“And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.” - Kahlil Gibran, “The Prophet”
Eddie and I were talking tonight, and we started talking about how marrying someone is choosing that person to be your family (in the wake of a fun-filled day of Nelson family antics). If you do it right, you’re choosing that person forever. As Ani Difranco says “And when we signed up for forever, we had no idea it was in years.”
It made me think of Nonna and Papa, Ed’s late grandparents. If I could have any kind of marriage, it would be modeled after theirs. They met young, married young, and had a child that was the sun and the moon to them. They were blessed with a wonderful daughter-in-law (now my wonderful mother-in-law), and two grandsons whom never failed to make them proud. In return, they never failed to let them know. They celebrated a golden wedding anniversary, and even in the twilight of their lives, still held in their hearts the one person who was their True North- Papa used to talk to Nonna in his sleep after she’d passed on. They will forever be carried in my heart as the quintessential “little old Italian married couple.” I am lucky enough to have had their example. I now wear Nonna’s engagement ring, which every day is a reminder of what we are working to build. If I could have a marriage like that, with three generations of love, a lifetime partner at my side, and a proud legacy to leave to my grandchildren, that would the one for me.
That is not to say they never had a fight, that they never said unkind words or went to bed angry. It’s not to say there weren’t days where they probably looked over their coffee cup at the family they chose, and gave solid consideration to running for the hills. Those aren’t things the grandkids ever hear about of course, and I’m sure there are things that never left the walls of Hancock Street. That’s the reality of the bond, though. Real marriages don’t come without the bumps and bruises. Those bumps and bruises are the balance by which to judge the times of love and harmony. They’re the barometer you use to measure what gives your life value, and lets you know that what you’re getting out is worth all that you’ve put in. Gibran didn’t write “When love beckons to you, follow him, because it’s going to be a breeze.” Nothing worth having ever is.
I’m happy to say that Ed and I have been blessed with mostly smooth sailing the past nine years (two of those as man and wife). I’ve written about the “small moments” in the day before, and how important they are. We crack each other up, listen to each other’s “bad day at the office” stories, get each other asprin and water when a headache comes on. We cut each other slack, and have a hard time saying no to the other (see Kittens and new Palm phones for further details). We’re off to a good start.
So even with bumps and bruises, the late nights and hard moments, I would still wish for a marriage like Nonna and Papa’s. They left behind something that most of us, especially in our youth, simply cannot comprehend. The trick is realizing it as your living it, and striving every day to make something worthy, something that your grandchildren will aspire to.
Okay, so this is going to be a bullshit post tonight, because it’s 2:15am, I just got back from a midnight showing of Terminator Salvation, and I’m wired on Mountain Dew and walking for my Associates degree in…7 hours. Sleep? Sleep is for losers.
The movie was actually really good! It had enough explosions and mental junk food to keep me entertained, even though I never really watched the old movies, and only caught Sarah Connor Chronicles in passing.
I realized tonight that although Script Frenzy was a quart bottle of failsauce for me this year, the experience of researching the practice, and of miserably failing at writing my own, did have one silver lining. Frenzy changed the way I watch movies, and my appreciation for screenwriting in general. It first caught me at a sort of banal moment. Someone was fishing around in a switchbox of some variety, trying to short-circuit a door. Just the collage of angles, the pull-backs and the close-ups, made me realize how much work truly goes into visualizing a scene, and writing an entire script. It definitely changes the way I watch and analyze movies, probably much the same way a music appreciation course changes the way you listen, the nuance you pick up, and the things you recognize about period and composer.
I probably won’t do Frenzy again next year (although I do intend to hang about and be a menace, just because I love seeing everyone). But I’m glad I found something about the experience that made the sting of 11 total pages of script worth it.
“Your talents are God’s gift to you. What you do with those talents is your gift back to God.” - Benton’s Mom (ER)
Just got back from the MCC Awards Ceremony, which was a lot of fun and ended at a restaurant with a particularly good glass of wine. The ceremony itself was an eye-opener.
I do very well in school, considering I procrastinate my ass off and do everything slapdash. It always seems to work out. I have a near-photographic memory for facts, I’m not too humble to say my writing skills are top-notch. On top of that, I genuinely enjoy being in school. When I found out I’d won the English Department award at my college, I was sort of cracking up over it, because I basically felt like I’d always done the bare minimum to scrape by (even if scraping by for me is A’s). I’m forever burning the midnight oil, or writing a paper on a book I only barely paid attention to, waiting until the last minute. I’m a pressure-cooker student I guess; I fare best when the clock is ticking. I’m not saying it to be an ass, I know that my academic successes are a blessing. But I didn’t have a full appreciation of the benefits hard work can reap, because I’d become so accustomed to just breezing by in school.
I got to the ceremony, and listened to some of the stories of other award recipients, and I was truly humbled. One kid, a commencement speaker, came over on a fishing boat from Viet Nam at age five. He has a 4.0 and is going on to a business program. He’s involved in half a dozen clubs, went on a fellowship program to China, and helps his uncle run a business. Another woman had a 3.95, which she maintained while raising three school-aged boys, running the books for her husband’s small business, and also involving herself in school programs in whatever time she could otherwise be using for sleep. There were many other stories of people who completely worked their ass off while struggling through strokes, disabilities, language barriers, family problems. Every single person on that stage deserved to be there, and I found myself feeling like “What the hell did *I* do, take a few extra lit courses? It didn’t even feel like work.” But I guess that’s the thing. If you’re doing what you love, and you’re doing what you’re talented in, then it’s not going to feel like work. To the rest of the world, it’s a sacrifice, but to the individual, it’s just the way of things. I hear people tell me “Yes, but you work full-time and still keep your grades up, and find time to write!” Let me be the first to say that this so-called “achievement” is total dogshit compared to some of the things I heard tonight.
I came away from the ceremony with a renewed sense of wanting to apply myself, really apply myself, to school, to my writing, to my talents. I want to work towards that 4.0 in my new pursuits at NEU. I want to finish the re-writes on the book and take courses that will get my writing to the next level. I want to stay away from my television (which I’ve done a bang-up job at in the past 9 months), stick with my artwork, sing more, read more, and re-commit myself to better things.
Going to the ceremony wasn’t just good in feeling like I’d accomplished something, although the recognition was nice. Better, it put hard work into perspective for me, and made me want to rededicate myself to the worthy things in my life.
A co-worker looked at me today and said “So.. when is your semester over?”. I laughed and replied “Two years.”
I was kidding, but it made me realize that I really am opting for the mule’s path to academic success. I’ve decided I want to be done with the rest of my BS and also my MA in two years, which seems completely ridiculous, but is actually doable as long as I don’t take any breaks. I’ve got something like 17.75 classes left for my BS (a mathematical phenomenon I will never understand), which works out to about 8 semesters of accelerated classes, AKA 4 regular semesters (since Northeastern Uni is cool enough to offer accelerated online courses.) So far, so good. Then it’s on to my MA, which should be in Education, but that remains to be seen. Marion and I have been plotting GRE’s, which makes the whole finishing my undergrad seem much more real, and very close!
Even despite the grueling pace, I realized recently that I’m not unhappy with my classes or the time that I’m putting into them, not even a shred. Sure, I have some nights that only see 4 hours of sleep, and I’ve torched more than my share of midnight oil in pursuit of that mirage we call “a social life”, but at the end of the day, I’m still really happy I’m doing this, and I still feel as though I’m working towards something that is going to change my life - something that will help me change the lives of others. Ed jokes that he’s going to need a hard-hat if I take on any more classes, but for the most part I think I manage to not be completely hideous. I don’t watch much television any more, but I’m coping. It’s not like ‘Lost’ ever made much sense to begin with, so catching bits and pieces really doesn’t put me at any more of a disadvantage than watching intently while following along with LostPedia on my laptop.
I recently found out I’m even getting a little atta-girl for the work I’ve done thus far. I got a letter in the mail the other day from MCC, saying that I’d won the English Award for Outstanding Achievement. Finally, my beefy GPA pays off! I’m really quite pleased with the award. I’ve even got a spot at the honors awards banquet tomorrow night! I just hope they make some extra munchies, because I’m going to be blazing through the canapes like there was no tomorrow.
The part that keeps amusing me though, is that I wasn’t even going to attend commencement for my AA, because I didn’t want to take the vacation time away from my job to go to the weekday ceremony. But was I going to pass up getting an award after doing all the work? Hell no! Well, here’s the funny part: Now, because of the award, not only do I have to be at the Commencement, but also at the rehearsal - because they’re going to make me sit on stage like a monkey in a board and robe for a few hours apparently?
So, my day off just became a day-and-a-half. So much for conservation of vacation time! I catch myself protesting this in my head, saying “I don’t have time for this! I have a family reunion to go to this year! I have a friend coming in from the UK! I can’t use 12 hours of vacation! C’mon guys! You’re killin’ me!”
But even though I’m crabbing about the stretched-thin time, it hit me that I’m still loving what I do, and I’m still pluggin’. I realize how much of a blessing that is, and how good it feels to have someone pat you on the back for it every so often. There’s something really important to be said for loving a hard life for the sake of itself. So, whatever it is that is worth the sacrifice for us, worth the late nights and tired brains and aching bodies, that is what we should commit ourselves to do, because there is a singular achievement to be found in nursing those sore muscles and foggy brains. I’m just glad I’ve found what it is for me.
Okay, so this is my second rescue-related post of the week. I went and met Roger the other day at the MSPCA in Methuen, and although I really loved the guy, I knew he just wouldn’t be a fit for the house - in some respects literally - and so I left Nevins farm feeling not elated, but bummed out for all the cats left without a home to call their own. Rescue facilities are a wonderful thing, but the reality of so many pets without families to care for them is heart-breaking for a bleeding-heart such as myself who beeps to get the pigeons out of the way when she parks, stops the car to usher bunnies off the street, etc.
I came away with the conviction that I wanted to rescue a pet. Eddie and I had one last talk about the reality of bringing home a new family member. He had three stipulations:
That it be a kitten, so he could bond with it.
That it be a girl, because his tom-cat experiences were less than stellar.
That we name her “Jaws”.
I’m still working on that last one, but I set out to the local Humane Society today to check out what they had for kittens. After going to the PAWS event at Petco and to to the MSPCA after that, I didn’t hold out any expectations of finding a kitten, of filling out an adoption form… certainly not of falling instantly in love, (although isn’t that the best way to lose your heart?)
But this little girl? She had other plans.
It was pretty diabolical actually, the way she snuck in. I picked her up, she gave me a look that said “Okay. You look like a pushover.” and promptly conked out in my arms, with her chin propped up on my hand. She had a big-block motor that wouldn’t stop running, and that was it. Love at first narcoleptic, adorable, snoozy sight. A few of the people in the room said “Yep. That’s it!” and they were right!
I got an application from the girl at the desk, and jokingly said “I told my husband I was going to go out and find an adorable little ball of fluff. He said that would be okay.” She laughed, “Well that’s exactly what you found!” I looked at the application. Her foster name? “Fluff”. As if the deal needed any more seal, that did it.
I tried to fill out the app while simultaneously not waking the fuzzball. It was at that very moment she decided it was time to play, and proceeded to tap-dance on the clipboard, boogie up my shoulder, head-butt the pen, check out the chair next to her, consider a run across the room. I finally relented and had to put her back in her “house” for a moment. I snapped the above shot just as she decided it was time to pick a fight with the sign of the front of her cage. I hurried through the paperwork, handed it to the girl at the desk, and presto-chango, became the proud owner of the most adorable cat in the world. I didn’t think it would be that easy actually! I think they were impressed by my neat handwriting or something.
I spent another half-hour playing with Not-Fluff-Not-Jaws Cianci (although Ed still thinks that we could name her Jaws. Could you name that adorable little fuzzball Jaws?! C’mon…) She was over the need to beat the hell out of the sign, and decided another nap was in order. I had found myself a snuggler. When she was hungry and ready for some down-time, she let me know by giving me the long “hellllooooo??” stare, and poking me a few times with a paw to make sure I were still with the program. She already knows how to handle me. I have no doubts she will beat any alarm-clock money can buy.
So sometime Wednesday, after a visit with the vet for all the necessary poking and prodding, Not-Fluff-Not-Jaws will be coming home to explore the wild world of Casa Cianci. Until then, I’ll will be kitten-proofing, shaky-toy shopping, and getting the camera ready for pictures of kitty’s first day in her forever home.
(Editor’s note: Realizing you’ve missed a blog post during Nablopomo, I’ve learned, is something like forgetting to take your birth control pill. You wake up quite suddenly - far earlier than is reasonable on a Sunday - then immediately rack your brain trying to think of when you took/wrote it, finally realize that you didn’t, swear under your breath, and get out of bed to go rectify the matter.)
So, I finally convinced my darling, handsome, exquisitely intelligent husband that it would be a good idea to add something furry to the household, specifically, a kitty. I have been trying to accomplish this for… hmm… about five years (also known as “Ever since we moved in”.) Luckily for me, I am persistent and he is in love with me, so yesterday I went down to the MSPCA at Nevins Farm in Methuen to see who all was looking for a forever home. I was all excited, went in, had some preliminary fact-finding conversation with the lady at the front desk, then headed in to meet my future fluffball. I checked out the “Colony Room”, which was sort of like the living room of a crazy cat lady’s house. There were probably 15-20 cats milling about, sleeping on chairs and in cubbies, some scrabbling with shaky-mice and being ultra-adorable.
One of the volunteers found out I might be looking for a lap-cat, and introduced me to Roger. Roger was probably the complete opposite of what I envisioned when I went in to look: A big, angora-furred Maine Coon, possibly 20 pounds (easily the size of a Thanksgiving stuffer, for comparison), and probably the most laid back lump of adorable I’ve ever met. The volunteer put Roger in my lap, and Roger immediately went back to sleep with little more than an adjustment of his head onto my knee. He was total lap-cat material.
Only one problem. Roger likes to shed. A lot. I think I’m still wearing some of Roger somewhere on me. I probably will find bits of him for the next few days. I knew I could never get a 20-pound shed-machine past the gates at Chez Cianci, so unfortunately, I had to leave Roger to find a forever home with someone else.
And here’s why it’s hard for me to go to the MSPCA.
I really wanted to take Roger home. You could tell he was a kind soul, and I completely wanted to scoop him up, take him home, and lavish him with jingly toys and chin scratches for the rest of his life. But being grown-up sucks. I had to actually use that practical part of my brain, the one I abhor. Roger is a giant: he could easily take up his own half of the bed, or his own 3rd of the couch, which just wouldn’t work for anyone in our small condo. We could spin his fluff and use it to clothe a village somewhere for a year. Roger was simply too big, and too fuzzy for us, and it broke my heart to realize that he just wouldn’t fit into our lives. I suppose in the end it’s better for both of us if he goes to a home where he will fit, both literally and figuratively. I know that my heart tells me that I want to take ALL of them home, that I want to quit my day job, rescue cats and write books with one cat in my lap, one sitting on my head, one brushing around my legs, and probably one sleeping on my keyboard… but we’ve only got so much room, and if we’re going to give a kitty a “forever home”, we have to be careful which kitty we choose.
So the hunt continues. It was a good, but hard, first day out looking around. It was all I could do not to run up to the front desk and volunteer at the shelter. After my degree is done, I fully intend to. By the way If you’re in the market for a lap-cat, and you’re not opposed to a little extra fuzz, then run down to Nevins and scoop Roger up and take him home. And let me know when you do.
What goes better with high-end chinese food and martinis than a little existential angst? Tonight Ed and I went to round up some grub at Feng Shui in Chelmsford, and somewhere along the line, we stumbled face first into a conversation about the calamity of extraordinary circumstance, that cosmic set up comic flubbs that ordain we should exist as we do right now. We talked about intelligent design, the alternate forms and functions our world could have, and before we signed the credit card slip, the biggest question of all: Where does that leave us?
It’s a fairly well-known fact that although I generally dislike the term “atheist”, I don’t believe in God (or as Einstein put it, perhaps I believe in “Spinoza’s God” - the God *is* the world, not separate from it.) I have this conversation with my aunt every so often, and she is quite concerned that I’ll be spending my afterlife somewhere unpleasant. I try to reassure her that I would keep the heat in the house at a constant 85 degrees if I were allowed, so perhaps a warm climate might suit me. She’s not usually amused by this thought.
Somewhere in the conversation, we inevitably come to the place where she’s tired of arguing with me, and says “Just! Well… just… believe.”
I got to thinking about this concept tonight, while drinking a particularly good Choya plum martini. How does one “just” believe. Isn’t that like arguing with someone looking at one of those 3-D eye-trick pictures to “just” see the sailboat? Will impelling someone to belief, especially one so important as the belief in God, really garner the desired result? How can that possibly work? Can the individual forcefully will themselves to believe in the existence of a non-corporeal being who intervenes personally into the lives of his “creations”? Isn’t that sort of like lying? If I don’t see the sailboat in the hologram, does that mean it’s not there to be seen?
For someone who ditched the daily sojourn to church at the age of ten, I’m sot so sure that simple “fake it ’til you make it” belief is adequate for covering the great “how” of why we are here. I am fresh out of ideas on this one, but if anyone has an answer, I’m all ears.
As promised, a review of tonight’s Spinners Idol competition, which took place at the Skybox in Tewksbury!
Every year, the talent scouts of LeLacheur Park come out to the ‘burbs to find songbirds for the upcoming Lowell Spinners baseball season. I decided to mosey down and try my hand along with the rest, have a few drinks, and listen to Frances Scott Key’s best-known ditty (which was actually just a poem at the time).
First off, I was VERY surprised at the turn-out! I got there at 6pm sharp, and was *26th* on the list! There were another seven or eight who wandered in after me as well. Everyone settled in for a few hours of auditions, as the Thirsty Thursday crowd and the Bruins game 7 bandwagon rolled in. The place was at capacity when the first contestant took the stage, an adorable toe-headed kid of about 8 years old who reminded me of the precocious little scamp from “A Christmas Story”, right down to the water-slicked part in his blond hair. No glasses though. It would have been incredible if he’d been toting a Red Rider BB Gun (with a compass in the stock), but his mom probably made him leave it at home. He was a great ice-breaker for the crowd, and had the adorable factor going bigtime.
There were some truly talented people there! One kid played the Anthem on a trumpet, a trio performed in a surprisingly chipper 3-part harmony, and there were a few well-trained voices in the crowd as well. The judges had balanced critique for everyone, and even through forty auditions, remained upbeat.
So how did I do, you’re wondering? Well. It could have gone better, to be sure. During the first 15 seconds of “Fly Me to the Moon” (my first song), the Bruins scored a basket (kiddddiiiinggg) and the crowd went from zero to deafening. No worries, I ramped it up and boomed right over them. This earned some bonus points from the judges. The Anthem? Mehh not so much. The trouble started when I caught a glance of my very excited stage mother-in-law singing along with me. For anyone who hasn’t had this happen, it’s kind of the equivalent of having someone yell random numbers at you when you’re trying to tally a stack of change: you IMMEDIATELY forget where you were Not so bad. “O’er the ramparts” became “And the ramparts”, but the show carried on. I had a pretty manky top note as well, owing to the fact that I left my falsetto back in the music room in high school and never remembered to swing by and pick it up. No worries. Like any true Sox fan, I’ll just say there’s always next year.
In the end, a girl with a REALLY fabulous voice won the chance to sing at opening night, as well as some studio time to record a demo. She was second runner up for the past two years, and this year was the charm. So if you’re at opening night on June 19th, rest assured you’re going to be treated to not only a great ball-game, but a truly lovely serenade to kick the whole thing off.
I was walking down Market Street in Lowell today, to find that apparently, Dharma has rented some space in downtown Lowell and thought I wouldn’t notice!!
No… it’s not what you’re thinking. As much as I would be thrilled for a Lost ARG right on my own street, it’s not the Dharma Initiative. I guess I’ll just have to get to the Island some other way.
What is it then? It’s Dharma Buns Sandwich Company! Looks like a new kid is moving into town, a kid that loves Beat Poets and Crazy Primetime Television. I have to say, I can’t think of a better combination. Just as long as Hurley doesn’t own/run the place… I hear he has bad luck with food establishments.
Went to see Trek again tonight, Missy and I taking along our mom for a little post Mother’s Day outing. Mom loves to see those types of movies but I’m a huge she-nerd, and usually the first one in line, clutching my ticket and clamoring to see the sci-fi/comic book movie du jour. Missy likewise being of the sci-loving persuasion, we’ve often seen the really big movies early on. Trek had enough humor and Michael Bay-ish explosions to be replay-worthy, so I took another pass at it. Plus, seeing it in Imax was fabulous (love those “buttkicker” subwoofers).
We came out after two hours penned up in a dark room watching things explode in space, only to find that we too were about to explore a strange new world: The line to the women’s bathroom was non-existent. The line to the men’s room was out the friggin’ door and around the corner.
Missy was the first to pick up on this glaring unbalance in the force.
“Are *we* on a different planet now??”
A few others in the crowd, even one of the guys, commented on how thoroughly bizarre this scenario was. Either the men in the crowd collectively decided to hydrate the hell out of themselves in anticipation of the cinematic marathon - if you haven’t seen it yet, it clears the two hour mark without breaking a sweat - or otherwise, the women in the crowd were ridiculously (and sadly) outnumbered.
This brought us to another interesting conversation. Missy and I are both Nerdettes: that rare breed of western female that not only knows what a Tribble, a Wookie, and a Cylon are, we actually love the realm of sci-fi and fantasy, and seek it out whenever possible. We have favorite episodes of Trek and Stargate. We fight over who is the best incarnation of The Doctor (It’s totally David Tennant. Deny this and you are forever banned from this blog. Just sayin’.) We get most of the jokes leveled at the boys in “The Big Bang Theory”, and even take exception to a few.
According to Missy’s co-workers, this makes us somewhat akin to a blue rose. Those girls just don’t exist… do they?
Yes. Yes we do. Allow me to demonstrate.
I know that new comic books come on Tuesday, and that Million Year Picnic is the best little comic book nook in the City of Cambridge. I know that Adamantium hurts like hell on installation, but like fresh new ink, is way worth the suffering involved to get it. I know that Tattooine has twin moons, that TARDIS is short for Time and Relative Dimension in Space, on Barcelona the dogs have no noses, and that as one might suspect, anything batshit weird is bound to come out of Wales. I know that Daniel Jackson was totally right about the pyramids, and that sometimes you just have to burn out a ZPM to get the job done. I know PAX is not just the latin word for peace, but the English Acronym for PENNY ARCADE EXPO. I know you really need to be sure where your towel is at, and Vogon poetry will kill you if you let it. I know that Vorlons CAN in fact exist outside of their encounter suit, Daleks can’t exist outside of theirs, and that in some very special cases, spaceships can have babies. I know how to turn on the XBox, the TV AND the receiver, and how to play Super Puzzle Fighter like a champion (although it’s WAY better on original Playstation.) Don’t challenge me to a game. You don’t stand a chance, trust me.
I’m a writer, artist and degenerate internet addict. I have a day job only to keep the lights on and the internet working. I’m not always PG, but I’m always A+ (not to mention humble.) Please do not try to make me think before coffee. It will only end in tears.
Not so bad. “O’er the ramparts” became “And the ramparts”, but the show carried on. I had a pretty manky top note as well, owing to the fact that I left my falsetto back in the music room in high school and never remembered to swing by and pick it up. No worries. Like any true Sox fan, I’ll just say there’s always next year.
