Draconian Measures

I recently experienced something that calls into question everything I have ever been exposed to in life. And although I pledge complete honesty in my writing, I just can’t expose too much about the context of the experience. The people involved were good, honest, hard-working individuals, and even though I doubt they are reading this, they could be. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, and if I really get going on it, using my own brand of sarcasm and satire, it might cut them to the quick. They were kind to me.

But I couldn’t stay.

Don’t worry that this doesn’t make sense. I actually wrote about this experience, but it’s in another file. My “Super-Mean-File.” The file for my writing that shows me to be a small mean-spirited person taking cheap pot shots at people I meet in day-to-day life.

You: How is that different from any other day for you?

Me: Hey, that was a cheap shot!

You: Tough. This post makes no f***ing sense.

Me: Yeah, no shit.

You: Why would you bring something up if you’re not going to tell us the story?

Me: I wish I could.

There are different facets of working society. There’s white collar. You know, doctors, lawyers, teachers, salesmen, professors, computer programmers, engineers. We go out to lunch, we travel for business conferences, we sip coffee and water at our leisure. Our responsibilities are paperwork, testing, speaking, lecturing, planning, designing. Then there’s blue-collar. Walt Whitman wrote a poem about blue-collar and didn’t hold back from his admiration of them in “I Hear America Singing.” They are responsible for pounding, hammering, plunging, digging, cleaning, spraying, cutting, trimming, building, cooking, serving. You know, the stuff that makes the world go ‘round. Blue collar still retains a sense of independence, and blue-collar workers also have the autonomy to stop for coffee and water if they so choose. And although their work is hard, they know it’s important, and they do it with pride. There’s even such a thing as gray collar, which is someone hovering between white and blue, whatever that means. Oh, and what about the people who don’t actually work but kiss the asses of people who DO have money, hoping if they kiss ass long enough, they’ll get some of it?

I guess that’s brown collar.

But there’s another level. A darker level. An underworld. I saw it, and when I got clear of it, I took stock of what it did to me after only two days. I knew I was soft and spoiled, but not that soft and spoiled. My spirit was broken, my feet were in agony, my pride was wounded, and I knew I did not have the physical or mental nettle needed to remain. I observed the workers around me, and their gray, pinched faces attested to the fact that here was a world unknown to many, but one that exists just the same. A world where a cool sip of water or a visit to the restroom needs to be bargained for. A world where a hot cup of coffee in the middle of the day is a pleasant but elusive fantasy. A world where there is no down-time, no casual talk in the lounge, no take-out lunches. A world where every minute is accounted for, every drop of sweat measured, and every step taken analyzed.

A world I never knew existed, but I’m glad I do now.

Of course, I had the choice to leave. For me, entering this world was a favor for a friend, a distraction, a way to beat boredom, something to do out of the house for a few hours on the weekend. But for those I met, it’s rent. Food. Utilities. Tuition bills. They can’t leave. They must slog it out, day-after-day, week-after-week, doing repetitive mundane work for 35, 38, 40 hours a week.

I lasted two days.

When journalist Barbara Ehrenreich was writing Nickel and Dimed, she went undercover to see if she could support herself doing low-wage work. She lasted three months- one month working in low-end retail, one in housecleaning, and one as a waitress. It took a toll on her, but she also had a big fat book advance hanging in the balance. Even so, I can’t imagine how she lasted that long.

I promise one day to share this story. It’s too good not to. But for now this post means only this: as you go about your weekend, going out to eat, going shopping for shoes and makeup, going to pumpkin patches, picking up ingredients or takeout for Sunday football snacks, just take a minute and consider the people working behind the scenes, those working in that underworld, taking shit for pennies so the rest of us can enjoy these activities. And if you are one of those people behind the scenes?

You have my undying gratitude and awe.

Farce in Two Acts

Act I: Oldest son is packing for Hawaii, and I just watched him put a hunting knife into his suitcase.

“What are you doing?”

He looks surprised.

“I’m packing my knife.”

“Why?”

“You never know.”

“In HAWAII? Why do you need a knife in Hawaii? Take that out.”

“I might need it.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, to slice a coconut.”

“Who are you, Tom Hanks in ‘Castaway?’”

“I’m telling you, it will come in handy.”

“It won’t. Are you insane? TSA will confiscate it, you’ll get arrested by Homeland Security, and I’m NOT bailing you out.”

“You wouldn’t bail me out?”

“No.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I’m telling you now to take the knife out. If you take it despite my sage advice, I will let you rot in jail.”

He takes it out.

“Fine, have it your way.”

He places a ukulele in his suitcase and looks at me.

“Don’t even say it. I’m bringing my ukulele.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

A quick peek into his suitcase reveals two skateboards, his ukulele, five bottles of hot sauce and the gift I am sending for my niece, who lives in Honolulu with her husband.

“Why are you bringing your hot sauce collection?”

“I use hot sauce on everything.”

“You think they don’t have hot sauce in Hawaii?”

“Not this hot sauce.”

“You researched this?”

“No, but this hot sauce is indigenous only to this area.”

“Ah. My mistake. And what are you going to use on your eggs when you get there and find that your indigenous hot sauce bottles cracked because you didn’t wrap them in bubble wrap for the flight?”

He looks in suitcase. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll wrap them in socks.”

“What about the skateboard?”

“What about it?”

“Is it really necessary?”

“It will be my only form of transportation while I’m there.”

“Why do you have two?”

“I’m bringing Tommy his.”

He closes the suitcase and picks it up.

“Definitely under 50 pounds. I think that’s it. I’m ready.”

“Where are all of your clothes?”

He looks at me blankly.

“Shit.”

Act II: Middle son is shoving casserole into his mouth. We just finished golfing, and I confess that I once again have no blog post ready.

“Talk about today,” he says, with his mouth full.

“What about today?”

“About golf.”

“What about golf?”

“How fun it was.”

“But what’s the angle?”

“The angle?”

“Yes. There has to be an angle.”

He thinks, chewing.

“About us. About how we’re getting older and helping you with stuff.”

“Stuff? What stuff?”

“All kinds of stuff.”

“Be specific. One example. Give me one example.”

“We help with the laundry.”

“It’s your laundry.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to do it. Like the dishes.”

“But they’re your dishes. You ate off of them.”

“Yeah, but see what I mean? We’re getting more mature and can do things for ourselves.”

I am still not convinced.

“What else?”

“You can talk about how we buy you candles every Mother’s Day.”

“You use my Amazon card.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s accurate.”

“Want to see my order history?”

He walks his plate to the sink. “That won’t be necessary.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He turns.

“What about today?”

“What about today?”

“I gave you good advice on how to get off the tee. You were rocking it down the fairway.”

“That’s true. It was great advice.”

“See? You used to be better than me at golf. Now I’m better than you.”

“And your point?”

“My point is that from here on in, I will only get stronger and more talented. While your life is pretty much over, mine is just beginning.”

“Gee thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Innie Audi

I’ve become the Asshole in the Audi.

It was never my intention. I mean, I’ve been the Asshole before. I’ve been the Asshole teaching English in room B116. I’ve been the Asshole hogging floor space in the gym. I’ve been the Asshole who grounded her sons, so now they can’t go to the party. I’ve been the Asshole who doesn’t call back, who lets her dog poo on the neighbor’s lawn, who is anti-social, who assigns too many papers, who won’t change a grade, who has four (going on five) pretentious post-graduate degrees. I’ve been those Assholes and many, many more. I’ve played the part of those Assholes to great acclaim.

But I’ve never been the Asshole in the Audi. This is a new one for me.

Getting my Audi was not an ego thing. I didn’t get it because it was fancy or German. I don’t care how I look in it, or what perception people draw about seeing me in it. When my lease is up, I’m not even keeping it. I intend to buy some big cheap sturdy used clunker that I can throw my hiking boots and golf bag in without worrying about scratching it, or how many miles I put on it. I’m going to run my next truck into the freaking ground. I hope it’s so old and beaten up that my sons are embarrassed to look at it parked in the driveway.

Goals.

I always intended to try out an Audi. I doggedly researched it. And when my reliable Chevrolet Equinox reached a certain mileage, I sold it to my son’s girlfriend, and drove directly to the Audi showroom. After a test drive, I decided I liked it. I liked the hermetically-sealed clunk of it. I liked the Audi-white. I liked the way the Audi symbol beamed onto the ground like the Bat Signal when I opened the driver’s side door. It looks really cool at night.

Yeah, I’m that complex.

So imagine my surprise and dismay today when upon exiting my car at a small grocery store, two women, most likely daughter and mother, nodded in my direction and muttered within my hearing range, “…the asshole in the Audi.”

Who, me?

I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done to elicit such a reaction. Both women were casually dressed in worn pajama bottoms, and while I silently rejected the obvious socio-economic observation, I also vowed to not get in the checkout line behind them. People who wear pajama pants to the supermarket tend to take the longest at the checkout counter. Things always go wrong at checkout with people who wear pajama pants to the supermarket. Why? How do I know why? I am merely an observer of the human condition. I suppose it could be that whatever character deficit these clinophiles possess that drains the verve necessary to pull on jeans or yoga pants or even Costco sweatpants is also a serious enough shortcoming that makes placing items on a belt, tallying a receipt, agreeing to the total, and eventually pulling out cash, a credit card, a check, or some other form of acceptable payment method difficult, even painful.

I don’t want to be the Asshole in the Audi. I’d rather be the Moron in the Civic. Or the Douchebag in the Jetta. Or the Eejit in the Equinox. But not the Asshole in the Audi. I’ve called people assholes before, and they’re usually in Mercedes, or BMWs, or Range Rovers. I have never entertained the notion of any of those makes or models, just to avoid being called an Asshole.

But here I am.

As I walked through the store, I considered asking these women why they drew the conclusion that I was an asshole. I really wanted to know, from a sociological standpoint. I love confrontation. I once asked a woman sitting at the table next to me in an airport restaurant why she was staring at me so intensely. I said, “I mean, is there something you need? Do we know each other? Am I chewing like a slob? Tell me, so you can start looking at your food, instead of at me.”

She was mortified. She moved. Success.

So today, I really wanted to approach politely and ask them, “What have I done to make you think I am an asshole? And isn’t it just as easy to pull on jeans as it is to pull on pajama pants?” I like to know these things, so I don’t make the same mistakes again. Did I cut them off? Did I apply lip gloss vainly in the rearview mirror? Did I pass them aggressively? Or is it just because I am a blonde in an Audi?

I decided to let it go. They never acknowledged me again, my trespasses obviously forgiven. Besides, they both had purple spray-painted hair, and when combined with the pajama pants, they made an intimidating pair. Last I saw them, they were arguing over which cannelloni beans were on sale.

That poor cashier.

Cheat Day

I worked this past weekend, and didn’t get a chance to create content. So sue me. The following was written on Tuesday, March 17, at 12:44 p.m. On this day, a conference I had been preparing for for months, a conference at which I was scheduled to speak in front of hundreds of people, had just been cancelled because of the pandemic. This was a conference that was monumentally important to my career, and had the potential to launch my career in the trajectory it needed to go.

And in one brisk email, it was over. And while the conference is rescheduled for 2021, on this day I was far from being pleased, and I wrote this at my kitchen counter.

It’s a typical chilly March day, with that little bling, that seductive hint of spring. A day when my 17-year old son should be enjoying his last few weeks as a high schooler, and my college-age twin sons should be partying on spring break. A day I should be packing for my conference in Tampa. A day where normally, after a good workout, I would eat some eggs and fruit, then write. Then head to the driving range and hit some golf balls. Sit on my patio and eat lunch with my dog. Read a little, or a lot. Write again, visit my father, do some laundry, clean out a closet, cook something, do some bills. Plan a trip, bake a pie, play six games of Solitaire, jump some rope on my front stoop. Shop for spring break sundresses, look up recipes for summer salads, connect with a colleague on LinkedIn. Eat a ripe mango, flip through a Travel and Leisure magazine, sign up for a public speaking seminar. Eat dinner with my sons, play a spirited board game. All things I love to do with passion and great joy.

But normalcy is blocked, because Covid-19 has entered the chat. The boys are getting their virtual education, and the streets are deserted. And the “normal” day I described above was my day. Joke’s on you because I am an introvert, and extroverted friends are texting me and calling me, begging me for help.

What should I do?

When do you meditate? How?

The gym is closed! What now?

What the hell do you do to pass the time?

I don’t get it, how do you spend all of this time alone?

I can’t go out to eat, I can’t have people over, I can’t go on a trip, WHAT THE HELL SHOULD I DO? HELP!

Introverts across the world are having their day. It’s all over social media. That we’ve been social distancing our whole lives. That our lives have not changed. That we are born for this.

Indeed.

Mother Teresa was once asked how one became a saint.

“Do small things with great love,” she answered.

We can’t do big things right now, and that’s tough. Humans love doing big things. Humans are busy, humans are accomplished, humans have smart gorgeous accomplished kids, and humans own stuff- lots of stuff. But this is not enough for humans. Their children, their accomplishments, their owned things must be posted, bragged about, liked. People can’t just be busy, they need to make sure everyone knows that they’re busy.

Busy is the new thin.

But now here we are. No one is busy. There are no dinners, no banquets, no sporting events, no trips, no conferences, nothing to brag about. People want my advice? Here it is.

Enjoy your home. Really get into the crevices and appreciate it.

Cook something with really fresh ingredients for your kids.

Go for a walk in your empty streets. Do calisthenics on the front lawn. Don’t give one single solitary thought as to how silly you might look to others.

Take a leisurely bike ride.

Put down the phone and read a good book.

Stay informed of the market. Make plans to start a portfolio.

Play Monopoly, gin rummy, Clue.

Bake something sinful and eat it with people you love while it’s still warm.

Take a nap, but not for too long.

Fold laundry slowly, put it away neatly. Enjoy the experience.

Make a fire and sit in front of it, really appreciate it.

Organize something- a drawer, a closet, a corner.

Get down on the floor with the baby, with the dog, and play.

Keep as normal a schedule as possible.

The sky, the grass, and the empty beaches are not closed. Get out in them.

Watch your young and old carefully. Cherish them.

It is not just mutual human connection that makes us human. It’s the ability to connect within ourselves that is the key to happiness. We must ask ourselves right now, “If everything was taken from me today, would I still have the ability to be grateful for my life?”

Yes.

Hygge Season

This is as good a time as any to talk about hygge, I suppose. It’s a chilly rainy Sunday, I made a big pot of soup and a crock pot of buffalo chicken dip for the Eagles game, and while my sons spew foul epithets at players (who just an hour before were “studs,”) and speak in barbed tongues about traitorous interceptions and predictable sacks, I’m wrapped in a plush blanket, drinking pumpkin tea and trying my best to ignore them.

Doesn’t get much more hygge-like than that.

(I grew up with three brothers whose lives revolved around the Eagles’ performances, and the climate of our household was predicated on it. Now I have three sons for whom the same theory applies, and it’s like I have been thrown into Doc Brown’s Delorian and driven back to 1981. In Super Bowl XV, I was present when Herman Edwards recovered the ball and ran it back for a touchdown to defeat the Dallas Cowboys for the NFC championship. My brothers sailed on that victory for years, a victory that also cemented Dick Vermeil as a golden god in our household. More on the Birds another day).

“Hygge” (pronounced “hue-gah” or “hoo-gah”) is a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being, and is regarded as a defining characteristic of Danish culture. Here, October and on through cold soggy spring is hygge-season, and those of us who love sweaters and fuzzy socks and fluffy flannel comforters and cups of steaming hot tea and fires and gray skies and Hunter boots and rainy days and snow drifts and Uggs consider hygge practically a religion.

Not everyone seeks hygge. I have heard unsettling tales of people who emerge from six months of hot and humid summer weather only to travel to Florida (on purpose!) for six more months of hot and humid summer weather. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth they go, loving the sweat, the killer sun, and omni-present desperate flight into air conditioning. They wear shorts and flip-flops all year long, golf on Christmas day, and get a tan on New Year’s Eve.

Lunatics. But to each his own.

(If Dante consigned me to a circle of hell, that would be mine. Banished to humid Florida weather twelve months a year. Nay. Give me Antarctica or give me death).

It is universally agreed upon that hygge is best created and enjoyed in cool and cold months. However, while summer does not lend itself easily to hygge, it is possible to create it. Think moonlight beach bonfires. Firepit parties in a backyard with lantern lights and a soft playlist. Candlelit dinner parties. An air-conditioned restaurant and an ice-cold gin and tonic after a long hot day. Even a simple umbrella propped up over a beach chair, providing much needed cool shade on a hot beach day can provide a quick dose of hygge. You know that feeling when you take a dip in the ocean on a hot day, and you come out feeling your skin sizzling with relief from the cool water? Then you collapse in your beach chair, your entire body shimmers with delicious goodness, and you just…smile?

Hygge.

Not everyone needs or seeks hygge. These people don’t sleep with fluffy comforters. Even in the cold winter months they see no need for boots, candles or soothing playlists, and say “No thanks” when offered hot chocolate in a snow storm. Fires seem to hold no charm for them, nor fuzzy socks or thick warm blankets.

They baffle me. I can only assume they are sociopaths.

Some people appreciate the idea of hygge but are unsure how to create it. Like any ambience, hygge is a practiced art. And while it does come naturally to some, others have to work at it. Because hygge is texture, length and width. Hygge is light scheme and muted tones. Hygge is rounded corners and soft shapes. Hygge is feeling warm but not hot, being friendly but not overbearing, feeling safe but not suffocated. Hygge is not loud, or bright, or garish, or uncertain. It is solidity, and surety, and assurance. It is confidence, it is contentment, it is credence, it is conviction.

Hygge is not just a physical presence. It is a state of mind.

You can enter someone’s home in any season and sense the lack of hygge. The home is rife with sharp corners, awkward angles, and forked tongues. The home has garish lighting, shrill volume, even cacophonous language. There are no visible places to cozy up, and the home does not exude warmth or contentment; rather, it oozes discontent and chill. These are the places you excuse yourself from as quickly as possible, for reasons you yourself do not quite understand.

For hygge is as much internal as it is external.

I differ from many hygge-lovers in that I believe one can have too much hygge. When you look up the opposite of “hygge,” words you find are discomfort. Discontent. Confusion, unease, disgruntlement. I disagree with these antonyms as it applies to living life, because while having hygge in your soul can bring peace to your home, it is also important to seek the world, a world which is unfortunately filled with ire. But it is the hygge in your heart that will temper that discontent. It will mute it, and water it down. If you are a hygge-practicer, no amount of the world’s distemper can eradicate the peace in your heart.

I don’t mean to make it sound easy. It’s not. I struggle with it too. That feeling of sitting down at the end of the day, looking around and saying, “This is enough.” The size of my home is enough, the make and model of my car is enough, my salary is enough. My kids, my wardrobe, my education, my job, my expectations for what I wanted to accomplish in my life is enough, goddammit! But alas, we are humans. We are built to achieve, strive, build, create. Settling back and feeling content is almost blasphemous to some of us. To some of us, it is the feeling of…defeat. I am done, you are saying to the universe when you feel content with your life. I don’t want to achieve anything else, I am happy NOW.

Scary. What does one do when one no longer feels the need to create?

I like to earn my hygge. I could never cower under a blanket 24-hours a day. At the completion of this blog on Monday morning, the weather is more inclement than it was yesterday. My blanket is warm, and my house cozy. But I have a day, and many things (some highly unpleasant) to accomplish in this day. There will be no cuddling and tea until way into the late afternoon, but when it arrives, you can bet I will enjoy it. Even when cowering in my home from blizzards, Nor’easters and derechos, I eventually need to get out. Being out in nature’s fury makes me feel alive.

Moderation in all things. Yin and Yang. All things existing as inseparable and contradictory. Each side having at its core an element of the other. Neither pole superior to the other, with a correct balance between the two reached to achieve harmony. No order without chaos. Hot skin, cold water.

Hope you find your dose of hygge on this October 12th Monday.

Simplicity

Happy Friday.

I’d like to discuss simplicity today. One of my favorite topics, besides hygge.

We humans just love to worry, don’t we? Mortgages, illnesses, strife, career. Houses, cars, colleges, portfolios. Yards, pets, closets, laundry. And it never ends. When we fix one thing, we move onto the next, so we can be sure to always have something to worry about.

Well, some worries are justified, you say. Indeed, the loss of a child, homelessness, illness, debt, mental illness, all very serious topics. But is the guy who is unhappy because he lost a job promotion better able to rebound than the guy who is unhappy because he lost his home? Or can it be said that deciding to be happy is ubiquitous regardless of one’s circumstances?  

So there we have it.

Is eradicating worry and fear from one’s life really a complex topic? Is it really so complex to just decide to be happy? To wake up in the morning and tell yourself that worrying never solved anything? To realize that you’re only here on this Earth for a limited amount of time, so you have decided to enjoy it?

Tough questions. Entire shelves in Barnes and Noble contain books that try to answer these questions. I’ve read them all, and I still battle with the answers. But one answer stands clear:

Simplicity.

I think everyone can benefit from a little simplicity in their lives

Everyone has their strengths, and mine do not include housework, patience or liking sushi. But something I am good at, something I have always excelled at, is appreciating simplicity, the little things.

I am just simply charmed by the beautiful, small things in life. I always have been, even as a young girl. So here are some things I am beguiled by right now, things that are making me smile:

  • My kitchen towel- it has a white ghost on it with the word “Boo” written across the ghost’s body.
  • The way my dog’s ear fluff is waving in the breeze as he enjoys the Indian summer day in our entryway door.
  • The mums and pumpkins that instantly brighten up my yard.
  • A good conversation with my kid an hour ago.
  • This guy.
  • My mid-day cup of coffee and the pumpkin spice creamer I will treat myself to.
  • The thought of tonight’s dinner of lemon chicken and asparagus.
  • A picture my neighbor’s granddaughter drew for me which she taped to our refrigerator.
  • My son’s bed blanket getting a nice fresh air dry on the clothesline.

And that’s just off the top of my head. I could go on and on.

But despite my best intentions, and despite the happiness I enjoy (that has been described in such detail for you), there are still days which test me. Just because I’m happy doesn’t mean I don’t get frustrated, and this past week there were some doozies. And when I can sense that shitty feeling trying to edge its way into my day, I have a list of things I do in order, basic things, that hold it at bay.

  1. Eat an apple. Maybe my blood sugar is off, maybe I’ve been eating too much salt, not enough veggies, whatever. The first thing I do when I feel out-of-sorts is eat an apple.
  2. Drink a cold glass of water. Not a bottle of water. Filtered water from my Brita, poured into a standard sturdy drinking glass. Then I drink another. And I wait to see if the combination of apple and cold fresh water balances my electrolytes.
  3. Eat a spoonful of peanut butter. Maybe I need some fat and protein? One tablespoon of peanut butter. If I have apple left, I dip it in the peanut butter. If these three things still leave me feeling empty, it’s not physical, and it’s time to soothe the heart, soul and mind.
  4. Listen to classical music. Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Vivaldi, Beethoven.
  5. Cook. I go in my email, find a recipe for which I have all the ingredients, and just start chopping. I create something beautiful and delicious, something I’m proud to serve my family. Takes my mind off silly problems.
  6. Read something inspiring. Tolle. Singer. Dyer. Any writer can remind you of what’s important. These writers remind you of what isn’t.
  7. Do a load of laundry.
  8. Journal.
  9. Tidy something.
  10. Hug my dog.
  11. Move. I will walk, play nine holes, stroll through a farm market, hit the gym. Last week I was out-of-sorts, and the last thing I felt like doing was getting my golf bag ready. But I grabbed my bag and my son, and we had a great time. We golfed at 3:00 p.m., which I realize now is magic time in the fall. Mostly everyone is either working or getting their kids out of school or to school activities, so we had this Indian summer late-day golden- flushed experience all to ourselves.

I wish we had played better, but you can’t always have everything.

(Author’s note: if #s 1-11 do not work, you’d better believe I’m packing a suitcase).

So have a great weekend and remember: life is about the little stuff. And that’s the good stuff.

Fright Reads

You think it’s tough to write funny? Try writing scary.

I was always a Stephen King fan growing up, and Pet Sematary affected me appropriately, as did the chilling short story “Gray Matter” in his book Night Shift (his best book, in my opinion). But for the most part, scary words made into scary paragraphs made into scary books don’t really do it for me.

So you can imagine my skepticism last year when a friend sent me a “Books Sure to Freeze the Blood in Your Veins” link and there was nary a Stephen King book to be found. Curiosity roused, I impulsively ordered all ten. I will discuss only eight, because I can’t find the other two.

Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson: The placement of this book on this list comes as no surprise to me, as we are old friends. Published in 1959, this book scared me as a wee tike. Stephen King was even quoted once as saying it was only one of two great supernatural novels written in the last century. There is a part where the protagonist Eleanor believes she is holding hands with a friend, then turns in bed to find that she is actually alone- this is a scene so vivid in its horror that it drove me to seek comfort in my parent’s bedroom many a night. It has been made into more than one movie, and my son said the series is now streaming on Netflix.

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote: Those three words that encapsulate the title of this true story have been parodied, punned and punchlined, but still retain the freezing horror that is the murder of the Clutter family in 1959 by Richard Hickock and Perry Smith. It retains its tone of journalistic integrity through objective reporting, so it is all the more mind-boggling that Capote could have produced such a bone-chilling masterpiece. My dog-eared copy of In Cold Blood sits in my select bedroom library, and I refer to it often for questions on syntax and diction.

Zombie by Joyce Carol Oates: “Quentin P. is the most believable and thoroughly terrifying sexual psychopath and killer ever to be brought to life in fiction.” Indeed. Imagine getting your hands on a first-person stream-of-consciousness journal written by a combination John Wayne Gacy-Ted Bundy-Jeffrey Dahmer type. Mind-numbingly terrifying.

Come Closer by Sara Gran: It starts by giving you a checklist in answer to the question “Are You Possessed by a Demon?” By chapter one, it is apparent that the protagonist Amanda definitely is. By chapter two, you start to think you are. Come Closer is “Yellow Wallpaper” meets “Rosemary’s Baby” (I didn’t write that last line, just can’t remember who did). Watching (reading) Amanda’s descent into madness and possession just hits different, and at a slim 166 pages, it just packs a horror wallop. I still think about it when I’m alone at night and hear a strange noise.

I’m Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid: This gripped me from the first page to the last. I never put it down. I’m pretty sure I blew off a meeting for it. While it appears to be the story of a young couple traveling to have dinner with his parents in a remote location, it turns into so much more. There are so many warning signs that the poor young girl is toast, and the reader groans inwardly, knowing there is no chance for her to escape. She never had a prayer. Just gripping gripping stuff by Reid.

The Cement Garden by Ian McEwan: The parents are dead, so the children are stranded and in charge. Sound like Lord of the Flies? That’s child-play compared to this slim novel written in such an offhand manner that the blasphemy barely taps you on the shoulder for your attention. But be careful when you turn around, you will face the unspeakable.

The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks: Nothing good ever came out of any book in which the narrator is hanging around “the Sacrifice Pole” the day his brother “escapes,” and it doesn’t matter anyway- he already knew his brother escaped because “the Factory told him.” Yikes. Meet Frank Cauldhame, sixteen years old, who is convinced he is simply going through a “phase.” Marone.

Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk: I deliberately saved this one for last, because it sat ignored on my counter for so long. The cover depicts a blurry haunted face, much like “The Scream” by Munch. I don’t know why I avoided reading it- maybe because I thought it was a series of short stories, maybe because the cover looked juvenile, I don’t know. Then one day I picked it up and turned it over and read on the back cover this quote from The Miami Herald:

“Reading a Palahniuk novel is like getting zipped inside a boxer’s heavy bag while the author goes to work on you, pounding you until there is nothing left but a big bag of bones and blood and pain.”

Yes. Take those words literally and to heart. The premise of the novel is that a group of people have answered an ad for a writer’s retreat, and they each tell a personal story in anticipation of their retreat one day being made into a reality show. Sounds funny? No. Stop laughing right now. I will never get the visual image of “Guts” out of my head, and I will never look at a pool filter the same way. And “Post-Production” will hit you in a place you never knew existed. I still don’t know what to do with what Palahniuk did to me. Only his brain could have produced such a disturbing book. Bravo.

So there’s my list. I know people don’t read anymore. I know you all love your social media and phones and television and Netflix. Trust me, I know. But sometimes it helps to take life back to the basics. I will be discussing basics tomorrow.

Fright Flicks

For the first time in my memory, I don’t see a placard on the local back roads announcing the annual “Terror in the Junkyard.”

“Terror in the Junkyard” (or locally referred to simply as “Scullville”) is terrific fun every Halloween. Visitors can take a stellar haunted tractor ride or walk through a haunted maze, even play laser tag if they’re not up for the scares. Ozzy’s vocals blare throughout the grounds, screams of terror and delight peal through the night air, and the smell of spiced cider, candy apples, homemade chili and pizza slices permeate whatever senses are left. This event has provided some of the best Halloween memories my family has, and people around here wait for it all year.

But not this year. My heart is broken.

Therefore, I posit that since Halloween is destined to be the next victim of 2020, it behooves us to make our own Halloweens! Screw Covid, or whatever the hell it’s called. I mean, Halloween is mask season, isn’t it? Let’s use it to our advantage! No government official can cancel the spirit of Halloween, it lives on in our hearts and minds and souls.

And I just saw this guy on the news who is making a candy-dispensing robot.

Oy vey.

Besides parades and pumpkin patches and haunted houses, Halloween season is also horror movie season. When I was young it was the one month of the year when I could flip through tv listings and find the movie “Halloween” on channel 6. And remember being a kid in the 80’s, watching MTV all day just for the chance to see Michael Jackson’s “Thriller?” That’s still me with horror movies. If I’m home and not watching the news, you can find me surfing channels hoping to find “The Exorcist.” No taping, no renting, no DVR for me. If it’s not on, I don’t get to see it. Same with Christmas movies. I will not rent “Christmas Carol.” It must be showing on regular television.

But I digress. Yet again.

As a pure horror genre buff, it occurs to me that horror movie directors must find it challenging to constantly come up with new concepts that share the shit out of people. Scary little girls in blue dresses, maniacal dolls, witch covens, home invasions, demon-infested houses, all done to death.

But every so often, a horror movie is done just right and smacks you straight in the gob, where your greatest fears lay. Like “Hereditary” for me.

I will never get over “Hereditary.” Never. I haven’t watched it since, and I don’t know if I can ever watch it again. I watched it alone {like an idiot} and for weeks afterward I was so disturbed that I had to actively force my brain to not think about it when I was alone in bed. It may not have frightened you, and you might think I’m crazy. My own brother thought it was “dumb.” But it hit me deep in my subconscious.

I’m pretty sure it gave me internal bleeding.

Spoiler alert!!!

It wasn’t just the witch-and-possession thing that terrified me. I can take that. This movie had a more insidious intent. I may be a writer, but I must bow to Deanna Janes, who wrote this description of Ari Aster’s “Hereditary” for Harper’s Bazaar:

Ari Aster may claim that his traumatizing directorial debut is more “domestic melodrama” than supernatural nightmare, but hear this: Minutes into this deeply effective drama about a grieving family in crisis, the hairs on the back of your neck won’t even bother standing up—they will turn and run in the opposite direction. And Toni Collette at the root of the family tree, bravo.

If I was responsible for writing the tagline for “Hereditary” a few I would have suggested would be:

“When things go wrong. Very, very wrong. And keep going wrong.”

“Keep your arms and legs and appendages inside the car at all times, thank you.”

“Hey mom, Granny stopped by for a visit.”

“Dad’s barbequing tonight.”

Enough of that.

Every horror flick fan has a different idea of what makes a scary movie truly good. There was so much hype around “Human Centipede” that despite my sons warning me of its disturbing nature, I ended up laughing right through it. I gave “The Ring” more than one chance to prove itself, but it has disappointed me each time. And the “Insidious” franchise? Posh. It offends my creep sensibilities.

So here it is. “Oves’ Top Ten Scariest Movies list.” What a great thing a blog is. I have always wanted to give someone my top ten favorite horror movie list. Please note this list was not formed easily, and comes from forty years of devoted viewing, and hours upon hours of discussion with friends, fellow horror buffs, students and most importantly, my sons, who are my partners-in-crime, and the most astute of horror movie lovers.

To be on my list, a movie must make me uneasy even before I watch it. If I am flipping through the channels and see “Blair Witch Project,” or “The Exorcist,” or any of the “Paranormal Activity” franchise flicks, I immediately become uncomfortable, and assess the conditions. Is it night or day? Am I alone or are the boys around? Am I feeling fragile or strong, mentally?

Notice that many of my choices are more of the modern bent. I could barely take the pillow away from my face during “The Taking of Deborah Logan,” and I finished neither “Midsommar” nor “The Witch” all the way through. I had to watch the endings in the light of day, or I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

And “Hereditary?” Less said about it the better, except that Toni Collette is a genius.

Happy Halloween! These are in no specific order and all scare the bejeesus out of me for different reasons.

  1. Blair Witch Project- Sometimes in life, it’s what you can’t see that is truly terrifying.
  2. The Exorcist- Besides the obvious pea-soup exposition, it’s a truly beautiful cinematic experience.
  3. Halloween (1978)- I’m not a slasher film fan, but this movie contains the sounds of my childhood Halloweens. A classic.
  4. Hereditary- can’t even…..
  5. Paranormal Activity (1-3)- These often appear all at once in a marathon capacity, and it’s tradition for me to watch all three at least once a season.
  6. The Taking of Deborah Logan- Aged dementia taken a step further.
  7. Midsommar- The last scene just so monumentally disturbing. The whole movie so disturbing, and breaks so many social norms.
  8. The Witch- The black goat.
  9. The Exorcism of Emily Rose- The actors filming the barn scene admitted in interviews that they were truly frightened during the scene.
  10. The Babadook- Family dysfunction taken to new heights.
  11. The Conjuring- I still close my eyes so I don’t have to see the thing on top of the dresser. Want to play “Hide-and-Clap?”

Ok that’s 11. There’s no wiggle room here.

Tomorrow I’ll talk about some horror novels, and not by Stephen King.

Miscellania

My Halloween movie post is not ready, so here are a few things you might find interesting but which do not rate an entire post:

Yesterday I was caught up on the laundry for 32 minutes. Then my son walked in the door. Remember, that’s what you can accomplish when your children leave home. Never let go of the dream.

Fairbanks, Alaska received the most votes on low-humidity places to visit in September. Thanks to all respondents. But get this: at the time of this writing, while Fairbanks is 38 degrees, humidity is a whopping 87 percent. It is 51 degrees here with 66 percent humidity. I dunno.

The Container Store has a chip clip in the form of a pig that squeals four times when you press it. The implication is clear. I bought it. I had no choice.

There are twenty different ways to wear a Breton shirt, according to the email I just received. Twenty. Including wearing the shirt on your head as a mask. Those people in London have way too much time on their hands.

The Metropolitan streams free live opera, and last night I watched a performance of Le Nozze di Figaro. Just wow. Too late for that performance now, but others are streamed regularly.

My yard squirrels are spoiled. One in particular is now comfortable enough to walk into my foyer and stare at me with his little hands clasped together adorably in front of him as if to say, “Yo, bitch. Peanuts?”

Things to ban right now: the heart-shape people make with their hands which they then post on social media, plus the terms “new normal,” “unprecedented times” and “uncertain times.” This will never be normal. It is not unprecedented nor uncertain. Read a history textbook. And if anything has ever been made right by posting a heart with your hands through the sunrise, please let me know. I’ll be right on it.

A murder hornet was recently captured alive in the U.S. for the first time. An entomologist snagged him in a net. He remains free on bond and despite appearances, is not considered a flight risk.

Something I am loving right now is the Modern Citizen clothing brand, but I must say to them: your models are six-feet tall and your dresses and skirts still come down to their mid-calf. You must know that short women like myself cannot buy your clothes without looking like an Olsen twin. Bummer.

While driving to Philly today the same strange-looking airplane kept flying low overhead. It passed me one way, then another, then another. I wish I knew enough about aircraft to know what kind it was. It was some kind of strange hybrid, like that new Jeep pickup, or one of those camelback crickets, which actually resembles some kind of terrifying mutant spider.  And I also couldn’t help but think that if the plane crashed on top of me it would make a great blog.

Just saw on Instagram that there are supposedly workers in the Edinburg zoo whose job it is just to pick up penguins who topple over. Turns out the zoo is close to the airport, so when the penguins stare up at the planes, they topple over. I want this job. I need this job.

Mojo

Hello friends. I know many of you are worried about my dog. And while there might be cause for minor worry, I don’t feel that there is cause for immediate worry. Mojo is twelve, he has a bum leg, and he’s sleeping about 22 out of 24 hours a day. He barely barks anymore. But don’t despair. He still has good days. His appetite is hearty, and he can still relieve himself with efficiency in the yard. Thank you to everyone for your concern and well-wishes. When you see him lying in the front of the house, basking in the fall warmth, feel free to stop by and wish him well. If he hauls his tired achy body off the grass to greet you, feel very special. He doesn’t do it much anymore.

Everyone knows Mojo. If he were a person, he would be George Clooney. I’ve been asked more than once to start an Instagram account for him. In the twelve years of his life, I can’t count how many times I have come home to find goody bags or treats laid out for him on my step. Summer dogs often knock on our door and ask if he can come out to play. Children love him. Dogs love him. Our yard squirrels love him, although I believe it’s because they have figured out he is too old to bolt after them, and now they believe they hold some kind of advantage over him.

You should see him shoot eye daggers at them. If looks could kill.

The biggest change in Mojo is that while he has always come to us, now we are going to him. He can’t get up on the couch anymore, and no longer attempts the stairs. So our big, black, fluffy snuggle-bear, who would join us for movies on the couch, who would sleep in our bedrooms, who would come over for a scratch, a cuddle, or a nuzzle, now is physically isolated by his aged body.

And that will not do.

So now, we go to him. We bring him his food and water wherever he is in the house, we curl up on the floor with him when he is resting, we cross the room to give him a quick pet (on the rare occasions that he is awake). We try not to make him tax himself more physically than necessary. Sometimes we look over at him and he is just staring at us. It is at that time we go to him to bring him a treat or give him a kiss. We believe he is staring at us because while it pains him to get up, he is lonely and wants to be with us.

The following was written back in in May, in honor of Mojo’s twelfth birthday. We love you, boy.

We just celebrated your twelfth birthday. Just a small celebration, with a birthday muffin, a bag of biscuits and a squeaky toy. You’ve already destroyed the toy and removed the squeaker, but I think it was a whale. It lasted two days. The muffin lasted two seconds.

You were born on April 1st, 2008, and you lived on a farm not too far from my school where I taught high school English. You frolicked on this farm with your parents and your blonde puppy siblings. You were the only black puppy in the litter, and I remember the day I went for the interview. The blonde puppies jumped on me upon my arrival, but you hung back, eventually sauntering towards me as our eyes locked. “Clear the way, peasants,” your attitude seemed to be. “I’m the shit, and I’m coming through.” Your big brown eyes melted me to the floor, and I took you in my arms.

I was done for. Done in. Crushed.

You didn’t like the ride home too much. It was scary and loud, and you cried a lot. When we pulled up in the driveway, the boys and dad were waiting for you in the yard. I walked around to the side of the car, pulled you out of your box, and set you down on the grass. You sat there calmly, looked around, and seemed to agree that we were your people. We joke that you were so handsome, so calm, so regal, that it looked like you were thinking, “This is what I get? You people?”

Dad loved you instantly. The boys fell head-over-heels, and from the first day that you sauntered casually into the house and plopped down on the cool fireplace hearth, you were never their dog. You were their fourth brother from another mother. You fit right in and acclimated immediately.

When you were six months old, we had gone out to dinner only to return to find that you ate the couch. Big chunks of the couch were missing and were now in your stomach. The vet examined you and said your stomach looked fine, but that we might as well spay you while you were there. You eventually forgave Dr. Matt for keeping you overnight, but you never fully trusted him again.

Oh, the things you ate. The couch. A dozen donuts. A chocolate cake. Hundreds of squeaky toys, tennis balls, rawhide chewies, socks, underwear, shoes, baskets, phone cases, water bottles, medicine bottles. “If you like it, put it away,” I would tell the boys. But they would get lazy and then pretend to be enraged at the destruction of a flip-flop. You would sit there knowingly, daring them to get you in trouble. “Mom told you to put it away,” your eyes said. “Not my problem.”

Oh, the places we went. Kayaking, canoeing, mountaineering, boating. Always trips in the car, walks around the block, fall foliage jaunts to the park, visits to college campuses. Everywhere we could bring you, we did. You would stay at Grandmom’s when we went on vacation, and she would call us to talk to you, telling us you were fine, but seemed depressed. No matter what time we arrived home after a trip, even it was in the middle of the night, there was always a fight to see who got to go with dad to pick you up. John eventually insisted it was his job, and his job alone. When you got home, you would race through the house until you said hi to everyone, then you would flop down in your spot, dizzy with happiness and relief at our arrival.

Oh, your funny personality. The way you stalked us on the beach. The way you flopped down into the ocean, letting a wave completely cover you (this always made observers laugh, and people would take your picture, or clap for you. Big ham). The way you loved huskies, but not German shepherds (we could never understand it- you loved all dogs, except for German shepherds). The manic way you dug holes, and the way the digging made your ears flop around. The way dad called you “The Diggingest Dog.” The way you loved to lay in cool mulch.

When you got loose at your brother’s Little League game, and ran all over the field, overjoyed that everyone was chasing you. When a cricket got in the house, and you were afraid of it, and you hid behind the dining room table. When you would roll in dead fish or dead birds. When you would hide in every corner of the house when Heidi the groomer showed up. When the boys were young and a (harmless) drunken intruder came in the house in the middle of the night, and in the morning, I found you curled up next to him as he slept it off on the couch (great guard dog, right?) When you were very young and would chase foxes on the beach or escape during snow storms, and you wouldn’t come back for hours. When you would be brought home by police cruiser more than once, “arrested” for being found wandering too far from home. When you found a sliver of Dad’s pills on the ground, and spent the day stoned. When people would show up to the door to ask for you, “Is Mojo home?” When you would get flop ear. When you would get nervous every spring, knowing that is when we would leave you for vacation. When you wouldn’t leave my side when I was sick with the flu. When you would walk through the backyard to our neighbors’ house, and bark at their door until they would give you a cookie. When the boys would go outside to play with friends, and you would race to the door, begging not to be separated from them.

“Want to go play with the kids?” I would ask. “Yes, please,” your eyes would say. And the jubilant shouts of “Mojo!” when you joined the party.

Your favorite foods were Pop-tarts, pizza, steak, and Twizzlers. You didn’t like bologna, or waffles, or popcorn. On the rare occasions you got diarrhea, you would be polite enough to go on the small area rugs in the bathroom, because you seemed to know that they could just be thrown out. You were always so smart, so considerate, and so affectionate.

You never smelled like a dog- we have always liked to say you smell like Christmas stockings and Easter baskets. Right now you smell like vanilla cookies. You also never shed. People didn’t believe us, but all that beautiful black floof, and you only shed a little bit in the fall. Your name was almost Hamlet, but Dad said you would never live up to the name as Hamlets are big tough dogs, and you were a gentle giant. We put you on every single Christmas card we ever sent. When the twins left for college, you began sleeping in Tommy’s room. You were the first thing they would run for when they would come home on break.

And now you are twelve, and we are watching you carefully. Even Tommy has noticed. “He doesn’t get up to see me when I walk in the door anymore,” he said. You are limping on your front right paw and taking medicine for it. You lay outside sometimes all day. You seem to be receding from us, laying away from us, not facing us, as if you are trying to get us ready for your absence. You don’t have your usual pep, and you can no longer get in the car to go to the beach.

We have taken to crawling on the ground to hug you, talk to you, whisper to you. You still seek our attention, our hugs and our scratches, but not as much. You seem very content to be alone, comfortable under your tree or behind the couch. You are very still, and very calm. Content. Happy.

We like the quote that dogs don’t need to live as long as humans because they enter the world already knowing how to love. Dogs don’t have to make mistakes or figure things out. They already know everything.

You have always known everything.

You have been the best dog, the best brother, the best companion. There is no way to put into words the joy and laughter you have given us, the depth of love and acceptance that flows from your doggy heart. We are who we are as a family, as people, because of you.

Love you forever.