The Politics of the School Playground

A big part of my fascination with politics is my fascination with what makes people tick. There are the big and obvious motivators of money and power working alongside the much more subjective motivators of the unique filters and perceptions each individual forms about life and reality. That stew of ambition, self-perception, personal opinion, character strengths, character flaws, and the deeply ingrained beliefs of the subconscious all work together to steer these men and women toward a certain goal.

My theory is that you can explain and predict just about every aspect of society based on what happens on an elementary school playground. Kids, after all, are simply expressing the unvarnished truth of who we are as adults, and even if adults are more sophisticated in their desires, the underlying cause of any given desire can usually be traced back to the basic personality you had as a kid (and no, I'm absolutely not of the Freudian philosophy).

Does that make sense or am I way off base do you think?  I'll explain myself better in future posts.

A Rarity of Photographs to Celebrate Spring

 During Spring Break, we did nothing. Then, on the last possible day, we went to the park, which is a lame excuse for a Spring Break activity, I agree, but better than nothing at all. I remembered to take the camera (yay, me!) and got some shots of the kids. After the park, we got burgers for lunch and a movie to watch at home. That is how we rock and roll, people, when we're cash strapped and ready for fun! Above is Elannah, recently turned 11.

 In this shot and the one below, Sophia is attempting to scale the soccer goal posts. Elannah, the little gymnast, had already managed it. Sian (in the green jacket) is trying to help.

 My little Joseph is getting so tall we buy him new clothing every single week, or so it seems.

 I don't know if you can see it very well, but Gabrielle had the tips of her hair bleached by a neighbor as a birthday present. I told her she should have been a little more bold and gone completely blonde. In the background, you can see Elannah clinging to the goal post. What you can't tell is that she's screaming because Husband is attempting to hit her with the big, yellow rubber four-square ball we brought to play with. All in good fun. And no, he wasn't really trying to hit her, but it was just too tempting because of all the dramatic screaming.

 Picturesque, no? Add a few sheep and some shaggy goats to this picture and you could imagine it was a scene from Heidi, if Heidi were hanging out with her sibs playing soccer (actually pictured are Elannah, far left, Sian, middle, and Gabrielle, right.). No sheep were injured in the aftermath of this photo, but if I remember correctly, there might have been a ball to someone's head.

 Little Gary, also of the constantly growing club. He is also constantly hungry. He will probably grow to about 7 feet tall at this rate.By his 6th birthday.

 Husband played Bomb Drop with the kids, as well as soccer.

In other news, Sophia did the Napoleon Dynamite dance in front of her entire school when she was running for student body officer. That takes some serious courage.

Little Gary is having issues with his bladder. He hates his bladder, as he frequently tells me, since it ALWAYS HAS TO PEE! Usually, this inconvenient full bladder sensation occurs during some very interesting activity. Then he runs upstairs to my room, slams the door, and yells, "I hate my bladder!" It's his fault, though, since he keeps drinking liquids.

Husband and I got to visit with a very dear friend from our mission days. She flew from England to be here over General Conference weekend. It was so much fun to see her again and meet her friend, who came with her.

I used to write blurbs for a well-known but recently notorious Lap-Band surgery center. I wrote 60 blurbs a month for 11 months and one week (total blurbs: 675), but I saw the writing on the wall when Allergan, the makers of the Lap-Band, announced they were no longer selling their product to this company. Sure enough, after I had completed the first installment of blurbs for April, I got an immediate email from my supervisor informing me that it was all over. My distinct relief is mixed with sorrow, for though it was a hard thing to come up with new things to say for that long, it was really good money for relatively easy work.

Marmite, a Wag of a Tale

We accidentally acquired a dog last month, one that is entirely ours and does not go home every night. He was a stray, a little poodle (or something) who has a penchant for adventure. He came to us slowly, by degrees, and it was only after he finally won Husband's heart that we could really call him our very own at last.

His previous owners, so the tale goes, also had a pitbull and this pitbull thought it good sport to attack Marmite, who is a fairly small dog. Rather than give Marmite away, the owners just let him loose to fend for himself, which was exactly what he did for a month until he was caught. Then, somehow, he ended up with Ruth, who is Jazzee's  mom.

Jazzee, as you'll remember, is our day dog. She's the sweet little shih tzu I pick up every day because Ruth is disabled and can't play with her. Marmite and Jazzee were instant friends, but Ruth couldn't handle another dog and was forced to call the animal shelter to arrange a pick-up. I said I'd take Marmite (who was being called "Petey" at this point. Are you still following me?) along with Jazzee that day, but the animal shelter never showed up and so we took him home the next day and the next, as well. Finally, on a Sunday night, the night before the animal shelter really was going to come and get Marmite, Husband found himself smitten against his will and decided to keep him.

The family voted and named him Marmite because, as Husband said, he just wants everyone in the family to love Marmite (and if you've never tried Marmite, you probably aren't sure why loving it or not could be a question. Believe me, it's an acquired taste. What is Marmite, you ask? Marmite is a very salty yeast extract, rich in B vitamins, beloved of some British persons; and if that description doesn't get your tastebuds tingling...well, I can't help that, since I believe those who crave Marmite probably also crave black pudding.) Marmite's full name is Sir Marmite, Earl of Toast. We're casual people, though, and don't stand much on ceremony.

 He loves to run, which is what he does when someone leaves the front door open. I've chased him one too many times through the neighorhood, yelling epithets all the way. Stupid, cute, adorable, extremely lovable dog.

Lion Taming for Introverts: Fail

March came in like a lion and went out like a lion, if you take my personal busyness scale into account. Personally, I prefer lambs because I'm exhausted with taming all these lions. I'm an introvert who can pretend to be an extrovert sometimes, but when it comes to planning fundraisers, conferences, and parties, I am simply not the person you want to call on to be in charge.  I just don't have the ambition and drive to do what it takes to make large social functions become all that they can be, what with the marketing and phone calling and Facebooking and Twittering and e-mailing and face-to-face schmoozing and food planning and setting up and arranging and all. I like parties that are small in nature, involve close friends and/or family, and don't require anything extraordinary that I can't produce from my kitchen. Centerpieces? Please kill me now.

A few observations:
I don't get this obsession with cupcakes.
Are dollar store plastic bowls filled with M&Ms truly pathetic centerpieces or what?
Say the word "fundraiser" and watch all the adults suddenly have a hard time making eye contact.
Maybe origami isn't the best entertainment idea for 30 rowdy 7-year-old boys.
I had no idea until I got my ears pierced last December and could finally start wearing dangly earrings that earlobes can feel like they'd had a long and tiring workout.
Who knew there was such a thing as a melatonin hangover?
It's never a good idea to fake-Riverdance in high-heeled boots unless you're much younger and much more in shape.
I'm not taking Little Gary to the movies again until he's approximately 23.
It IS possible to eat only two (2) Thin Mints during the entire Girl Scout cookie sales season.


For the record, I don't Tweet. I do have a Twitter account, but I have only ever sent out two tweets, and that was probably last year. I never could get into it, but I really should have in order to better advertise all those fundraisers, conferences, and parties from last month. Thank goodness the issue is now moot.

Yeah, Me and Jon Schmidt. We Hang Out, You Know

Back when I was a young, slim thing attending college, I got asked on a date that would create reverberations throughout my life. No, it wasn't with Husband; if you'll remember, I didn't date Husband at college. In fact, I didn't date him at all during our nine months of engagement. But that's another story, and I've already told it.

No, this date was with a boy I had known when he was an LDS missionary back in my home state in the North. I guess he called me up after he finished his mission and we went out a couple times. Nothing ever developed from those two or three dates we went on, but one night he took me to an exclusive concert held in one of his friends' homes. There were a group of young men and women around my age who attended, although I didn't know any of them (they were my date's friends). We had a casual dinner, and I remember feeling distinctly shy and somewhat uncomfortable. They were friendly enough, I think, and I was as outgoing and chatty as I could be, given the fact that I am a natural introvert and hadn't yet learned the extrovert skills that would help me on my own mission.

During the concert, Anthony (my exceedingly handsome date) put his arm around me and then held my hand a bit. I don't know who was more surprised, I or his friends. I caught the girls constantly casting glances our way and I suddenly had the impression that maybe he was using me to get someone's attention. But when the pianist was playing, I forgot everything else and just soaked it in.

This young pianist, a tall, skinny newly married man who had brought his glowing, pregnant wife with him, was so skilled and so entertaining that he made a deep impression on me -- enough so that I went home and wrote his name in my journal when I described the evening. Nearly 20 years later, I heard his name again, and I eagerly attended a concert he gave for our stake a few years ago. But it wasn't until late last year that I got to speak to him in person when he came to our little town and gave a concert in our local music store. You may or may not have heard of Jon Schmidt, but he's got some YouTube videos that feature him and the extraordinarily talented cellist he collaborates with. The videos are produced by The Piano Guys.com.

Anyway, after the concert, the attendees were able to go and buy his CDs and music books and get them autographed, and since there were only 30 or so people in the room, I didn't feel bad about taking a few moments and telling Jon that I had seen him play way back when at that little concert in Anthony's friend's house. He laughed and joked that it was probably a pretty bad concert, since he had been so young. No, I had thoroughly enjoyed it, despite the weirdness of the rest of the evening (which I didn't even mention, of course).

If you ever get the chance to meet him, he's one of those genuine, friendly, and very humble people you warm up to in a moment. During his concerts, he talks to the audience, laughing and joking even while his fingers fly up and down the keyboard. He reminds me a lot of my next youngest brother, in fact. 

As for Anthony, he stopped calling me soon after that date. I called him once when I was in his town watching one of my roommates sing in an opera, but he was so distant and cold, I got the hint pretty quickly. If my impression at that little concert was right, I hope he got the girl's attention and lived happily ever after.

Here's Jon Schmidt playing one of his most popular compositions:

 

The Bunnies Hopped to Their Little Home in the Woods, Ate a Good Supper, and Went Straight to Bed. The End.

Sian just passed her driver's license exam. She is officially a licensed driver. I hope she's happy, since I am now sending her on every errand I can just so I can sit home and watch movies all day. Well, okay, not really. I don't watch movies all day, but I can still send her on all my errands for me and she actually enjoys it. I'm getting used to this really fast.

The other day, as I was reading Little Gary into sleepy oblivion, Husband walked by and said, "When is the last time you read a fiction book?" Yes, I was reading Slouching Towards Gomorrah: Modern Liberalism and American Decline, by Robert Bork, out loud to my four-year-old. In my defense, Little Gary often enjoys listening to me read my books aloud because the sound of my voice soothes him when he just wants to take a nap -- especially if I'm speaking gibberish as far as he's concerned (there are times when he only wants stories about bunnies in the woods or monkeys on the bed, you understand, and won't be satisfied with the idea that the welfare state is only getting more support because of envy). I, on the other hand, spend a lot of time not being soothed by my reading material. Bork's book isn't exactly easy fare, either intellectually or emotionally; however, I feel compelled to educate myself as much as possible. At least when I read non-fiction I can get stuff done while I digest ideas. When I read good fiction, nothing at all gets done until I finish.

Case in point: I finished Bork's book and picked up The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold. When I finished it the next day at around noon, I was still unwashed and in my pajamas, the kids were talking about eating their own shoes for nourishment, and I had to swim up and out of the story for what seemed like hours. In fact, my emotions were extremely close to the surface for a long time afterward. That's what happens when I read fiction. It's just a mercy that The Lovely Bones is fairly short or Husband might have had me committed.

Book report: Slouching Towards Gomorrah, though written in 1996, is incredibly insightful and applicable to events going on today. Bork intelligently interprets cause and effect for the radicalization of American institutions and the reasons behind our slackening morality as a country. I think Bork is as much a prophet as Tocqueville, whom he quotes extensively. There is so much I would like to say about his points, and maybe I will in future posts (this is your only warning). Even if he sometimes sounds like the Grumpy Old Man, I would love to be able to write as well as he does.

And, as a bonus, it puts four-year-olds to sleep quite nicely.

Just now, I sent said four-year-old with his older sisters to get an ice-cream cone from the grocery store. How sweet is that?

Why Bollywood Has My Vote

This morning when I went to collect the whites from the dryer, I found a dead mouse. It was all wet and bedraggled, stuck to the metal next to the lint catcher, a smear of dark blood trailing down to its body. I admit I squealed in surprise when I realized it wasn't lint, and then I fetched some tissue and disposed of the broken little carcass. Somehow, poor, wee mousie got himself in with the wash, where he died a horrible death. His revenge, however, was in getting blood all over the whites while he whirled gaily with them in the dryer, so now I have a pile of clothes that need to be hand washed for blood spots before being re-washed in the machine. I have the blood of a mouse upon my garments. Well, I actually have the blood of many mice upon my garments in the more figurative sense. I do feel bad for them, the little vermin. I usually say something over the body before disposing of it; something like, "You were the perfect mouse, doing exactly what a good mouse should do. I'm sorry you had to die, but we are at cross purposes here, since good mice are exactly what I don't want  and can't have in the house. You poop and pee indiscriminately on everything and make nests in all the wrong places, which is horribly unhygienic. You also have a creepy way of rustling about at night and scritching on the drywall. I hope you're frolicking in pleasant fields now, where there is nary a cat to hunt you or evil humans who desire your demise."

I guess that's not so much a eulogy as an indictment and justification.

So I've found that Bollywood movies are smashing entertainment when I'm on the treadmill. They're perfect because they're often silly in a lighthearted and fun way, colorful, full of music, romantic, and lengthy (thus prolonging my workout). Plus, the English subtitles can sometimes be hilarious. I have always been fascinated by India, and while these movies aren't often extremely deep, they're surprisingly insightful. They usually revolve around a boy and a girl and love. I'm a sucker for love stories, but unlike the shallow, amoral, and insipid fare of American romcoms, Indian romances Bollywood style are good for the whole family. They convey a sense of morality and duty to family. They compel you to root for the triumph of the love of the two main characters, which is always threatened by something dire -- whether the threat is from family or circumstances -- or both -- but you want them to triumph in the right way and not take the easy way out.

In American romances, the movie ends when the hero and heroine finally overcome the obstacles and share love's first kiss (or its equivalent). In Bollywood movies, it is forbidden for the hero and heroine to kiss on the mouth, so that first kiss never happens (though they tease you with it constantly). Instead, the hero and heroine declare their love and do a lot of dramatic hugging. You'll probably also get a music video at that point. Then, just when you think it's over (because that's where an American romance would end), a Bollywood movie provides a thoughtful intermission, following which you're off and running into the second half of the film, where a new set of obstacles arise and must be overcome. It's like getting two movies in one.

And the dancing! So fun.

They're insightful because they give you a glimpse into what Indians think of themselves in relation to the world (remember, they spent a long time as part of the British empire, and that had a huge impact). You also get a sense of what honor means in their relationships with family and in the romantic arena. Bollywood, of course, produces just one type of Indian films. There are plenty of exquisite Indian movies that are beautifully filmed and highly dramatic, sometimes extremely disturbing and heart wrenching, and exhibit the real pain of life. Bollywood concentrates on humor, music, and comic romance, but they're still very interesting. Plus, it's hard to walk on the treadmill when you're crying too hard; exercising while laughing is just so much easier.