Twilight Saga Lie of 2010: First of Many

Won't play "goofy."

With Stephenie Meyer’s third Twilight installment “Eclipse“ slated for this summer’s inevitable box office domination, I realize all resistance is futile. This time, though, I’m not going down without a battle. I figure if Ms. Meyer is capable of controlling the iPod playlists of millions of tween Twi-bots, I should have a pretty good shot with just one kid — mine.

“Bella, have you heard anything about the soundtrack for that ‘Eclipse’ movie?”

“The official track listings have not been released yet, Mom.”

Impressive. Most impressive, but she’s not a Jedi yet.

“Oh, well, I think I found something from it on YouTube.”

About thirty seconds into the twenty year-old Peter Murphy song, Bella rolled her eyes, “What is your source on this?”

“I don’t remember, Bell –”

“Because Stephenie Meyer wouldn’t use this music. It’s all wrong.”

Naturally, because Peter Murphy could never be a dark overlord or anything like that. Right. Pfft.

“Bella, look at him. He’s obviously one of those Euro vampires, you know, from the last movie.”

“No, not possible.”

“What do you mean?! This guy has got to be the KING of all vampires. He’s got black leather pants and the flying bird friend, and he’s running around in the forest. What doesn’t say ‘VAMPIRE’ here?”

She wasn’t having it: “Mom, this guy is straight-up goth. There is a difference. Vampires can be goth, but it doesn’t mean all goths are vampires or that all vampires are goth. And if there’s one thing all vampires are, it isn’t goofy.”

Oh.

Well, then.

I am dying for the clarification of “Emo” now. Apparently, Hot Topic needs to refer to my petite nerdette for future t-shirt slogans because she has the age-old goth vs. vampire quandary completely settled. As for my weaselly attempt to trick her into liking Peter Murphy so that she’ll play something other than Taylor Swift on the guitar? Failure there, so Mom: 0; The Bell: Uno.

But, believe me, this is just the first round. Luckily, for The Bell, I can deliver goofy vampire music all the live-long day.

Ann rules. Sarah drools.

I just received one of Mom’s special emails — the kind that generally features my address alongside something to the effect of “letterstotheeditor@dallas.news.com”. I live for these.

Mom yelled:

Comparing Sarah Palin to Ann Richards, even briefly is ludicrous. Ann Richards was a savvy astute lady, qualities which are sadly lacking in Palin. Richards also admitted to her faults and mistakes and did not try to blame others…

Oh, man. A can of worms was definitely open somewhere nearby. Apparently, a clever word nerd over at the Dallas Morning News figured out a way to rehash ye olde “Sarah-Palin-is-the-new-Ann-Richards” argument just in time for Madam Alaska’s north Texas book signing this Friday. Without even reading the editorial, my incisors were already beginning to feel a little longer. I raced over to read Wednesday’s article for what was sure to be some kind of mass, vampiric bloodletting in the comment section.

Ouch, and there it was — the writer’s offending element in all of its fire-starting glory:

Though the comparison would surely put a bee in the late Texas Democrat’s beehive, there’s some of the late Ann Richards in Palin, a Western go-getter who pushes hard against gender stereotypes and who has little patience for pretense, either in politics or personal style.

On the offset readers might not be entirely privy, I’ll take this opportunity to throw a couple of Texan tenets out into vast yonder of the interwebz. First, Yee-haw 101: “Don’t mess with Texas.” Easy enough. Numero dos: “Don’t mess with [Ann Richards'] Texas [hair].” Got that? Okay, moving on then. Next, never compare the Lone Star Saint Richards to anyone –especially a woman Ann would have gladly clobbered in a four-second, backyard rasslin’ match. And, finally, if you’re gonna hyperlink former Governor Ann Richards’ name to something, make sure it isn’t to an image of Nancy Pelosi. Seriously.

To be fair, I don’t think the editorial writer was in Sarah’s corner, and there wasn’t a push to have readers purchase any lip-shticked, hockey mom BS. That was for sure. It’s just that Ann, in all of her glorious, immortal humanity, is down-right (and even dirty) Texas royalty. We get it: Sarah and Ann are both vag-positive, political rock stars. Going any further with that comparison would be like suggesting that porn and Rodin’s nude, bronze forms are in the same league.

Since I’ve brought up porn, though, I’d like to point out that the longer hopeful voters keep masturbating to Palin’s potential run for President, the longer they distract themselves from finding a real candidate. This book thing — the book that goes unnamed here because I don’t wanna sell it any more than I already have — is putting a huge face on D-U-M-B. The SNL team couldn’t write a script any better than Sarah’s fans, who recently showed up for a Columbus, OH, Borders book signing and agreed to be interviewed by the NLM:

*scratches head. I’m off Friday…anyone have a camera with a decent mic?

Florida, oh, Florida.

Stalking Sarah’s right-wing, autograph-fiending, captive audience isn’t just for amateurs, though. MSNBC also provided viewers with unedited, live interviews with Palin fans who were standing in line. It doesn’t get much better than when the reporter hands this ignorant nimrod her supper plate about two minutes into the Q&A:

That’s what happens when you rock a propaganda T and get called out on national television. I am praying hard Jay Leno does a Jay-Walking episode with these lines. How often does an opportunity like this present itself outside a Nascar parking lot? I’m all for everybody expressing individual political beliefs, but if there’s a guy holding a camera in your face and asking basic questions about what exactly it is you support about your candidate, you might wanna rethink your position if the best answer you’ve got is, “Ummm, I dunno,” or “She’s got real experience.”

[Pause for fantasy about what this would have all looked like if Ann Richards was still alive to interview these folks while they waited in line for Sarah Palin. Think: Kill Bill.]

Back to Mom, though. Maybe she should interview the weirdos in the Palin line this week. Mom could correct false analogy offenders with her movie theater laser of justice. After all, letters to the editor are akin to stamping your feet in front of the babysitter. I propose a camera, a mic, and a sick day from school, Ms. Phares. What would Ann Richards do?

The Bell, Letter Writer Extraordinaire. Snap, snap, snap.

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A while back I scanned some of Bella’s awesome letters — tattle telling quandaries and Mom-and-Dad billet-douxs, mostly. In a scavenger hunt through Photobucket tonight, I rediscovered a few of those.

The urgent letter to the Principal of W.T. Hanes Elementary:

Dear Mrs. Blevins

If I had to pick a favorite, the letter to Mrs. Blevins would probably be it. It’s got third-grade narcing, “panting,” and is signed with “love.” More importantly, this one demonstrates proper, early parenthetical usage, which makes this maternal word nerd’s heart swell times nine million. I remember scanning it, too, as I only had a few seconds to confiscate the note and replace it in order to avoid suspicion.

The Rick Perry Letter:

Oh, Rick Perry. You foolish politician, you.

The Perry letter was read aloud in a faculty meeting. THEN it was read again at an ATPE function later in the week. I’m tellin’ ya, the teachers really dug this one. I’ll never forget when Bella emerged from her room with her pen and notebook paper, wanting to know what Rick Perry’s address was. He never wrote back, but The Bell wasn’t worried about it. She told me, “Mom, didn’t you see the fake email address I put down there at the bottom? I didn’t want to hear his song and dance, but I didn’t wanna be rude either.”

I was confused, “Wait, huh?”

“Mom, it was a decoder email address. He wasn’t going to tell me anything I haven’t already heard before. Politicians. You know what I mean.”

“I think you mean a ‘decoy’, Bella.”

“Yes, that.”

Great.

The Colorado Vacation Letter:

Letter from Vacation with Nana

If I could spend just a few minutes with Bella again at any previous age, this would be the phase I’d revisit. She missed me “so much.” With an exclamation point, even. She wanted to know if Getoff’s baby was born yet, but, in typical Isobel fashion, didn’t want anyone to write back because she was belting out this letter on her way home in Nana’s rental car. The best part: a post script full of danger sure to freak out any mom included “…real prisoners and a dust devil and a cattle drive!”

The Birthday Card for Her Dad:

For Dad

It wasn’t so much the birthday card as it was the backstory. Inside the envelope, she’d enclosed a dollar and forty-seven cents. It was all of her money at the time. She’d overheard us arguing about bills.

Sometimes people with newborns ask me what my favorite age has been of Bella’s. Truly, I have loved them all just as much as they’ve each been challenging in their own ways. When I see her these days trying so hard to be a teenager, but without the teen suffix just yet, I feel incredibly close to her even though she’s pushing me further and further away. Recently, I read a fantastic quote in Mary Pipher’s book about adolescent girls Bella’s age, Reviving Ophelia, in which a mother perfectly sums up every thought in my head at this point:

“I hurl you into the universe and pray.”

The clever, young girl who wrote these letters surely deserves an addendum to the above quote, though, and that makes me less nervous, if nothing else:

“I hurl you into the universe and pray — for others.

I love, love, love this child forever.

The Great Toilet Flood of 2009`

Today, our toilet flooded everywhere as I was standing helplessly in the bathroom, totally in the nude. After panicking like a little girl, I turned off the water, called Russell, and got his voicemail.

Then the toilet freaked out a second time, so instead of calling a plumber or any of our five million retired neighbors — gossiping and drinking their mid-morning cocktails in one another’s garages — I ran to Facebook Chat and summoned Amanda, Russell’s co-worker.

There can’t be anything more ridiculous than instant messaging someone about how your toilet is out-of-control. If Hanna-Barbera had to transcribe my chat with Amanda for a television audience, it would’ve looked just like this:

If you have to have a catastrophe, you should at least find the best way to deal with it. I’m all for bad animation and monotone vocals any day of the week.

The Quickest Way to Mom’s Laser of Death

 

photo by russell turns

photo by russell turns

My mother will be furious when she discovers I have posted this here. She’s under the delusion this story paints her in poor lighting, but I think we can all agree it just makes her seem like an extreme badass — or at the very least a heroine to all who’ve paid ten bucks to see a movie only to have it ruined by some holier-than-thou prick and his cell phone. In fact, when I originally wrote this bit, which appeared in a local print version for a handful of readers, Mom wrote an angry letter to the editor, in which she referred to me not as her daughter but as “Ms. Austin.” I’m not immune to the corrective, quirky wrath of Mom, most certainly, but it’s my sincere privilege to admire it at such close range as her understudy.

Now, with that said, behold my fantastic mother:

I have seen my daughter anxious to leave her Nana’s house, but I’ve never seen her sprint to the truck before. As Bella closed the door, she locked it, and said, “Mom, drive. Hurry.”

I knew it was gonna be a great story – something for my feisty mother’s five-hour, future eulogistic outline, even.

“Nana was so embarrassing at the theater.”

“Like, embarrassing for real or embarrassing for cool fifth graders like you?”

“I mean it, Mom. This time she went over the edge.” 

She explained: Mom and Bella decided to attend a matinee. During the previews, a man in the front of the theater began a text marathon. I could see exactly where this was headed. Poor Bella.

“…then the movie started, and he didn’t stop.”

Oh, no.

…so Nana stood up and yelled, ‘Quit texting! It’s distracting! Stop it!’ ”

“Excellent. Really?”

“YES. She REALLY did that, Mom, but it gets better because…”

The guy had the audacity to tell my mother to sit down. MY mother. Then he foolishly entered Mom’s No Man’s Land when he added, “Just watch the movie and quit looking at my phone, Lady!”

Bella and I shared a moment of fearful silence. I was worried this all was going to end at the police station or something, but, nah. As Bella promised, it got better.

“Mom, Nana pulled a laser out of her purse and beamed it onto the screen of that guy’s phone so he couldn’t text anymore.”

“She pulled out a what?!”

“A laser! Like, on one of those key chain things. You know.”

“Oh, ok! What did the guy do?!”

“He stood up and screamed at her [in Bella's best screaming guy voice], What do you think you’re doing?! Stop it! NOW! And then Nana screamed back [awesome Nana voice here], Stop texting! And then he yelled, No! And she shot the laser again, and it hit him in the eyes!”

Speechlessness.

“Yeah, and he put his hands on his face and totally was yelling, Are you crazy? You could blind me with that! You could blind somebody. And Nana said, Well, then turn around and watch the screen and quit looking at me!

"It was so embarrassing."

"It was so embarrassing."

I was sooo incredibly glad I wasn’t there. Kind of. 

“Anyway, Mom, then he ran out of the theater to tell on her. I was so embarrassed. The guy’s wife was also very embarrassed. When the manager came back, the guy was angry because he was told not to text anymore.”

That was not really what Mom’s ego needed at that point, especially while she was brandishing a sci-fi, sight-stealing laser.

“And then twenty minutes later, we decided to leave because the movie was really not very entertaining.” She paused. “And that was it. How was your day?”

There you have it. No texting during the movie. You never know; the theater might have an anti-SMS plant in the form of my mother. She is armed and unafraid to punish.

“The voicemail you are trying to reach is full.”

 

Robot scavenger hunt for Russell's birthday

Robot scavenger hunt for Russell's birthday

 

Two reasons for failing to return/answer calls and chronic lateness:

  1. I got rid of my purses two months ago, keep forgetting to buy a new one, and am toting around a record bag that looks more like a diaper bag than anything a normal person might use. Thus, I can’t hear or find my phone inside that enormous thing;
  2. There’s been an extra amount of ass-wiping going on at work recently — both good and bad varieties;
  3. I’ve been slammed with an awful lot of What I Always Wanted.

I guess that’s more than two excuses. Cut me some slack. Let’s time travel.

April 1st:

Russell turned really old, and Tyson Summers was cool enough to crank out a super-fast commission even though he was moving at the time. I was expecting something really simple because of his circumstances, but within the first twenty-four hours, Tyson wrote:

I’m almost finished. It’s a risque piece based on deep ellum / fair park. I love the statue at fair park of the lady and cactus. I’ve used a very pretty nude model in halftone dots standing in the middle of a cartoon cactus. The two big characters of the cactus are landlord / property owners fighting. On the cactus will be 4-icze and a boarded up tunnel. Shazam, I think I’m almost done. The background is pink with my stars looking on. I added a halftone dot Uni looking after the lady as well.

T

Tyson's Cactus Lady of Deep Ellum

Russell loved it.

First Weekend of April:

The Bell and I met Madre in Austin to celebrate this year’s ATPE awards; she was one of the top three contenders for Texas State Teacher of the Year. While Mom tried staying awake during boring meetings, Bella and I toured the Capitol, the Austin Museum of Art, and T O Y  J O Y. 

Texas State Capitol

Texas State Capitol

Bella took this one. What a fantastic weekend.

Bella took this one. What a fantastic weekend.

April Never Ending:

The Bell needed a new bed, so we punished her with hours of IKEA. Sometimes, IKEA can be so sad. Luckily, Russell had a plan.

sadbedbed2bed3bed4bed5Alas, another case of IKEA blues was defeated.

Ongoing Family Bidness with the KLG (is gonna rock you…):

Grace asked me to quit calling her “Gracie.” Sniffle, sniffle. 

"Hey, Grace, do your Dio rock hand."

"Hey, Grace, do your Dio rock hand."

Here, Ken and Lindsay reenact a scene from 'Jacob's Ladder'.

Here, Ken and Lindsay reenact a scene from 'Jacob's Ladder'.

With a side order of May:

Isata and her family deserve more than just Honorable Mention; she’s a great kiddo with great parents and an incredible back story.

I loved Isata about five minutes after I first saw her as she handed my very sad Bella Monster a toy and patted her on the back. It was 1999, and I’d just dropped Bella off for her first Mother’s Day Out, which — for neurotic moms like me — was more like Mother’s Day to Freak Out. 

Isata came with a bonus prize — her parents. Idrissa and Ada left their native country of Sierra Leone in the early nineties. Recently popularized by the film Blood Diamond, Sierra Leone was amongst one of the world’s most unstable regions at that time due to, perhaps, the cruelest gang warfare and rebel fighting in modern history — fueled entirely by our greed for diamonds and Sierra Leone’s corrupt leadership and shaky relationships with its Liberian neighbors. Isata’s folks tell incredibly sad stories coupled with extreme optimism. They understand what matters in life in a way that isn’t as humbling or demoralizing as much as it is liberating for me. Truly, their spirits set me free.

Last week, I drove Bella over to Ada’s braid shop in Irving. (Ada has superhero fast braiding fingers.) Idrissa ordered pizza for us while we chatted about the girls and foreign affairs and how Bella had been handling the divorce all this time later. We talked about their African Muslim wedding in which Bella stood in Isata’s place of honor when they were four years old. I listened intently as Idrissa shared stories about his sister still living in Johannesburg, South Africa: “They asked me to come, but I cannot. The region, it is too dangerous even for someone like myself.”

Bella and Isata talked on the other side of the salon about the Black-eyed Peas and Hannah Montana and Paramore and The Jonas Brothers, though. That part of the world was far away.

There is so much more to add, but for the sake of sacrificing another five million in text, I’ll wrap it up with Isata’s most recent parting words: “Kristan, I love you. You are my second mother.”

I needed that an awful lot this past week. I love my families and am immensely grateful.

kristan and ada

kristan and ada

the bell and my other daughter, isata

the bell and my other daughter, isata

You can’t stop this party:

On Friday, I accompanied Bella’s honor choir to the yearly competition at Sandy Lake Amusement Park. (I need some coffee and a pretend cigarette already, and I haven’t even gotten but one sentence into this excuse for not being able to return your calls.)

O.

K.

One parent. One grandparent. One teacher who is retiring next week and can’t walk. Twenty-six fourth and fifth grade WIIIILD and CARAZAY KIDS. When I think “Last Friday,” I also think “Xanax.” 

To the four parents who canceled at the LAST MINUTE: you lost out, but there was no fun lost (except for the little guy who threw up all day, but you know…poor kiddo).

bellabumper

First Place Division!

First Place Division!

Is there a collection somewhere of past gum trees from other years? Hm.

Is there a collection somewhere of past gum trees from other years? Hm.

scrambler

Saturday, Saturday, yes, Saturday, oh, Saturday, Saturday:

I wrote all about the whale scarf Julie made in L.A. via her Spiderbot Etsy store. Well, Russ and I managed to make it through the morning rain to the Etsy Dallas convention at Southside Lamar, and it was something else. I didn’t see anything I liked more than the whale scarf, which I wore like a medal, but I did find some interesting items for our jewelry-making endeavors. Russell stopped to investigate a funny doll.

Etsy treasure by Deb at anklebiter.etsy.com

Etsy treasure by Deb at anklebiter.etsy.com

I tried to be sneaky, but Russell knew I’d gotten the monster for him before we even got home.

“Let me see if I can find those snacks in your purse.” [Grin]

“Russell, why are you smiling like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” [Grin]

“Ugh, here’s your monster.”

“Thank you.”

Later that afternoon at the Grapevine bead convention (yes, you read that correctly), we found loads of cool stuff for projects. I bought black, bead wiring for jewelry crocheting, so if you receive something that looks like a bird’s nest, well, just humor me. I’m trying. I have to do something besides bitch and moan about politics, you know. After waging war on the Vote Yes campaign for the past two months, I’m ready for something less controversial — like wire crocheting the Big Bang Theory. Wait…

Don't call it "crafting." It's a scientific experiment, cough, cough.

Don't call it "crafting." It's a scientific experiment, cough, cough.

There were so many booths at the bead convention that we lost track of time and spent four hours inside that thing. I call it the “IKEA Phenomenon”. At one point, I stopped to admire a woman’s wire coiling and button bracelet, and she was kind enough to demonstrate her technique. Everything was fine until she added, “…and if you will recall [insert famous beading guy's name here, unknown to non-fanatics]‘s 2002 cover for Bead and Glass Magazine, there was, I believe, an instructional guide to this method in that issue.” That was when I realized I was way out of my league, thanked her, and quickly turned around to giggle with Russell as we made our way into a different room of the exhibit.

“Russell, I think I know what I sound like now when I talk about stuff like, ehhhh, I dunno…4AD record cover art around people who aren’t V23 fans.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how crazy you sound.”

Luckily, I spotted a ring artisan in the next area and quickly forget about my plaguing new revelation.

Last Night:

Lori is thirty-seven this week. I don’t know how that happened so quickly. Russell and I attended her anniversary dinner with Xtos, so I could present her with trinkets appropriate for an old lady, heh. I explained to Lors that my company recognized my ten years of service this past week, so I’d decided to give her a similar token celebrating her twenty years of service as my girl. There was sushi. A glass of wine. Oh, god, there was creme brulee. Then we both fell asleep during the movie while X-tos and Russell laughed at us (but not before Lori’s top semi-fell down at the restaurant). Hurray for pocket cams times ten thousand.

Birthdays come but once each year.

Birthdays come but once each year.

As dinner ended, Russell passed a napkin across the table.

“I love you!”

I got out my pen and scribbled, “I love you more!”

That’s when he dug around in his pocket for a moment, tucked something into the napkin, and passed both back across the table toward me. He said, “You don’t love me more than I love you.”

Wrapped inside the dinner napkin, was a beautiful new ring:

xo, totoro.

xo, totoro.

 

Maybe you guessed it: from the aforementioned ring artisan at the bead convention. He’s a sneaky guy, that Russell.

Right now:

I think I’ve covered much of the “What I Always Wanted” portion of my excuses for not checking voicemail and returning many calls. One of the great lessons Idrissa (and Ada) taught me goes something like this:

“In America and in no other country in the world, there is a sense of nothing but work, work, and work. It’s 24/7, this working. There is no time for family or happiness because so much emphasis is put upon job and career. Here, you are only about your job; it is who you are, and people think they must achieve success in that way only. In Africa, my father was surrounded always by his council and many bodyguards, yet from the time the sun came up until the time the sun went down, I was by his side. He made the time for me because I was important to him; I meant more to him than his duties. He made sure everybody knew this, too. In America, we must remember to love each other and to care for one another as if we are also family.”

I have time left for Now. I’ll call you back later.

1987 Debunked by Its Own Panflute Playing Monkey

Team Awkward

Team Awkward

 

Recently, Bella, along with every other boobie-budding tweenager, has been obsessed with Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight book series. It’s kind of like the Duran Duran of my generation in that this Twilight thing is a big gateway into much cooler stuff.

“Mom, can I download the Moose CD?”

Moose? Really? Where did you hear about them?”

“The Twilight soundtrack. You know.”

Muse?”

“Yeah, is that how you say it?”

I instantly okayed Muse, a vast improvement over Miley Cyrus and the rest of Bella’s musical library riddled with phase vocoder this-and-that.

A week later, The Bell was reading in her room. Brief trappings of classical composer Claude Debussy emanated through the walls.

“Russell? Do you hear that?”

“Yeah, is that from Bella’s room?”

“Yes! She’s listening to Debussy in there, and I think it’s on repeat.”

We pressed our ears to her door. Holy cow, it was really happening.

Knock, knock. “Bella?”

“Reading.”

“Hey, are you listening to Debussy?”

“Yes, I am.”

“When did you get into that?”

“Twilight soundtrack. Moooom, I’m reading right now, ok?”

“Sorry.”

Booty dance. Take THAT, Miley.

After Muse and Debussy, Bella asked for a copy of Wuthering Heights. I know the Twilight phenom isn’t real hip amongst the holier than thou Philip K. Dick set, but, hey, STEPHANIE MEYER BRAINWASHED MY KID INTO BEGGING FOR A COPY OF WUTHERING HEIGHTS. Praise her.

Yesterday, Bella made the most important discovery of her lifetime: “MOM! Uncle Dain’s old band Marjorie Fair is a huge inspiration for Stephanie Meyer. Look, she has listed them as required listening for New Moon readers.”  

Reads Philip K. Dick

Reads Philip K. Dick

 

There were about eight different layers of Excellent to this news — the best being Uncle Dain’s incredible hatred for those books. We texted him immediately. I pointed out how all of Bella’s friends were dying for an autograph and downloading music videos of his fake-playing keyboards in some faraway field. As members of the massive Stephanie Meyer Army, I’m sure eleven-year-olds everywhere are dreamily batting their eyelashes and cooing, “Oooooh, Dain.”  (Dain is super Tiger Beat at 3:09)

Going back to my earlier analogy, though, of Duran Duran and Twilight being gateway drugs into Cool, this means Dain equals Nick Rhodes. Score, that’s great. 

Nick Rhodes, move over. Dain is here.

Nick Rhodes, move over. Dain is here.

But anyway, all of this vampire stuff and the frequent trips to Hot Topic for Twilight trinket shopping has opened the door to: “Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot about my goth phase.”

“Your goth phase? You’re eleven.”

“Not now, but when I’m a teenager, Mom. I’m kind of liking that.”

“The music or the image thing?”

“The music.”

Russell and I began singing Peter Murphy’s “Strange Kind of Love” to Bella as she looked back at us in disgust. In California, we used to joke about how his voice was haunted.

“You guys are weird.”

“You’re not ready for goth if you think that’s weird.”

We YouTubed Peter Murphy, and Bella was not impressed. “It’s very vampire-y, though.” Realizing I should have eased Peter Murphy into the mix by starting with Love and Rockets and working backward, I pulled up “No New Tale to Tell.” I was sure she’d dig that.

Bella was quick to identify this music as “not goth.” Clearly, I was no competition for the musical prowess of Stephanie Meyer. About two minutes and ten seconds into the video, Bella rolled her eyes, “Mom? How can you say your music is cooler than the stuff I’m listening to?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Look at that. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but that’s a monkey playing a panflute with men dancing behind him dressed like bees.”

She was right. There was nothing cool going on with the L&R video. Why did it take an eleven-year-old twenty-two years later to point this out for me? I’m going to cut her some slack for being ahead of the curve from here on out.

This whole experience has really debunked my myth that 1987 was a badass year. It’s like when I made fun of my mom for her weird, white-woman fro and bell bottoms. What happened? I thought I was gonna break that cycle. Eh, it’s like the old adage: “You cannot go against nature because when you do go against nature, that’s part of nature, too.”

Wait, nevermind.

Stephanie Meyer, you’re ok. Apparently, you’re much cooler than Duran Duran. Sorry for being snotty about that.

And…thanks for real.

From the Mixed-up Files, Part Deux

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Everybody always blabs on and on about happiness and what they assume its personal manifestations might look like. I’ll bite:

richterkk1

Happiness is tunneling your way through one end of this Gerhard Richter image wearing just your street clothes and emerging through the other side also wearing goose bumps.

img_3098

Happiness is knowing your daughter loves him, too.

DMA in progress (R.Turns)

DMA in progress (R.Turns)

When I was in the second grade, I read E.L. Konigsburg’s Newberry Award-winning novel, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. In a nutshell, it’s a fun piece of children’s lit about a sister and brother who ran away from home to live inside The Metropolitan Museum of Art. At the time, I remember thinking it was a genius plan and decided the sequel should be my account of how I sneaked off to live inside the Fort Worth Japanese Gardens. Decades later, The Modern was built; the DMA was renovated; and the Japanese Gardens, as always, were still there for the taking. Stalking options open wide, I dragged my daughter, The Bell, around to inspect which would be the setting(s) for our fictional, yet non-fictional Mixed-up Files sequel.

While interviewing potentially inhabitable museums, I’ve learned some things about most tour guides: They wear loud, clickity and clackity shoes that make whatever they’re saying inaudible. Also, be prepared to sprint from piece to piece without getting much of a good look at jack squat through the blue hairs in your group. Guides get paid to rush you through art, so scratch that. If you really wanna love a museum, chat up a guard. Those folks will teach you the real deal. (Plus, it’s good to know which museums have security capable of intercepting your arrangements to move in undetected.)

During the On Kawara exhibit last year at the Dallas Museum of Art, Russell and I couldn’t stop cracking up. It WAS The Emperor’s New Clothes, for real. They deinstalled beautiful Stanley Marcus images, along with other amazing, cool stuff, in order to hang Kawara’s nine gazillion rectangular paintings of dates on solid black painted canvases. To top it off, the museum played audio of someone — possibly a hypnotized mortician — announcing the painted dates over and over and over again. Russell and I empathized with a guard as we were leaving, “Man, I’ll bet you’re sick of this.” And he shrugged off something to the effect of: “Well, working here I’ve realized you win some and you lose some, but it could always be worse.” As trite as that sounds, it had a real effect on me coming from a guy in his late teens with a neck tattoo and a possible grill inside his glove box. Although humbled, I determined that living within near proximity of what “could always be worse” wasn’t quite what I was going for. So, no thank you.

R. Turns)

We even dragged my brother along to On Kawara. (Image: R. Turns)

The Bell and I were gawking at the iceberg painting upstairs — again at the DMA — one afternoon when an elderly guard walked by and smiled. I could tell he was dying to give us some kind of history lesson, so I asked him about the past vandalization of the artwork. As the museum’s upper floors were mostly deserted, he walked with us through several rooms, stopping quietly at pieces he loved, and told us what made them important to him. Pausing graciously after pointing out each nuance within his discussion, the guard seemed very proud to share his knowledge of things not included in the descriptive cards by each artifact. He didn’t even have clickity-clackity shoes. Ack, I knew we’d never get past this guy, which was pretty devastating to my plan considering I often noticed him posted by the least garish bed in the building. Without a place to sleep, our sequel would never make it past the first chapter.

Sometimes you have to eavesdrop to really get into the meat of what’s interesting. When The Bell and Russell and I first viewed Amon Carter‘s entrancing collection of work by photographer Nell Dorr, I was puzzled by some of her experimental early stuff. It didn’t fit into the scheme of familial portraiture on the other walls, looked sci-fi and, well, bad. As I stood before something that looked like a Xeroxed tin can lid, one of the guards — a Marlboro Man if ever there was one — walked briskly toward me with another security guy, who was a Mexican kid more than half his age. I stepped out of their way.

“I’ve figured it out! I HAD to tell you. Alright, so look here on this side where the lighter marks are.”

The older guard brushed his fingers along the outside of the “tin can” part. “See that?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I was reading that biography on Dorr and noticed…”

He babbled a bunch of stuff outside my plebeian understanding of most art, including photography and its various technical processes, while the Chicano kid was totally following every word. I mean, these two were captivated by the revelation. Turns out, Nell Dorr was a bit of a scientist, if you will. More importantly, I also learned I was a bit of a snooty profiler, who was intellectually one-upped by two guys I’d never think twice about in line at 7/11. These guards were worth stalking, but the rest of the museum — riddled with bronze Remingtons and other Western art — wasn’t really what I was willing to call “home.”

Last summer, Russell and I sent The Bell on a covert operation at The Modern. Her mission was to attend Art Camp and report any top secret, schematic information relevant to our plans for the sequel. Instead, The Modern turned her into a child guide-bot (still useful to the operation). On the day of her “opening,” aka The Last Day of Camp, The Modern’s staff released those of us included on The Bell’s private guest list into her custody within the regular exhibition halls. I had no idea who this child was during the entire tour.

“Now, some of you,” she addressed to my mother, Russell, myself, and our thirteen year-old neighbor, “might think this is a painting when, in fact, it is a sculpture by the artist Sean Scully.” Oh, brother, The Modern must have deflected my tactic by brainwashing my young child. The only element missing was the clickity, clackity part.

Russell asked, “What about that over there?”

Clearly annoyed, The Bell hissed through her teeth, “Russell, you KNOW that is an Andy Warhol. We have discussed it before. Ok, so moving on over here…”

This eliminated all hope for domestically relocating into The Modern (although I don’t think they’ve had a cozy place to sleep since Ron Mueck‘s “In Bed” was whisked away). Potential issues: The Bell would (a) be recognized easily now, and (b) would personally kick us out and notify the authorities as part of her guide-bot programming. Beside that, The Modern’s security personnel are the least interactive of all. They appear to be mostly students, likely underpaid, and constantly checking for five o’clock. Maybe the guards are androids, who become activated only when necessary to alert a visitor that s/he needs “to step away from the art.” I guess the assimilation is entirely appropriate…and modern. But no fun.

The definitive moment occurred when the DMA purchased Phil Collins‘ (not THAT Phil Collins, but the OTHER one) “The World Won’t Listen.”

Part of the bottom floor was converted into a very dark theater divided into three chambers, each with its own screen. And, like the answer to many of my adolescent wishes, each one of the screens simultaneously depicted different karaoke versions of Smiths’ songs sung by excited fans from three very different geographical regions. The Bell and I saw it five billion times. We purchased a membership in order to avoid going into debt.

Bella pointed out one afternoon that we’d accidentally moved into the exhibit. After all the investigating, the spying, the detailed notations about every security guard at every museum, I realized they weren’t gonna rat us out after all. In fact, they encouraged us: “Were you here on Tuesday morning?”

“I don’t think we were here.” (Liar)

“A whole bunch of school kids came through. I just love watching their reactions. Some of them dance. Some of ‘em get scared. I love this exhibit.”

I’d seen it, and, yeah, it was a treasure.

This newfound bond with mankind was home for sure. Inside my wannabe mixed-up files of Predisastered, I’d discovered, like Claudia and Jamie from Konigsburg’s novel, that I didn’t need to [euphemistically] run away to find what I wanted. It’s readily available if you pay attention to the important stuff. You know, important schtuff like The Bell and the guards and the lessons those before you might have to offer. That’s the benefit of museum-bingeing for me, for junking out, for gawking about, for watching more than what’s on the walls, for listening, for sharing, and for traveling life.

In a word, it’s Happiness.

Un-Baked Alaska Forever

Twenty years ago, my mother set sail forever on her great Alaskan cruise. This was not a fantasy getaway or anything; instead, it was just her typical weekend sojourn in the kitchen, attempting to conquer whatever-it-was she’d seen that week on the cooking channel. Most of the time, this really worked out to my advantage. However, not many weeks have escaped us since The Great Baked Alaska Tragedy in which Mom hasn’t smuggled the incident into casual conversation.

“…and so I convinced The Bell to order her sandwich on wheat bread after that. Why do kids like white so much anyway?”

“Kristan, that reminds me. There’s fresh Amish Friendship Bread on the counter. Grab a piece, but stick it back into the oven when you’re done so it’ll keep at the right temperature. We wouldn’t want another Baked Alaska incident.”

No, we wouldn’t — not that it would matter, though. I mean, Mom couldn’t possibly get more mileage out of What Happened even if it’d happened twice. (I think.)

On that fateful afternoon, two decades ago, Mom completed her Baked Alaskan project. For those of you who haven’t been fully briefed on fad dessert trends from a million years ago, BA is really just a giant blob of ice cream covered in whipped something-or-another and then briefly thrown into an oven. It’s supposed to resemble an ice berg, but looks more like a gallon of delicious Blue Bell trapped in a hardened, sugary prison. Something along those lines. Anyway, when Mom was finished, she arranged her masterpiece on a set table and painstakingly took a candlelit portrait. I’m serious. Then, after stuffing the dessert into the freezer for safe keeping, Mom waited for her dinner guests.

That’s when I arrived with my best friend, who not only sampled the dessert, but also left it out…

…to melt.

At the time, I felt awful about it, and, man, Mom was rightfully pissed off. I slinked away for the rest of that weekend in order to avoid The Wrath of Mom. 

Today I retrieved the cranberry salad from Mom’s fridge as we all crowded around the holiday table. When I closed the door, I cracked up because stuck behind a magnetized framed, there was the portrait Mom took of her beloved Baked Alaska — from the late eighties, during the last breath of the Reagan admin, just months before the Berlin Wall was torn down, when George Michael and Elton John had yet to officially leap out of the closet. There were a few recipes tacked to the door with various magnets, a drawing Isobel did a while back, and that photo of the baked sore spot. Point: Mom was NEVER gonna let the Alaskan thing go. 

“Did you find the salad?”

“Yes.”

“Well, close the door all the way and MAKE SURE IT’S SHUT. We don’t need another Baked Alaska moment on Christmas.”

Or New Year’s…

Or Valentine’s…

Or next Wednesday.

And yet, the teeth-grinding, fist-clenching, eye-squinting Mom-isms would be missed if they were suddenly gone.

Grandmother’s Guinness Book of Something

As I kissed my Grandmother Ruth goodbye, I noticed two things: The Dunny I brought last Mother’s Day was on display next to her chair, and Grandma’s toenails were excessively overgrown. Oh, gross. I was shocked agents from Guinness hadn’t been by to authenticate some sort of world record. Unable to leave Grandma like that, I escorted her to the bedroom and sent Dad on a search for de-hoofing tools. 

“I know they’re long, KK, but I can’t get to them anymore.”

Dad returned with a complete pedicure kit. The three of us looked at each other, and I felt certain Grandma was the only one amongst us with prior foot fancification experience [Don King-ism, thank you]. I sent Dad out of the room and apologized to Grandma, “I have never done this before. I don’t want to hurt you, but some of these nails are turned under and look ingrown, ok?”

With that, I surveyed the torture devices within the nail kit. I was only cutting the nails. That was it. Nothing else, none of the frou-frou stuff.

Laying back on her pillow, Grandma winced.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”

“Yes, honey. It’s not hurting me.”

Liar. I’d have to be more careful.

I slowly worked my way across each toe on each foot. Some of the trimmings flung themselves into my face as I snipped them. I can’t believe I am doing this. Gross. A dense layer of white clippings decorated the front of my black vest like fungal, calcified snowflakes. Oooooh, my god. I brushed myself off and caught eyes with Grandma. Humiliated and embarrassed, she apologized. I pulled the giant emory board from its plastic pouch. I’m going to file this mess down so she won’t cut herself with these sharp former-talons, and that’s it.

“Does that hurt? I am bad at this kind of stuff.”

She shook her head.

“Does it tickle or anything?” 

“No, doesn’t tickle, honey.”

Twenty minutes later, Grandma had human toenails again. I could almost hear the Guinness guys getting back inside their cars. Ashy with nail dust, Ruth wiggled her toes.

“Thank you so much. I know how unpleasant that was.”

Sigh, I am going to wash her feet with a washcloth, and that is it.

“I hope this isn’t too cold. I have to clean your feet.”

“Alright. Thank you again.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Grandma.”

I blotted the pads of her toes.

“Oh, I really do appreciate this. It feels so nice.”

Good, I wasn’t killing her. I grabbed the mammoth bottle of lotion next to her pillow.

“I’m going to massage your feet a minute, ok?”

She leaned back and closed her eyes. I worked the lotion over her incredibly dehydrated feet and calves.

“That just feels wonderful.”

“I’m so glad to do it. All you have to do is ask for help.”

“You get used to it — the long toenails and, you know, the other things that happen when you get older.”

“You don’t have to. Dad is always here.”

“I hate to bother him,” she said as she struggled up. “I can’t find the controller for my bed. It is usually right here.”

I put the lotion on the shelf and raised her into a sitting position. Ruth grabbed my hand. “I know your father did not have a perfect life, and I want you to forgive him like I forgave his father. Your grandfather wanted to do things, to buy things for you all, but he couldn’t bring himself to…to communicate. He was so awful at that.”

I sat down next to her. There wasn’t anything left in the pedicure case for me to tackle her with next. 

“I know, Grandma.”

“You were a handful, KK. You were not an easy child. I am still so proud of you, my sweet grand daughter. Look at you now. Just look at you.”

Look at what? What did she mean? 

Grandma continued, “You don’t even know it yet.”

“Know what, Grandma?”

“You’re a good person. I love you so very much. I wanted you to know.”

We were totally having the conversation I wanted to have with her at the hospital. I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly, my face was coated in thick layers of tears — the variety that drop directly from your eyes, like rain, and without your even having realized them. I buried my head in her lap and bawled and told her I loved her, too. And…

“…I know Grandpa meant well. I know he wasn’t treated nicely, but everybody is fine.”

She patted my hair.

“I love you so much, KK. You know I love you, don’t you?”

“I do.” Lifting my head, I looked up at her sideways like I did when I was little. She smiled down at me and wiped my cheeks. I put my head back down on her lap while she continued stroking my hair, and we sat like that for a very long time. I couldn’t gauge it, but the light changed outside, I know.

She knows she’s old and that it’s time to quit looking at the world through bullshit-colored glasses, I guess. I’m so glad she flagged me down.

Next week, I’m driving back to Dad’s. Maybe this time, I’ll bring polish. I’m on a roll with this pedicure thing.

Perhaps, I should practice polishing my own toes while I’m at it, even.