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I admit it. I’ve become part of the media circus soaking in the Michael Jackson spectacle. In the past 24 hours, I’ve partaken in tasteless text messages, timely Twitters, wistful Facebook posts, and even a blog post last night on how very irrelevant this event was to me. I could not tell you the score of the Cardinals game, or what the high temperature will be in my neck of the woods for the weekend, and I’m not precisely sure where one of my minor children may be at this moment. So except for a 2-3 hour span when I took my son to the doctor for an infection requiring another round of antibiotics, I’ve watched, posted, and read. (Sidenote: I’m starting to think about having my kids walk around with surgical masks like MJ’s kids.) Read the rest of this entry »
It’s been kind of an odd day. It started with the news that Farrah Fawcett had died. Fair-haired Farrah, all windswept and sunkissed, the fantasy of boys (and men) and the first glimpse for many women at a future with body dysmorphic disorder. I knew I would never look like that in my bathing suit, or any other piece of clothing. I’m not really a flirty, flip my hair kind of gal. I’m 37 and grew up with sisters, but I had friends with Farrah on their wall, watching their every pre-pubescent move. I’d rather not think of the first time they took a firm grip and rode Farrah into their first sexual experience, but I guess I just did. Somewhere in my packed away memories, I know I watched Charlie’s Angels. I think I preferred Kate Jackson’s quirky cuteness or Kate Jackson’s steely sensibility. Farrah was completely unrelatable to this small town girl on a farm in the mid-70s. Plus, I was like 4-5 years old.
And then Mr. Michael, the first black person to have a poster up in my house, I’m sure. Like every 12 year old girl in 1984, I had posters of Michael, and Michael t-shirts and Michael buttons, and I wore pink socks and pink shirts sticking out of my jacket sleeves. He was a phenomenon the world had never seen before. Back in the day, when we only had 3 channels and 2 didn’t come in very well, I remember the precise moment I, with the rest of the world, saw the “Moonwalk.” I stood up and called my friends on my circular dialing wall telephone, “Oh my God Becky, did you see that, that was Amazing!!! Read the rest of this entry »
My desire to express myself keeps bumping up against my need for perfection. As I struggle to find my voice in the blogosphere, I realize I see interesting things everyday. Yet, when I sit to write, the intimidation of all the white space chills me. Not to the bone, but definitely below the dermis. I want to put forth raw honesty and emotion, but what if I’ve got the wrong honesty and emotion, and suddenly there are knowing glances at work, or disapproving glares at family gatherings? I want to write about my experiences with my Alzheimer’s-ish mother, and the challenges of parenthood through the use of witty anecdotes, or the trials and tribulations of life with the zing of Erma Bombeck. Maybe not. At least not this first night. Tonight, I will breathe a sigh of relief for a small victory over the white space.
