BulgingButtons

Not bad for a fat girl

Monthly Archives: November 2013


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Reading My Writing

microphone-clip-art-9This morning I woke up a little bit anxious. I have a really busy day planned, and for that I’m glad. The day’s events will start with breakfast with a dear friend, whom I don’t see often enough. We will catch up on each other’s stories, and she will tell me about her recent trip, which I enjoyed vicariously through her online photos. I can’t wait to spend time with her.

The day will end with a small dinner party at the new home of one of my dear colleagues. The warmth and friendship and food and drink will be excellent, and I know it will be a memorable evening. I’m looking forward to seeing how they have transformed this house with their unique touches, and I’m so happy to be spending time away from the pressures of work with these wonderful people.

In between all that good happy stuff (and food temptation, oy vey) is my thing. My reading. Yikes. You see, I have been participating in a writing workshop for the past year or so, and each fall and spring the group does a reading. The workshop is in conjunction with a museum, and the fall reading is rather small and done in the museum. The spring reading includes past workshop participants and is held next door at the performing arts center. Gulp. Last year I took a pass on both.

The thing is, underneath my fun loving exterior I’m actually an introvert. The current personality type gimmick going around Facebook, based on the Meyers Briggs Personality Types, suggests that I’m a meerkat at heart. I’m not sure how accurate that is, but I’m not a big fan of crowds, public speaking, or fear. It takes me some time to warm up to new people, and I do best with a small intimate group (note the events for which I am excited today, above).  Still, I’ve been writing a lot, and I mean really a lot, between a novel in a month and a post a day, and keeping up with class, well, that’s a lot. I’ve also been sharing much of it with all of you. So why not put my big girl panties on (literally), take a deep breath, and step up to the microphone? I can do this. I’m a writer, and I write to be read. Why not face my anxiety and read my work to an audience? The worst that can happen is silence, and I know I can handle that.

Isn’t is odd that I can take on an auditorium of 500 kids with no problem, but a room with maybe 39 adults gives me the heebie jeebies? I guess because kids are more forgiving of mistakes (or don’t even notice them). Oh well, a little challenge here and there leads to personal growth, and I’m all for that. Now I’m going to print out my piece, put it in my purse with my glasses, and go have a relaxing breakfast with my friend. Today is going to be a wonderful day.


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Bedtime Stories from Hell

I am a child of immigrant parents. German Jews whose own parents took them away to safety before they had any concept of the danger they were in, just by virtue of their birth. They were brought to America, enrolled in school, taught English, and given high expectations for achievement. After all, they were fortunate, they were spared when so many others were not. They were in the land of opportunity, and by gosh they had better take advantage of those opportunities.

When I was small my mother read me bedtime stories every night. There were lots of normal ones, like like The Little Red Hen and If I Ran the Circus, but there were bizarre German ones too. Struwwelpeter_1First there were the Brothers Grimm. It has been observed many times before how aptly named they were, as their fairy tales involved the darkest side of human nature, and often involved evil and death. And then there were Max und Moritz and Struwwelpeter. Oh. My. God.

These were really the stuff of nightmares. A stubborn boy starved himself to death. A  tailor cut off the thumbs of a boy who sucked them. A girl who played with matches burned to death. Mom?  Did you read these?  Were you aware of how disturbing these stories are? This is what you put me to bed with! Didn’t you like me?

imagesThese are not the stories I shared with my own son. We read The Very Busy Spider and  The Very Hungry Caterpillar. He delighted to Jan Brett’s illustrations and Dr. Seuss’s rhymes. The loving families in Patricia Polacco’s books, and the familiarity of Big Red Barn and Good Night Moon sent him off to sleep in a world that was safe and comfortable.

To this day I have many unjustified fears. I think that perhaps my parents’ choice of bedtime literature fostered some of those. I hope that my son lives in a world where he feels safe and secure. A world where a young child can count on stories ending happily ever after, and nobody will cut off your thumbs.


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Ham and the Art of Parenting

Two days ago in the grocery store, teenage son says, “Oh Mommy, can we get a ham?” Yes, he calls me Mommy. Deal with it. “We have ham in the fridge,” I reply, quite sensibly. “No, not ham, A ham. For the pot luck at school on Friday.”

Oh. A ham. Great. He goes to a school where a lot of the kids are on free and reduced lunch. They will bring items to the potluck, but they won’t bring a ham. ham with danielsI know these kids. They are great kids. I want to feed them, and I have the means to provide a ham. “Fine,” I tell him, “but you have to deal with it.”

I don’t have the first clue about what to do with a ham. I grew up in a semi-kosher household and we never had a ham. I have never purchased a ham. I do buy deli ham, though, and bacon has been in my house on more than one occasion, but a ham? Never.

Now it’s Thursday night, and he reminds me of the ham. “When are we going to cook the ham?” he asks. I’m planning on walking out the door in five minutes to go to a class. My finace, who advised him on the finer points of ham cooking, is out cold feeling ill. Um, we?

So the quandry is, do I go to class (it’s the last meeting, and certainly not for a grade or anything, just for fun) and worry all evening about the ham and the possibility of him burning down the house, or at least drying out the ham, or do I stay home and google ham and it’s preparation? Oh this parenting thing, it just never gets old. Next year I hope he signs up for paper plates.