Sappy Movies, etc.

I don't take the movies seriously, and anyone who does is in for a headache.
-- Bette Davis

I am about to watch You've Got Mail...again. I have probably seen this movie about 15 times thanks to its heavy rotation on TBS. I don't know why this particular bit of fluff always catches my attention.

It's not the type of movie I'd chose for myself. Generally, I like old movies. In fact, glancing over my video collection, the vast majority of movies I've liked enough to purchase are either black and white or foreign. I love the glamour of those classic movie stars. I want to be Bette, Ingrid, or Katherine when I "grow up." I want to be confident and polished, full of intelligent banter and fire, the proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove.

One attraction for this film might be the vague connections to Pride and Prejudice. I can see how the plot was more or less ripped off from Jane. As we all know, I am a sucker for anything Darcy-ish. (I am, however, highly skeptical about the new P&P film...more on that later, post viewing.)

Every once in a while, maybe everybody just needs a sappy movie. There's lot to be said for a world where true love reigns, where friends are loyal and true, where the happy ending comes despite all obstacles, even if it's a world that only exists within the confines of a Hollywood soundstage. Does life ever work out like the movies?

Sometimes I feel like my life is a low-budget indie film, or God forbid, an episode of a reality-TV show. The Truman Show appealed to me for that reason. Quite often, I feel like everybody else knows the script except for me.

Well, I suppose that's enough of that. I am going to retire to my lovely new couch and drink a glass of sweet tea while soaking up the sappy unreality of this movie.

Changes

No quote.

I have been making big progress on my house. Today, two new couches arrived, and I just can't get over how... adult...my livingroom looks. It all matches! None of it is broken or tatty. Pearl, one of my two cats, has commandeered the loveseat, and I've spent quite a bit of time curled up on the sofa. It's amazing.

I'm even prouder of my office than I am of my sofas, though. Dad and I finished it Tuesday. I installed a ten-foot countertop as a work surface, and it's just the greatest thing since sliced bread. I have already done three projects that have been hanging around since last summer, and I can actually walk in and lay hands on any of my sewing and craft materials without having to get on my hands and knees with a flashlight.

I now have space for my copier and its paraphenalia on a table across the room, and ten feet of empty, clean workspace. There's a huge amount of storage under the table and the countertop, and I have shelves to grow into. I can't believe I finally have a room like this. I've been dreaming of it for a long time. I love it. Once I can get the power strip put in and the TV connected to my satellite, I may never leave it again.

I only hurt myself badly once during the whole process. I was sort of amazed. I was hammering the grommets on the curtain that hides the undercounter area, and I missed the grommet die. I don't know if I"m going to lose the thumbnail yet, but I do know that I CRIED. I haven't hurt myself that intensely in a long time.

I also bought and (with help from Dad) installed a rainfall showerhead. The showerhead by itself is very nice, much nicer than one might expect a showerhead to be, actually, but the best part is the ten inch swan's neck extender bar. Being a tall woman, I have always sort of had to do acrobatic contortions to get the shampoo out of my hair. No more. I can stand under the thing and still have a good 6 inches between me and the showerhead.

Another change was a subtraction instead of an addition. The old TV antenna that had bent in half when Katrina came through finally came down today. Dad took it down while I made a water haul to town trying to do errands and meeting with frustration at every turn. It's strange for it not to be there. That antenna was probably almost as old as I am.

The roof repair is still in the planning phase. I called the recommended roofer, and he's supposed to be getting back to me soon. If he can't do it, the wonderful man who's going to come do the kitchen floor is going to recommend someone else. It may take several more months to get everything finished up, but I'm so excited that something has finally started to get done.

Well, this is the end of my week of Thanksgiving holidays. Tomorrow, I'll have to get back in harness with school work. At least I have a nice place to do it in now.

Frankenstein

I am watching the 2004 Hallmark production of Frankenstein in preparation for my AP classes' viewing this week. I am amazed by how much of this story I had forgotten before I reread it to teach it. I had forgotten how good it really is.

I almost always sympathize with the monster in any movie where there is one. I have always been that way, and I don't even want to think about what that probably says about my mental health or lack thereof. It's the same in Frankenstein. I have such sympathy for the monster.

He never asked to be created. In fact, his creation must have been filled with pain. Then, once he's been dragged into this world, Frankenstein abandons him. He's basically an infant in an adult body, and he has to figure out everything on his own. Everyone who sees him hates him without knowing if he is really evil. He is judged on appearance alone.

So many of the issues in the novel still haunt us today. We still seek knowledge and we still ignorantly rule people as "monsters" based on our own criteria. I am very glad I rediscovered Frankenstein. I'll probably come back to this entry later when I have a little more focus and revise.

Equilibrium

I went to my parents' house last night, and I took the crap curriculum. I wanted my mother, retired from teaching after 35 years, to look over it and give me her opinion. Her opinions were almost exactly mine. That simple fact calmed something that had been raging in my heart since late August.

Today I pulled together several copy packets from the crap curriculum. I waded through it and took the things I thought would be good for my students and sent them out to be printed.

I think that I have peace about it now. If nobody will come and shake my proverbial monkey tree, I think I will be able to find a balance with it.

I also signed my loan papers today. There was no thunderclap and no pain. I am ready to go look at shingles and carpet. I think, now that my own personal Swords of Damocles have fallen, I can finally get some perspective and move forward. It's a good feeling.

Now if I can just get my grades in the computer....

Cowardly

"You must do the things you think you cannot do." -- Eleanor Roosevelt

This quote has been something I've tried very hard to live my life by. Tonight, though, I totally chickened out of something I should have done.

Like most things, it wasn't a huge, earth-shattering moment of decision. It was just a difficult hymn in the evening service. Since our sanctuary is being remodeled, it's just me on the piano at night, and it's been a LONG time since I was the sole means of accompaniment for the congregation. In fact, I'm usually playing the organ, not the piano, and while it may all seem like keyboards to the casual observer, there are differences.

Anyway, I had practiced this one hymn, but not enough. It was still rough around the edges. The music director told me that he'd give me the choice. When it came time to do the hymn, he'd look toward the piano and I could nod or shake my head. When it came time, I shook my head and we did a "backup" hymn instead.

I regretted it the whole time. Such a silly little thing. Why didn't I go ahead and play it?

It ties in with what I was telling my kids as we studied the poem "George Gray" by Masters. It's the things you don't do that you regret.

This is especially true in the romantic area of my life. I always seem to take the "better safe than sorry" route. There have been times when I really should have taken a chance, even if it meant the notes were a little sour.

I have a friend who was totally fearless about love. At church camp, she's the one who always had at least ten guys begging to throw away her lunch tray or carry her bag. When she saw a guy she was interested in, she could articulate it. She could "work it." I am still in awe of her.

I am so awkward. My first feeling whenever I start to be interested in a guy as more than a friend is always one of prevailing dread. I lose my ability to make sense. Even though I want to be around him and talk to him, I become the Queen of Cowards and I usually run away. I have all the social grace of a bumbling twelve year old. It's all about fear, and it's embarrassing. I passed twelve a long time ago.

In the meantime, I guess I'll set myself a few goals. I will continue to try to live up to my goals of truth and honesty. I will try not to beat myself up when I fail. I will continue to hope that someday, I will have the courage not be twelve anymore. Most importantly, next time, I will play that song.

Twice in One Night

I guess maybe I'm making up for lost time, but after I finished the previous post, I went to view the usage stats for my blog. I figured they'd bottomed out. After all, I have been silent for nearly a month.

To my surprise, some of you are still out there checking in regularly. Thank you. For some reason, those random cyberspace brushes are encouraging to me. Thank you for not abandoning this even though you've had ample cause.

Ages and Ages

Obviously, I haven't been faithful to my resolution to keep writing daily. I've come to accept the fact that, at least for this school year, my blogging is going to be sporadic at best. The AP curriculum consumes almost every moment I spend online, and I've been sick a lot lately, so there hasn't actually been that much online time at home. It's been more of a come home and fall down time.

A couple of interesting things are going on right now, though. A friend of mine from work gave me a copy of a book full of places to get my poetry published. Apparently, the book is published every year, is reliable, and is well known. I had a duh moment. Why the heck didn't it occur to me that there would be a resource like that? I haven't had a chance to do much more than browse through it, but I'm excited. During the upcoming holiday breaks, I'm going to try to start sending poems out. If nothing else, maybe I can get some quality feedback to help me refine.

The second thing is really BIG. I am about to start major repairs on my house. Katrina did a number on my roof, and it has to be replaced. It was old to start with, and having 100 mph winds didn't help. The financial implications of this are staggering. I'll be okay, and it's a workable situation, but never before has the mantle of "adulthood" weighed so heavily on my shoulders.

In fact, lately, I've felt that leaden cape dragging me down further and further. I can't help but feel, however irrationally, that signing the requisite paperwork in the next few days is going to be like Faustus signing the Devil's contract in his own blood. (Since I just got through teaching Marlowe's play, I see Mephistopheles around every corner these days...)

Once I sign and once I begin this work, I will be clipping my own wings. It will be a commitment to stay in this job, to stay in this town. Never again will I be able to pick up and go abroad for a year or two. Never again will I be free. I am trying to look at it in terms of obligations, in terms of blessings, in any terms but the terms of a cage door swinging shut, and most of the time I can focus on these other worthy things, but sometimes, especially right before I go to bed, I can hear the squeaking hinges, and I ache between my shoulderblades where those feathers used to be. It's not the money; it's the limiting of choice.

It's foolish to wish for everything. As my father is so fond of saying, "Wish in one hand and spit in the other. See which one fills up fastest." I just wish I didn't sometimes have this terrible, panicky sense of entrapment.

There's a song by David Wilcox called "A Young Man Dies." It deals with him looking through old photographs and finding one of himself at a much younger age. The chorus says, "In the years it takes to make one man wise, a young man dies." I feel like this is the death of the "young" me. That seems highly melodramatic, even to me, but in some ways, I think it's also very true.

So what comes next? Heck if I know. I'll make some changes, fix some things, go on teaching...all those little things that won't matter at all to anyone else but me. I'm committing to this path. Hopefully I can look back later and be satisfied.