After the Women’s March that happened in hundreds of cities across the globe, the number one criticism came in the form of a single word: Why? And sure, on the surface, we’ve never had it better. Women today have the choice about whether to work, get married, or have children. It’s just the tip of the iceberg, though. And climate change is not a hoax; Antarctica’s ice sheets are melting. Fast. And so are our rights to our so-called choices, apparently. But it’s true: we are no longer forced to stay in the kitchen, donning aprons and smiles, to bake pot roasts and soufflés all day if that’s not our cup of tea. (That’s still fine if it is!) We’ve come so far and we have so many freedoms now. What’s the point of complaining?
Winter has arrived, which means many of us who may be experiencing a distinct chill in the air these days are most likely wishing it were possible to move to the Caribbean, Australia, or perhaps even Venus right now. But what people may not realize is that there are so many reasons to embrace winter. In fact, since it’s my fourth favorite season, and I’ve spent more than a few winters here, I’m more than qualified to discuss the joys of winter that you might have otherwise overlooked. It’s never too late to get started because from where I’m standing, it’s clear that winter is only beginning.
I look at all things on the bright and sunny side as if I’ve been fed with Maui Jim ad campaigns and the Coué method over the last twenty or thirty years. I was about to say “on the bright and shiny side,” but considering the dreadful untidiness of my house, I thought again. But even then, the awesomist part of my optimism takes over, noting that this vividly-living party-of-six-sheltering house has more important rules to follow than being clean. If you ask me why and how I’m an optimist, I’ll tell you honestly that I don’t know exactly. One day, when the worldwide news became too much of a burden, I cancelled my cable subscription. When the weather froze me to the bones, I moved to the Caribbean. Life is too short to get hung up over issues and tinker with them. Every problem has a solution and there are better things to procrastinate about.
It’s about 9:00 PM, and now that my kids have finally fallen asleep, the rest of the evening is open. On this particular night, I’ve been looking forward to starting a new book. So I curl up on the couch, wrap a blanket around me, and open my Kindle. Now there’s only one thing left to do before I can begin reading.
“Ready for chapter one?” I tap out in Facebook Messenger.
The response is almost immediate: “Yes, let’s go!”
And with that, I turn my attention back to the first chapter, knowing that 2300 miles away, the other half of this book club a deux is reading the same words right along with me.
If there’s but one time of year where we can make a wish and believe, it is Christmas. I’m no exception; like every other kid, I have wishes. And I want to believe. I could wish for a new car, a new phone, or a new brain, but I’m not the materialistic type. Travel, then? Um, no. I want simpler things (and cheaper). So in case my family stops by, these are just a few of the things that moms would love, even if they don’t fit underneath the tree:
The best thing about Christmas is the songs. I wait all year to hear the traditional ones (who else loves belting out “O Holy Night” in their car?), the classics (it’s not Christmas unless you’ve gone on a “Sleigh Ride” at least 46 times), and even the contemporary ones. But the latter category is often why Christmas songs are the worst part about Christmas too. For every amazing contemporary Christmas song, there are always going to be pop stars who think for some inexplicable reason that getting festive means getting sexy. I’m looking at you, Lady Gaga, and your “Christmas Tree.”
I was at the theater the other night with my husband to attend a hilarious adaptation of Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus by John Gray. According to Gray, men and women are so different in the way they talk, act and express their feelings that it is tantamount to saying that they’re from different planets. It made me realize just how amazing and even improbable it is that so many couples are actually able to live together at all.
To make his point, the stand-up comedian engaged with the crowd about how women and men respectively talked with their peers in a much more natural way based on their common language. And he was right: compared to a sexual relationship, friendship is so easy, carefree and headache-free. Okay, maybe not the headache-free part.
“Girls’ night, 7:00 at the Parrot bar. See y’all tonight.”
My favorite kind of texts to send or receive. Forget RSVP; it’s totally extraneous. Save for a nuclear cataclysm, the response goes without saying, because a night out with the girls is a promise of time worthily spent with laughter, tears, in and out of tune singing, suave or fail dancing, wine and raw vegetables and crackers. And by the end of the night, you might find yourself miserably sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, swaying back and forth with your head between your knees while your girlfriends either hold your hair back or shoot photos and make fun of how you look like shit. Vomit bags on demand. (Yes, your girls are THAT nice.) Chance of hangover: high.
I used to have a memory that everyone else relied on. Want to know what you were doing five years ago today? If I was there, I’ll know. Can’t remember the name of your first grade teacher? If I was in your class (or just the same school) I can tell you. It’s always been part of my identity: The Girl Who Remembered Everything. But a couple days ago, I realized that my talent might be on the wane.
I was done teaching classes for the weekend and wholly focused on escaping to the parking lot. So the student was practically on top of me before I realized that she’d been desperately trying to get my attention. “How ARE you?” she asked excitedly.
“I’m good,” I replied, frantically searching my brain for her name, the semester she might have been in my class, anything. She didn’t even look familiar to me.
She threw her arms around me unexpectedly, and I found my nose pressed awkwardly into her armpit, as she was a good six inches taller than me. “I wanted to thank you so much for all of your help, especially about the advice on how to get an internship,” she continued. “I’ll never forget it.”
Right. And I once believed that I’d never forget any of my students’ names.
Six months ago, I met up with my co-blogger Michelle in New York. She was there with her husband while I brought my twelve-year-old daughter. It was a hot Memorial Day weekend. By hot, I mean really hot. Like 100-plus-degree hot. And crowded-with-marine-uniformed-guys hot. (Not that I much looked, or touched.) On the Saturday, we decided to “hop-on hop-off” with one of those open-bus tours and visit north Manhattan and Harlem. But things didn’t go quite as expected.
On paper, it was pretty easy and appealing: you hop on a bus, and then you hop off of it whenever you want to explore whatever monument or place you stop by, and you hop back on the next double-decker. Hop on, hop off. Easy. But in order to do so, people actually have to get off the bus and make room for you. Or — even better — you have to get on a bus in the first place.
On his clammy bench, Cassius readjusted the damp cardboard under his buttocks. The hardened snow that stuck to the thick brown paper made the faint sound of a cloth being crumpled as Cassius shifted. The old man with the sparse gray beard pulled up his coat collars and lapels for a second time and wrapped them around his neck, which was reddened with the sharp frigidness of the December night. Lightly as a quarter rest on a music sheet, a frost-bleached leaf whirled before his eyes and landed quietly on his knee. As persistent as a metronome, waves crashed onto the sand, marking time in adagio.
A squirrel jumping from tree to tree or scratching in the snow, a bird singing or flying off, a distant unidentified rumbling, the breeze shaking branches, water dripping from a rock … The familiar rhythms of the evening spun before him but never came quite close enough to touch.
Cassius inhaled deeply, the bitter air giving him pause as he visualized the music again, forcing his mind to feel disoriented and intoxicated by it. To feel its magic, to absorb its spirit-power and let it overtake his soul.
Wait … Mulder and Scully had a second child? When did that happen?? And how!?
Just hold your horses, there. It didn’t happen. Technically. But that’s the beauty of fanfiction: whatever you dream up in your head can suddenly happen in your favorite fandom. All you have to do is write it down.
If you’ve been living under a rock (or, more generously, not that invested in entertainment) you may not be familiar with the concept of fanfiction. Basically, it’s fiction featuring characters and other elements from a particular fandom (TV series, movies, books, video games, etc.) written by a fan. If you think that’s a lot of “fiction” and a lot of “fan” in one sentence, you’re starting to get the idea. To put it more simply: it’s a story written by an author who shamelessly steals someone else’s copyright. Authors don’t get paid, but they don’t get sued, either. Fair enough.