that took place in a private room on Zoetrope.  Ms. Parker is the inimitable editor of FRiGG magazine.  I don't remember anymore who wrote what, if we traded off, or if I wrote the entire thing based on her prompt.  It's a lark, and perfect not only to close out the holiday season, but a dogged decade. Happy Holidays!



ZAFA LIT 469: Deconstructing "Go, Dog. Go!"
Lecture No. 1

Ms. Parker (claps hands): All right, class! Quiet! Hey! This course is called "Deconstructing ‘Go, Dog. Go.'" In it we examine the text and illustrations of the eponymous children’s book. Does everyone know what the word "eponymous" means?

Sandra: My mom says boys have penys.  She didn’t say they were a mess, though.

Ms. Parker: Wrong. Anyway, those of you who think this is Remedial Sex Ed 069 should get out now, OK? (Most of the class rises and leaves.) Good-by! Excuse me. You in the back there. (Looks at her seating chart.) Steve, is it? I think I’ll call you Little Stevie. Quit horsing around, Little Stevie, please. Put that away. I’ll see you in my office immediately. (She and Little Stevie leave but they come back shortly. Little Stevie looks spent.) Anybody else? (The class cowers.)

Sandra: (Passes note to friend across the aisle) Do you think she used a ruler on Little Stevie?
    (Friend passes note back) He sat down okay, but Ms. Parker’s walking kinda funny.

Ms. Parker: All righty, then. Let’s start with a short bio of the author, P.D. Eastman. (She reads from a printout from Amazon.com.) "Mr. Eastman authored, co-authored, and illustrated many children's books. He was born in 1909 and died in 1986. He even produced some films, and worked for Warner Brothers and Disney studios. He helped develop the Dr. Seuss ‘Gerald McBoing Boing’ series with Theodor Geisel (Dr. Seuss), when he worked for the animation studio United Productions of America." Does this mean anything to any of you?

Sandra: Was he that nasty-looking old man on the Werther’s candy commercial?

Ms. Parker: Oh, Sandra, I’ve heard you met Mr. Eastman. Can you tell us about this?

Sandra:    He offered me candy.  Sure he was a stranger, but I thought I’d seen him on T.V.  Now I can’t get the taste out of my mouth.

Ms. Parker: Thanks for sharing. Now, I want to give you some background on Dr. Seuss as well. By the way, "authored" means the same thing as "wrote." (Ms. Parker reads from the printout.) "Back in 1957, Theodor Geisel responded to an article in Life magazine that lamented the use of boring reading primers in schools. Using the pseudonym of "Dr. Seuss" (Seuss was Geisel's middle name) and only 223 words, Geisel created a replacement for those dull primers: ‘The Cat in the Hat.’ The instant success of the book prompted Geisel and his wife to found Beginner Books, and Geisel wrote many popular books in this series, including ‘Hop on Pop,’ ‘Fox in Socks,’ and ‘Green Eggs and Ham.’ Other favorite titles in this series are ‘Go, Dog, Go!’ (sic; they did the punctuation wrong) and ‘Are You My Mother?’ by P. D. Eastman, ‘A Fly Went By,’ by Mike McClintock, and ‘Put Me in the Zoo,’ by Robert Lopshire. These affordable hardcover books combine large print, easy vocabulary, and large, bright illustrations in stories kids will want to read again and again. Grade 1 - Grade 2."

Sandra: Were those on the summer reading list?  ‘Cause I never got that list, and it’s not fair testing us on them.

Ms. Parker: Uh huh. Today we would like to examine three issues in "Go, Dog. Go!" Everyone get out your texts. (No one does.)

Sandra: (pulls out Cliff’s Notes for Go, Dog.  Go!)

Ms. Parker: Well, forget it then. I’ll read the book to you. (She does. See the following.)

(Ms. Parker sighs.) Wasn’t that good? (She lights a cigarette.)

Sandra: (Waves smoke away) I resent the female dog’s obsequious solicitation of male dog approval.

Ms. Parker: First, I want to talk about the hat thing. In four separate instances, the red girl poodle, who is wearing a different hat each time, asks the yellow-with-black-spots boy spaniel whether he likes her hat. Get out your texts, please. (No one does.)

Sandra: The hat is like a tunnel.  The male’s approval is like a train entering the tunnel.  Dark and mysterious things happen in there.

Ms. Parker: Fine, then. I'll describe the friggin' pictures to you. On page…hey! There are no goddamn page numbers here! Who edited this book? On page approximately 6, we see her first hat. Why don't you describe it for us, Sandra.

Sandra: It has flowers.  Obvious labial imagery.

Ms. Parker: What page are you on? It’s a simple, blue, bolero-type hat with a yellow daisy on the top. OK, it’s not that great a hat. But clearly she is delighted with it. She asks him if he likes it. He goes all snooty and tells her, "I do not." Why does he do this? She just wants a little affirmation about her hat. I mean, couldn’t he have lied?

Sandra: He could not.  To lie, he would not.  He could not, would not tell a lie.

Ms. Parker: I want to mention, on the next page, following this encounter, approximately page 8 in your text…

Sandra: A hat is never just a hat.

Ms. Parker: …approximately page 8 in your text, we have a blue poodle (who looks like the hat-girl poodle only now she’s blue; perhaps a dye job?) is going into a maze made out of cleverly trimmed hedges—remember the scene in "The Shining" where they’re in the maze? It’s like that only it’s not snowing—and she’s looking like she’s in a trance, if you want to know the truth; do you think she’s been slipped a mickey?—and there are three red male-looking spaniels going out of the maze and they look freaked out, frankly, like they’ve seen some very odd shit or perhaps some odd shit was done to them. Little Stevie, what do we make of this?

Little Stevie:   Is this like hidden pictures?  I see a ruler in the hedge.

Ms. Parker: Next hat encounter. This time she’s wearing a nice, blue, wide-brimmed hat, something Scarlett O’Hara would wear or in this case Scarlett O’Hairy, topped with a dramatic pink plume. Once again, she seems awfully pleased with her hat and she asks the guy if he likes it and again he cops an attitude and tells her he "does not like it." Cad! Shall we mention that this time he’s wearing a hat, a black bowler thing and it’s plenty dorky all right, but does she say anything? Also, as he’s scooting away (they’re both on scooters) he’s waving her feather. The fucker took her feather!

Sandra: Cross-dressing bastard!

Ms. Parker: Next hat is a ski hat. It’s the cutest yet! It’s yellow with white fur around the head and a red pom-pom at the end. It’s very long—so long that it’s pleated accordion-style so that it won’t extend all the way down the mountain. Come on, that is one fabulous hat! But, can you guess? It’s a "no go" with Monsieur le Critique duh Chapeau. And look what hat he’s wearing! What, does he think he’s Santa? Hel-lo! You’re not even Rudolph! You’re a dog!

Sandra: Do these dogs live in West Hollywood?

Ms. Parker: Plus, this time she’s pissed. She’s racing down the mountain—away from him ASAP!—and she’s like, Good-by! (ya little cur) and she’s giving him the evil eye and hoping he’ll bark up the wrong tree and then smash into it.

Sandra:   Outrageous fashion sense, snitfits at the drop of a hat.  Oh, yes, they have to be drag queens.

Ms. Parker: Now! The hat climax! This is during the dog party. Now she’s wearing one superduper stu-fucking-pendous gorgeous chapeau cree-ay-shun that’s got all manner of stuff hanging from it on fishing poles: spiders and fish and mice and birds, etc. Plus, there’s a big bone and candy canes and a pinwheel and lollipops and a big ol’ flowerpot at the top with a pink daisy in it!

Sandra: Yes!  Yes!  I remember that hat.  A perfect doggy dream of a hat.  I betcha she whimpered in her sleep, and twitched her back leg chasing that design.

Ms. Parker: And--well, well!--Mister "I Do Not Like That Hat" finally likes her hat! But look at his party hat! Can we? It’s a newspaper hat he folded! Lame!

Sandra: He’s utterly trying to curry favor.  Does she work in the industry?

Ms. Parker: And then, goddamn it, on the last page she goes off with him in his car. As if all was forgiven! Bitch, have you no pride? The dog won’t give you a fucking inch until you bust your poodle-butt staying up all night to create this heavenly millinery masterpiece, and, look at him, he shows up with a hat he folded from the goddamn sports section and he drops you this one little teeny compliment and you toss away all your good sense and run off into the sunset with him? In his spiffy little red car? Explain this to me!

Sandra: Well, life is short, and the red car is cute.

Ms. Parker (miffed): That’s just plain poppycock! This class is over! I’m outta here. Where’s the snack machine? Everybody come back tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll be well. Tomorrow we’ll talk about punctuation, specifically exclamation points versus periods. And I don’t want to hear anything out of (she points) you or you or...you.

Sandra: Do we get extra credit for not talking?

Ms. Parker: Good-by!

(Your Name): Good-by!

ZAFA LIT 469: Deconstructing "Go,Dog. Go!" will resume tomorrow (that is, Tuesday) when Ms. Parker has recovered her good cheer.

Passover Math: x = Old Friends divided by New Thinking

We have Passover dinner every year with old friends. Our sons no longer speak to each other because of a disagreement over the Middle East. A deep and ancient divide has caused a modern rift between two young Americans who've known each other since the third grade. But our friends are cool, especially my Israeli girlfriend. Not a rifle-toting ex-Israeli army girl, but from an Orthodox family that managed to get her service excused. Her husband is a mench, and together they are the kindest, most generous couple I know. Their older son will soon marry a beautiful Eurasian girl who works part-time as a flight attendant, and whom her father characterized as going to college to get her "M.R.S." degree .

 
Before dinner we read from the Torah. I didn't get to read my favorite part of the Egyptian/Hebrew story, but got stuck with the section that had a lot of math. Something about God coming down on the side of the Hebrews and 50 plagues only it was recalculated 4 or 5 times by lofty scholars in elaborate contemplation and argument with one another and ended up being 150 plagues, all of them really nasty.

The age range at the dinner table was 20 to 65. Our friends are now solidly Republican, although they started as Democrats. The fiancée’s family is also conservative. They complained a lot about Obama, don’t appear happy with anything he’s doing, but offered few alternatives. It seemed to me that they really want Obama to fail, which even if you didn't vote for him, is soooooo unpatriotic.

We discussed major world events of the 60's and 70’s, and M.R.S. daddy postulated that nothing now compares. I pointed out that Americans electing the first black president in our history was major, but couldn't get him to agree. One of the other old folks brought up that Obama had bowed to some middle-eastern dude and that that was wrong. America may need to float a loan from said lavishly rich swimming-in-the-black-bubbly country, so showing some respect may be good for us in the long run.

I had a great time. Passover is so not boring when people who have a totally different take on the world surround you. What do we have in common?

My girlfriend and I have an innocent history of standing in the sunshine outside our sons' elementary school. When I complained about working more than full time running a business that I loved, but feeling guilty about my son, and resenting my husband who seemed unaware of my conflict, she told me a story of her mother advising her on her wedding night to always pretend to be able to do less because it was the nature of men to take advantage of women.

At the time, I was astounded and dozens of feminist arguments sprang to mind, but I said nothing because the statement also felt true. This was the beginning of my understanding of my own victimization in terms of the feminist mandate about "having it all." Having it all was exhausting.

There was a time when I saw my girlfriend almost everyday, and when we were together we laughed until our sides ached, looked at each other, and laughed some more. We did a bit of that last night, but it wasn’t the same.

Damn you google images ---- I think

Spent untold hours today exploring the more obscure workings of Blogger, Myspace, and my very own website, www.sramosobriant.com. My host is godaddy.com, which I highly recommend for impatient and frugal users. The technical support people all sound like cheerful, all-American types (I think they're in Arizona).

I clicked on a button labeled user statistics and was whisked to a heretofore unexplored world of graphs and URL's indicating yearly, monthly, weekly, daily, and, yes, hourly hits on my website!
136,000 in a little over a year. How is this possible?

Turns out Google Images has indexed the photos on my site. If you type in moon and clouds, my photo comes up first. Over 3000 hits on that alone from the U.S. But there's also Google Images, UK and Spain and Denmark, and the whole rest of the world, including google in languages that look impossible to pronounce.

Furthermore, some of the URL's for specific websites are listed. For some reason, they came back to my site untold times to copy my images. I sent them messages asking them to credit me, but not sure I want links to vampirefreaks (they have a job board which was comforting, but I'd have to join to read it). Egyptian Goddess might be okay. Tikki used my picture as the background for his homepage on Myspace. He's nineteen and into hard rock, but he also wants to be a graphic designer. I sent him a friend request. He has 73. I only have 7.