Kelly Barnhill's Blog, page 28

Infinity Bottles of Beer on the Wall

My son, at six fifteen this morning, started signing a song:

"INFINITY BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL, INFINITY BOTTLES OF BEER. IF ONE OF THOSE BOTTLES SHOULD HAPPEN TO FALL INFINITY BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL."

Which, actually, I thought was rather impressive. Here he is, a young lad of six, who understands the mind-blowing nature of the infinite. If I hold nine marbles in my hand and someone takes one away from me, I no longer have nine marbles. Leo gets this. He has sisters. And they are constantly taking his stuff – which can be described in the equation below:

(my stuff) -1 = (less stuff that is now mine)

or

(my stuff) -x = tantrum, where x=anything greater than one

This is all common knowledge.

So for Leo, at six, to come to grips with the concept that the infinite is infinite, where 1+infinity= infinity and infinity-1=infinity – - I can honestly say that it took me well into my high school years to truly grasp that.

(Okay, fine, that was a total lie. I still haven't grasped it.)

Anyway, there was Leo, in his room, ten minutes later IF ONE OF THOSE BOTTLES SHOULD HAPPEN TO FALL.

And then, later, at six forty-five: INFINITY BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL.

And at six fifty-two. YOU TAKE A MILLION DOWN AND PASS THEM AROUND, INFINITY BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL.

And so forth.

Finally, at seven oh two, I'd had it. "LEO!" I roared. "You need to think of a new song." He was already dressed for school, and was looking particularly angelic in his pile of legos as he gazed back up at me.

"You don't like my song?" he said.

"No," I said. "I really really don't. I didn't like it at six fifteen, and I didn't like it a six thirty, and I don't like it now. If you really need to sing, please think of something else."

"Okay," he said.

I nodded and sighed, spinning on my heel and going back into the hallway to my room. And somewhere between the moment when I found my pants (which were bizarrely shoved under the bed) and before I found my favorite tee-shirt, Leo was belting out a whole new song.

"INFINITY BOTTLES OF REEDS GINGER BREW ON THE WALL, INFINITY BOTTLES OF REEDS GINGER BREWWWWWWW."

Stupid infinity.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: adventures in parenting, beer glorious beer, reeds ginger brew, sometimes math bites you in the ass, too smart for his own good, why did I ever teach that child his numbers?

Sometimes, the Weather Has Other Plans

I had every intention of going for an eleven mile run today, I really did. I was going to feel the rhythm of my body and breathe and ruminate on the book un-knot the tangled bits and re-think the wobbly bits and meditate on my two main characters, and I would come back refreshed, re-energized, and re-committed to the project. And what's more, I would be a new woman, a new writer, a new everything.

But then, it snowed.

Blizzard in St. Paul: April, 1923

Courtesy the Minnesota Historical Society

And granted, it didn't snow as much as it did on those guys, it still is too much for me to bear right now. I want some spring weather, damnit.  I deserve it. So I'm drinking tea instead, and meditating on my desperately-in-need-of-sweeping floor, and I'll be a new woman all on my own. Because it is April 20, for god's sake, and I am NOT RUNNING IN THE SNOW.

(She says)

(She grumbles)

(She stomps away)

(She puts on her running shoes anyway and heads out, cursing the skies)

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Crappy Weather, Global Climate Change Sometimes Sucks, Minnesota Historical Society, Running in the Snow

Gendertranscendent Love Story

(or, how I talk about Steve Brezenoff's new novel by first talking about my old job)

(This post is crossposted at The YA-5. Comment here or there.)

Love, when it comes down to it, is not defined by gender, nor is gender defined by love. Love, in my experience, resists definition. It is without boundary, without pretense, without externally-imposed rules. Love makes the rules. 

I once had a student – a long time ago – who told me that the term "trans" was too limiting in their particular experience. "Trans," this kid told me, "assumes a person is transforming from one specific thing into another specific thing." My student was young – maybe fifteen – with dark, wide-spaced eyes, a shorn head, a fine-boned face and an easy smile. Tattoos on the neck. Lean, ropy muscles. Long, tapered fingers. Painfully thin – a body made of reeds and sticks and dry grass. 

"Some of us," my student said, "are transitioning from middle to middle. A sea of endless middles. And endless possibilities. Gender doesn't define us. Only love does."

And so my education began.

Back when I was pregnant with my third child, I got a job as a GED teacher at a drop-in center for homeless youth in Minneapolis. Now, it doesn't take very much time trolling through Google – its deep undergrowth of studies and statistics and reports, its wide canopy of articles and profiles and sob stories – to know that the stats on homeless kids really, really suck. They're at risk for HIV and Hep-C. They're at risk for prostitution and sex trafficking. They're at risk for overdoses. And violence. And pregnancy. And lifelong poverty. They're at risk for everything.

Even more at risk? They gay and lesbian homeless kids. Of the estimated 1.6 million homeless kids in America, between 20 and 40 percent of those kids identify as GLBTQ

And even more at risk? The trans kids. A whopping one in five trans-identified children winds up homeless before the time they hit eighteen. And these kids are terribly at risk. 

As the teacher at the drop-in center, I saw the kids who chose to come downstairs to my windowless rooms, lit by the strange blue light of my glowing computer screens, to let me poke and prod at their brains, filling in the gaps left by too many self-imposed "vacations" from school, too many schools in general (one kid had been in seventeen schools between the ages of five and fourteen) and too many years when their brains were simply in survival-mode, which left precious little time for learning. 

But because they chose, because they wanted their degree – and the paths that lead away from that degree – the kids that I spent my time with were the kids who were poised to beat that statistic. I spent hours and hours with them in my basement domain, drilling them, foisting books on them, quizzing them, and generally annoying them to bits until they were ready to take the test.

Now, in my teaching life prior to that job, I had certainly taught a fair amount of gay and lesbian kids and certainly a LOT of kids who were questioning their sexuality, but I had never had a transgendered child in my classroom until I worked at the homeless center.

 And there – well I had many. Now, seven years later, I can call up the names and faces of fourteen different kids. There were probably more. 

These were kids who had been kicked out of their homes. These were kids who had been abandoned by their families. These were kids who had loved the people who were supposed to love them forever – and were betrayed.

I loved those kids. I loved them with my guts. (It's a mom thing, I think. The majority of your emotional energy goes naturally to the individual who needs it most. It's like a homing beacon for Love Rays.)

 I loved that job. I really really did. 

 Anyway, once I had three kids, I couldn't make the schedule work, so I had to leave the job, but I found my mind and my heart and my memory pulled back into that experience so viscerally, so completely recently, that I could almost smell the cheap cigarettes and the haven't-been-washed-in-four-years black jeans and the yesterday's liquor and Jolly Ranchers that I smelled on those kids every day.

And it was all because of a book.

Last week, I read Brooklyn, Burning, by Steve Brezenoff. And maybe it's ridiculously cruel for me to brag that I got to read this marvelous, heartbreaking little novel in the first place. 

But holy crap. This book was amazing. 

[image error]It's not due out until September, I think, so come fall, I'm sure I'll be blowing horns and putting out signs and forcing all y'all to open up your wallets and spring for a copy. 

My point is this: there are other books that have come out recently – or that are making their way to the surface – that reflect a little part of the Trans experience in America (I AM J, for example. And Luna. And…..there was another one whose title I'm forgetting) (and, really, hallelujah, I say. We need more.) but none that I have read has achieved what Brezenoff has achieved in this lean, textured, lovely little book.

You guys. I loved this book so hard, I can hardly even express it.

Sometimes, you read a book that is larger, richer and more real than the elements that it contains.

This book, for example, has a main character in love with another character, neither of which is identified (nor do they seem to identify themselves) with a particular gender. But this is not a "trans book", nor is it a "genderqueer book". 

This book has a character in the throws of an addiction, but this is not an "addiction book".

This book has a teen runaway, but this is not a "teen runaway book".

This book is a love story - no. It is a love song. And while the love relationship between Kid and Scout defines the arc upon which the story is drawn, theirs is not the only love story being told. It is also a love song to youth. It is a love song to summer, and Brooklyn, and the ecstasy of music making. It is a love song to families – the ones in which we are born into, and the families that we choose. The families of our own making. It is a love song to teeming streets and hot, packed bars, and the songs that grab us by the guts and pull us away.

This is a beautiful book – big-hearted, and tough; clear-eyed and brave. The prose reads insistent as a song, breaking the heart again and again and agin. 

Brooklyn, Burning is the story of Kid – sixteen, kicked out of the house, homeless, aching and drunk (on booze, on youth, on music, on grief, on guilt). Despite the fact that Kid's innocence has been shattered nine ways from Sunday – betrayal, abandonment, loving broken people and being broken in return – Kid is still primarily an innocent. Kid is tender, vulnerable, and despite the many, many flaws, ultimately lovable. And, well, I'm a mother – and my instinct as a reader was to gather that child in my arms and offer my protection and my love. I loved Kid. From the very first page. 

And what I most appreciated was the fact that Kid's story brought me right back to that room in which I hung out with a bunch of teenagers who were just as fragile, just as broken, and just as brave as Kid. I appreciated having the opportunity to experience a love story that transcends gender. To see Kid as Kid sees Kid -  that is, without the pretense and limitations of the birth-gender construct – means that we can know that character in total. We understand Kid with no expectations, no assumptions, no baggage. Kid is just Kid – no more and no less, and that was an amazing experience. And what's more, I was able to experience the miracle and audaciousness of love in the context of the world-view of my beloved students all those years ago. I was able to experience a story of redemption that explores the bright sea of middles between the hard limits of "male" and "female" – where gender does not – and cannot – define people. The only definition that matters is love – and it is boundless, uncontainable and wild. 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Androgyny, GLBTQ, homeless youth, love stories, teenagers totally rule, Third Gender

On Raising Beautiful, Butt-Kicking, Feminist Girls (or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Girl Scouts)

Before I launch into this post about my eleven-year-long quest – nay, struggle - to raise girls who trust themselves, and honor themselves – and more importantly who trust and honor the other girls in their lives-  and who wouldn't think twice to kick a boy in the shins if he really, really deserved it, I need to take a moment to talk about the Girl Scouts.

And the lady who started the Girl Scouts. This classy dame here:

 Juliette Gordon Lowe. Isn't she lovely?

What I love about her story is that she took the classic trope of the Jilted-Wife-Done-Wrong-By-Her-Man and re-invented it into a Juliette-Goes-And-Gets-Some story. In a nutshell, Juliette's no-good, boozing, philandering, and woman-degrading husband pestered her to no end for a divorce so he could shack up with his mistress in style. She refused, and his whoring continued until he died suddenly of a stroke or heart attack or "bad company" or however men of his ilk used to kick the bucket in those days.

Trouble was, he left his fortune to his mistress, leaving his wife high and dry.

So did Juliette lie down and take it? No ma'am, no she did not. She sued the jerk's estate and came away 500 million richer – which was quite a lot in those days. And instead of sitting in the lap of luxury (or anyone else's lap, for that matter) she used her extensive funds to start the Girl Scouts which, in addition to highly addictive cookie-hawking, has been the go-to place for sassy, uppity girls everywhere.

I love the Girl Scouts.

The thing is, that love has been long in coming. I was a Scout for two (or was it three?) rather miserable years in elementary school. As I believe I've blogged about before, I was a lonely kid in grade school – a bullied kid, a dorky kid, a broken kid and a painfully-awkward kid. I was in Girl Scouts, and the bullying and nasty behavior that I endured during the school day simply followed me to our meetings in the livingroom of one of the kids at school.

I didn't learn to like myself in Girl Scouts. I learned nothing about Girl Power or consciousness-raising, or positive self-imaging or sticking with your girl friends no matter what. I just learned how to stay quiet, stay unnoticed. Disappear.

And then I forgot about the Girl Scouts.

But then. Lots and lots of years later, I had daughters. And then the Fear began.

We live in a culture that teaches girls to dismiss themselves. We live in a culture that teaches girls to hate their bodies. We live in a culture that teaches girls to define themselves by how well they can attract sexual partners, instead of how well they can keep a friend. And I held my little tiny girl-baby and I was afraid for her.

When Ella was in Kindergarten, she joined a Brownie troop. I was ambivalent, but the child was adamant. She joined, loved it, and she's been with this same group of girls ever since. And while I've been around, and I know these girls very well, I've never had the opportunity to interact with them as Scouts, nor have I seen how they operate as a team of girl-powered friends until this weekend, when I went as a chaperon to their yearly encampment in the woods.

Ladies and gentlemen, you have never seen such a group of committed feminists.

You have never seen such a group of magnificent communicators.

You have never seen such a group of collaborative leaders – they assessed the needs of their situations. They asked for input. They delegated. They formed committees. They assessed their own results. They praised one another, and boosted each other up. They were clear, forthright, kind, honest and hard-working. They appreciated one another.

And they never once – not even once - talked about boys. Instead, they made fun of commercials and they badmouthed Twilight (they all agreed with Ella's assessment that the book would have been vastly improved if Edward had died tragically in a fire) and they told scary stories in the dark.

And I realized that the wolves in our society – the ones that dress up in nighties and lurk in the dark – well, they're still there, and I still worry about them, but the Girl Scouts have given my daughter a weapon that I had not counted upon. My daughter – though just as unsure, just as placeless as I was at eleven – not a kid, not a teenager, with no real place to fit in – is much more equipped to survive and thrive than I ever have been.

That child is powerful. And so are her friends.

Girl Power, the girls told me this weekend, could move the entire planet off its axis if we wanted to. We choose to let the world spin.

This was true, I told them. But they had more to say.

Girl power's gonna change the world – and it needs changing. And girl friends can change your life.

Indeed, I said. They do it every day.

Filed under: Uncategorized

Feed the Beast

Whenever I have a lull in my writing production (and let me tell you, this happens a lot), I start reading a TON of books on writing, on the creative process, on living the life of an artist, and what have you. And these books, though they may give me the aura of the Artist Hard At Work – it is nothing short of poseurism. Because these books – for me – have been nothing short of useless.

And that's okay. Sometimes we need to do useless things to fill the time between bouts of mad utility and unabashed production.

Still, with my head full of slogans like "filling the well" and whatever else they've told me to do over the years, I've discovered that my creative life bears no semblance to the secret groves or babbling brooks or tender thoughts alight on gossamer wings that I've read about in other people's descriptions of their various creative journeys.

My creative life is not a journey. Nor is it a well. Nor is it a river. Nor is it a garden that I must love and tend and fuss over.

My creative life is animal.

It has teeth, and claws and sinew and bone. It has a wet nose and sensitive ears and breath reeking of old meat.  It is heavy-muscled, long-legged and agile. It is crafty, frightened, randy and fierce. It lopes, and stalks and pounces. It sniffs at the ground, howls at the moon, urinates on trees, scratches after it shits, and follows its prey for miles.

My creative life has mangy fur and yellow eyes and a gamey scent that can knock you out. It nuzzles my face in the morning, grabs me by the nape of my neck and tosses me out of bed. I can see its ribs. I can see its ligaments under its tight skin. It's hungry. And it doesn't want to wait.

So I feed the beast.

I don't write every day – I'm not that kind of writer. I write when the beast is hungry. I write when the beast paces next to my desk. As I write, I sweat, I shiver, I weep. I write from my skin, my muscle, my empty stomach, my restless feet. I write as if I'm running. And maybe I am.

And when I write – when I write a lot – the beast begins to be satisfied. I read too, though not craft books. It hates those. I read fiction and nonfiction and poetry and memoir. I read across genre and time period. My brain is a smorgasbord for my hungry beast. I gather things from the natural world – artifacts from the book I'm working on. Right now, on my desk, there are three oval stones, a bit of bark with pale green lichen clinging to its grooves, five scraps of paper with five Nordic runes written crudely with my left hand. There is a crown made from wintered grass, tied with a ribbon.

I write to feed the beast. I write to make it happy. I write to put it to sleep. I write to feel its head on my lap, its dark breath on my skin, its ragged howl ringing in my own, open mouth. I write, so that one day, it will be sleek, fat and fine. I write to send it – howling, snarling, singing its name – into the wide, wide world.

And then I wait until the next time I'm woken in the night by a pair of yellow eyes, a hungry, hollow panting somewhere in the darkness of my house. And a new book begins.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: fiction is my job, I wish I was better at this sort of thing, julia cameron, sometimes being a writer is harder than it needs to be, the artists way, The creative process, what exactly is the line between being an artsy fartsy person and being a certifiably insane person?, wolves, writers and their muse, writing novels

Dear T.V. – Stop Sucking. Love, Kelly (Or, how I blithely and innocently watched "Life On Mars" and now my life is terrible.)

First, let me be clear. I'm gonna spoiler the hell out of this show. I'm going to tell you that after a promising (though rocky) start, this show failed so spectacularly, so prodigiously, and with such absolute and perfect authority, that it was almost like watching performance art. It was like watching a cautionary tale in health class, but instead of going insane on that demon dope, or getting pregnant the first time you get your knickers in a tangle, it was, "Be careful, young film makers and t.v. writers, because this kind of god-awful train wreck can HAPPEN AT ANY TIME."

Mostly, I just don't want you people to make the same mistake that I did. I don't usually write about television, but I am making an exception with this one, just because I care about you, my dear readers, and I want to protect you.

(Granted, most people are much smarter than me, and have already pre-read the reviews on line – which are universally TERRIBLE. But I didn't. And now I have to suffer the consequences FOREVER.)

Look, I'll admit it. I'm a sucker for a superfly seventies outfit. For me, it's the meth of the fashion world  - the crack of clothes – and I honestly can't get enough. And I am willing to give my visual entertainments all sorts of benefits of the doubt, if they have actors parading themselves in taupe suede fitted jackets with a sweet little subdued flare at the hip.

Even if the show sucks.

So sue me.

So this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I started watching "Life On Mars" – a show that went from promising to massively sucking, to OH MY EFFING GOD WHAT DID YOU JUST DO – so thoroughly, that I simply cannot accept that it wasn't intentional.

Now, Life on Mars – from its beginnings, in theory – should have had everything that I could ever want from a television show. Hints of sci-fi/reality-bending subplots? Check. Tough ladies?

[image error] Check.

Gritty urban drama? Check. Emotionally distant, yet secretly vulnerable men? Check. Mysteries abounding – coming up like crocuses in April? Check. Vaguely nerdy and sissy-boy sidekicks? Check. Excessive drinking? Hooo, boy, check. Handlebar mustaches coupled with trucker sunglasses?

Check and check.

What more do I need? Apparently a lot. So the jist of this interesting-concept-turned-middle-school-fiction-assigment-penned-one-hour-before-it-was-due is this: Sam Tyler, uber-cop, is hit by a car while pursuing a superbad lady-killing rapist guy and is sent back in time to 1973. He has an apartment and a job – though he doesn't know how he got either – and he's expected to fight crime without all of the fancy tricks of a 2008 cop.

I know, right? What was I thinking. I should have quit right there – but THOSE OUTFITS!

I mean seriously, give me a guy in cords and a hip-length leather jacket, and – I'm not kidding- you have me at hello. (Yes, I have neither dignity nor pride. WHAT?)

Anyway.

So Sam Tyler, right before the accident that sent him from his frumpy 2008 outfit into his superfly 1973 outfit, was very concerned about the safety of his girlfriend – also a cop (played in this show by one Lisa Bonet) and is very concerned that the big bad lady-killing rapist guy has her in his lady-killing clutches.

And that little subplot lasts about two episodes. And then there are strange voices on phones, and little robots that creep into his nose – oh, and RACE RIOTS (narrowly averted) and WOMEN'S LIB. And some other things.

The thing is, even though the dialogue was almost uniformly wooden and there were some scene transitions that were positively schlocky, I actually enjoyed watching it most of the time.

Loved the hair.

Loved the music.

Loved, loved, loved the clothes.

And then. Right at the end……

Honestly, it hurts – it hurts I tell you! – to write it down.

You know in sixth grade, when your teacher made you write short stories, and the kids all had to share their stories with the class, and no matter what, you had to say something positive about the story that your classmate read, even though there might be absolutely nothing good about the story at all? Especially, if that story was just a bunch of t.v. scenes that the writer just threw together at random, and then had their main character just wake up at the end and discover that it had all been just a dream?

And remember how you hated that kid for writing such an awful story, and you hated him for wasting your time, and you hated him for being a total affront to literature, learning and Western Civilization?

Yeah. It was just like that.

Except instead of it just being all a dream, he was, apparently, in a state of sleep-stasis on a spaceship going to Mars (of course, after two years sleeping, they all woke up in their pods with short hair, short fingernails and no one had wet themselves – nor were they hungry or thirsty, but nevermind). And then there were some father issues. And also a bit about unrequited love – all in the last six and a half minutes.

And then they stepped out of the spaceship and were on Mars!

Mars!

It was so bad it was almost beautiful.

I mean, I almost have to hand it to the writers. They successfully pulled off the equivalent of a T.V. heist. They stole from every cop show imaginable – they RUINED seventies fashion for me FOREVER – and they milked the system for advertising bucks for an ENTIRE SEASON. All using a steaming, reeking, oozing pile of poo. Amazing!

Still, the soundtrack was awesome, and has inspired a David Bowie song-fest in my house, which is always worth the price of admission.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: David Bowie, how t.v. kinda sucks sometimes, Jason O'Mara (oh my!), Life On Mars, men in cords, train wrecks

The Very, Very, Very Worst, Worst, Worst Swear Word.

Tonight, after a long day of playing and churching and Chuck-E-Cheesing (in which I temporarily lost my son, only to find him dancing his brains out in front of a blue screen – shirtless – as a gaggle of cheering fans egged him on (all six years old, all girls) and my boy channeled his inner rock-and-roller), I was finally getting the boy's teeth brushed and flossed, his face washed, and his tired little self into bed.

On the way to his room, he stopped, turned, and asked very seriously, "Mom, what's the worst swear word a person can say?"

"Wait….what?" I asked.

"Swear word, mom, swear word. What's the very worst swear word a person can say?"

"The very worst one?" I asked dubiously. I'm no fool. I knew where this was going.

"Yes," he said, his face deadly serious. "The very, very, very worst, worst, worst swear word in the world." He held my gaze. "What is it?"

I paused for a moment. I regarded him. "I'm not sure I can trust you with this information," I said as I ushered him into his bed and tucked his covers around him. He propped himself up on his elbows.

"Of course you can trust me," he said. "I was born trustworthy."

"Hmmm," I said. "Because you have to promise never, ever to say this word," I said. "You have to promise as a boy scout, and -" I added, just to seal the deal, "as a gentleman."

"I promise," he said, first showing me his scout's honor sign and then shaking my hand soberly.

I sighed. "Fine. I think you can handle it." I paused. Held his hand. My son held his breath. "The worst swear word."

"Yes?" he asked.

"The very, very, very worst, worst, worst one," I said.

"YES?" he squeaked.

"Is-" I cleared my throat. "Gosh-a-mickle-pickle-gee-willy-wog-dog-my-cats-robassim."

Leo stared at me for a long time.

He continued to stare.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yup," I said.

"That's the worst one?"

"The very worst."

"And I can't say it ever?"

"Nope."

"Not even parts of it?"

"Nope."

"What about 'dog my cats'?"

"It's an awesome responsibility to have the kind of power that I'm handing you, Leo," I said. "It's not enough to know the very, very, very worst, worst, worst swear word in the world. The real power is knowing it, and still not using it. There's no greater power than that. So I could tell you to never say 'dog my cats', but in the end, if you choose to never say it, then you own the power. You see."

Leo thought about this.

He thought about it for a long time.

"What if I just say 'cats and dogs'?" he said.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why my son currently does not know any swear words, and I am counting on the lot of you to assist me in my efforts to keep this child in the dark.

Because, holy hell, does that boy want to swear.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: adventures in parenting, rock star kids, swear words

The Wee Book of Pee

I was already pretty psyched about this weekend, what with the various shenanigans planned at the Walker Art Center, but I just got some pretty awesome news.

My book, The Wee Book of Pee

has a five star rating from Goodreads.

Five freaking stars.

Granted, it's only one rating – on Goodreads, no less – but I don't care. It matters to me because it is this book, in particular.

The Wee Book of Pee has given me a lot of mileage. This is one of the schools-and-libraries books that I did for Edge Books a while back, but it is by far my favorite one. Also, when I go into classrooms, I get UNBELIEVABLE street cred with the boys, simply because I happened to write a book called The Wee Book of Pee. They love me forever because of that book.

So, thank you, Wee Book of Pee Goodreads rater! I will do my best to offer more five-star-worthy tomes in the future!

And thanks for reminding me that even gross things can be turned into something silly, and that even side projects can make a person beloved by children everywhere.

Now, off to have an awesome weekend. Hope the lot of you enjoy yourselves!

Filed under: Uncategorized

Things I Saw On My Run Today

1. Wood ducks. Lots of them.

2. Four swans.

3. A snow-and-mud-soaked copy of Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury. The book had been ripped down the spine, and half of it was missing. Also a triangle of the front cover was torn off. It also had most of a phone number with two digits missing (probably in the missing triangle). Underneath the number – the name Jared. And a heart.

4. A child's shoe. No laces.

5. A skateboard with one wheel.

6. Three beavers, two with ridiculously large branches in their mouths.

7. One loon. I called to it. It called back.

8. A guy riding a motorcycle in shorts and no shirt. Also barefoot.

9. An empty bag of extra-hot Doritos in the mouth of a very large crow sitting in an empty tree.

10. A willow tree with yellow-gold branches. Before it greens, it glows. And right now the entire world is in those moments before green. Everything living is thinking green thoughts and dreaming green dreams, and waiting for the moment when the world swells, uncurls, blossoms and grows.

That was my adventure. Or at least my real adventure. My other adventure was in my head and on the page, and I'm still reeling from it.

What did the rest of you do today?

Filed under: Uncategorized

On Farkle, Mathematics, and Ruling the World (or, the sinister side effects of childhood games)

The root of tyranny, I've discovered, can be traced to the toyboxes and game shelves of six-year-old children. Inside every evil overlord is a little kid winning at Candyland or Crazy Eights or Sorry.

(Risk and Mastermind, obviously, go without saying)

I taught my son to play the game Farkle last night (and for those of you who haven't ever played that game, I simply must insist that you learn it instantly. It beats the pants off that stinkin' Yatzee, I'll tell you what), and the child is some kind of Farkle supergenius. He's a Farkle wizard. He memorized the point structure, weighed options, assessed risk, and soundly kicked my sorry butt.

He was thrilled.

What amazed me was the fact that, though the points assessed for different rolls are valued in the hundreds and thousands, he did all the addition in his head and kept track of how many points he had and I had at any given moment. The kid is six years old and he adds quicker and faster than his mom. (Granted, this is not hard to do. I am math-deficient.)

But what was most amazing was simply watching my son – my wild man, my aspiring juvenile delinquent, my budding evil genius – as he became calm, sober and focused in his attention to his dice and the points he was receiving from his dice. His voice quieted; his movements gentled and slowed. He was wide-eyed, cherubic, lovely.

And then he beat me by 11,000 points.

At the end of the game he reached over to shake my hand.

"Good game," he said seriously.

"I appreciate you shaking my hand," I said.

He nodded. "My teacher says that you can only be a good sport if you're showing someone else how to be a good sport."

"Your teacher is very smart," I said.

"But she doesn't say that it's more fun to be a good sport if you win." His face was intense, as though the need to do a touchdown dance was knocking at the backs of his eyeballs and exploding his brain. "But it is. It's way more fun."

"I know, honey," I said. "Thanks for being such a good sport. And for showing me how to be a good sport."

"I like this game," he said. "I like that it has math. Math is fun because it makes me win."

"How so?"

"I add up my points," he said. "And then I win. Math is the best. I'm going to do more math so I can keep winning."

"Interesting plan," I said.

"And then I'll win so much that I'll win the whole world. The. Whole. World." His eyes were bright, wild, ferocious. He kept his hands at his sides, but they were balled into fists.  He wasn't kidding.

He got up, and went to find a calculator and his sister's math book. He can't do it, mind (it's Algebra), but he liked turning the pages and pretending to know what was going on in the book. He sat there for over an hour.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how tyrants are born. Those who aspire to a life bent towards world domination begin the early inklings of their master plans in their six-year-old bedrooms (painted to look like the surface of Mars. What were we thinking? My husband and I are fools! Fools, I say! We should have painted his room to look like a dentist's office! Or a courtroom! Or even a construction site!). It begins with a simple game of Farkle, and it's only logical end is the status of Overlord.

All I can say, folks, is brace yourselves.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: farkle, games, one day I shall rule the world, parenting, six year old boys, The beginnings of tyrrany, the sinister side effects of childhood games