Category Archives: The Bell

Behold This

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A few years ago, I realized I started off an awful lot of sentences like this: “Oh, I have always wanted to [insert whatever it was I'd always wanted to do here].”

You know. You’ve heard people chatter like that, too.

“Oh, I have always wanted to visit Japan.”

“I have always wanted to learn how to play the tuba.”

“I have ALWAYS wanted to change genders.”

Alright, well, I have never really wanted to play tuba or have a penis, BUT I have caught myself wanting to do a lot of other stuff in my life — stuff that wasn’t unrealistic, but for one reason or another kept getting put on hold. Indefinitely.

Until now. 

I haven’t managed to figure out some kind of grand solution for ensuring world peace or ending genocide or anything along those lines, but I did pony up and take chess lessons with Bella last year. It’s a step. 

bwchessbellcraig

My good friend and polar opposite twin, Craig Von Hutson, agreed to teach us chess history as well as basic techniques as long as Bella didn’t rattle on too much about Hannah Montana. Since she couldn’t manage to keep her end of the deal — spewing random Hannah schtuffs right and left, I just made sure Craig got all the free lattes he needed in order to get through the undesired Disney tween mania. It worked. Bella pulled checkmate within the first few weeks. 

It took me a bit longer, but, hey, I got there. 

I’d always wanted to. 

Since then, I’ve crossed other activities off the To Do list — some successful, some comically unsuccessful. Last week, I was particularly psyched about conquering item #31: The Wire Crochet Necklace. (Yes, I realize how cool that sounds. Heh.)

The Modern Art Museum in Ft. Worth has some amazing jewelry…for people with much fatter wallets than mine. I’d been pining for the wire crochet necklace that’s been on display there forever and decided to attempt to figure out how to make my own, rather than forking over a week’s salary to the gift shop at the museum. After having spent the hours learning how to crochet wire and attach beads into the form, I gotta admit: it would have been a lot easier to have handed over that week’s salary.

Still, victory is mine. Take that.

NECKLACE

I think I’m almost ready to learn how to boil water now. Almost.

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

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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

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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.

Rock Star of the Month: Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson

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It was about eleven-thirty last night when Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson recognized the guy in front of us in line at the post-lecture signing.

“Your name is Kirby, right?”

0217092316

Beyond amazement, the guy responded: “That’s good. Wow, it’s been thirty years. I didn’t think you’d remember meeting me.”

“Of course, I remember! We all swam in your pool, and you fed me that incredible sausage. MAN, that was some good sausage! You still make that?”

Sensing the pressure of the incredibly long line and all of the folks waiting in it, Kirby politely inched forward. Tyson yelled, “Hey! Look me up on Facebook, man. There are some impostors, but you’ll figure it out. Let’s catch up.”

Russell and I swapped awe. The real Neil deGrasse Tyson is on Facebook?! He has fond memories of backyard barbecue delicacies?! Snap. He isn’t just the world’s coolest astrophysicist; he’s also mortal. Insanity. Raise the roof.

Let me back up, though. About a week ago, I was wigging out about what to do for Russell’s Valentine’s Day gift, or, rather, the lack thereof. I didn’t have a lot to spend, but even worse, my efforts to wrangle creative solutions fell short. An attempted beading project looked like something from church camp, 1981.  A Valentine’s recipe search yielded nothing suitable for my pre, pre, pre-beginner cooking level. Randomly, a friend sent a link to Dr. Tyson’s local appearance the following Tuesday, and, as luck might have it, the tickets were FREE. I purchased his latest book The Pluto Files and designed a card, which read:

 

Dear Russell: 

Hello. It is out of dire urgency I write to you this day. 

Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am one of the largest masses within the cosmic Kuiper belt, but you may remember me as: the Planet Formerly Known as Pluto. 

In 2006, I was stripped of my noble title and scientifically reclassified as a “dwarf-planet.” Dwarf planet, my ass. Pfft. 

On Tuesday, February 17, 2009, Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson, one of the chief culprits responsible for my planetary demotion, will presumably be talking smack about how I’m not good enough to rank number nine anymore. Your mission is to attend Tyson’s 8 o’clock lecture, during which he’ll blather on about me and other items of astrophysical interest. 

Refer to Ms. Austin for necessary data. 

Sincerely yours (and happiest of Valentine greetings),

Pluto

Dwarf Planet, Kuiper belt

Milky Way Galaxy 

P.S. “PLANET” Earth is a tiny, nearly indiscernible speck stuck in the armpit of the cosmos, and, no, I most certainly do not suffer from planet envy.

So, er, voila! Valentine’s crisis averted in the nerdiest way possible. Nothing says “I love you” like astrophysics, right?

On the evening of the event, we arrived at Texas Hall an hour early, but the front half of the lower level was already packed. That’s right, for a scientist. In Texas, even. Russell and I selected a decent enough spot and got our laptops ready to take notes while the guy behind us was loudly telling everybody within listening proximity why the speaker wasn’t a real scientist. I wondered what you had to do to be a “real scientist.” I mean, is being on NASA’s private advisory council not science-y enough? What about physics degrees from Harvard AND Columbia? Teaching astrophysics at Princeton? Hosting NOVA? Directing the Hayden Planetarium? I could go on, but you get the idea. Eager to draw my own plebeian conclusions, I was relieved when the lights finally dimmed at 8 o’clock, and the President of UT Arlington, James Spaniolo, addressed both levels of the crammed auditorium.

“Is it coincidence,” he began, “that Dr. Tyson was born in the same week of 1958 as NASA was founded?” I decided it was, in fact, mere coincidence after a quick jaunt to Wikipedia revealed no mystical occurrences during the week of my own birth. Heh. Nevertheless, Spaniolo’s question was inadvertently fantastic. Do the laws of physics allow for coincidence?

He continued, “…and if that is not enough, Tyson also won a national gold medal in ballroom dancing.” Really?  Had he also discovered the secret of the pyramids or the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa’s dead body? Was there something this nerd hadn’t done? The guy hadn’t even taken the stage, and I already was fantasizing about Being Neil deGrasse Tyson, the sequel in which I manage to redirect the portal from John Malkovich to Dr. Tyson.

Then he appeared: Isaac from “The Love Boat” in jeans, a sports jacket, and cowboy boots. The crowd went bonkers — rock star bonkers. I loved it.

ted-tyson1

“Hold on. I forgot to empty my pockets. I have so much crap in here,” he announced. Placing his “crap” on the podium, he paused, looked at us, and then proceeded to yank his boots clumsily from his feet. “Now I feel like an astrophysicist. Everybody comfortable?”

For the next hour and a half, we listened to Tyson’s diplomatic, sensitive-to-religious-zealots views about our country’s lack of scientific interest and funding apart from times of war or economic competition. “Guess what? If China announced it was going to Mars, we’d be there in ten months. Ten months! Faster if we discovered oil, of course.” Standing on the stage in his socks and with his arms stretched w  i  d  e, he loudly warned us twenty minutes into the discussion:

“There’s no funding for science in this country unless we can make a weapon or the face of God appear at the end of a particle accelerator.”

Tyson told us, “I respect the religious freedom of our nation. It is what we were founded upon. However, that doesn’t mean science is wrong. Science knows what it is and what it isn’t.” When someone asked about the effects of Intelligent Design being introduced into classrooms along with the Big Bang Theory, NDT answered, “It is non-science, the beginning of the end. That’s what the Philosophy of Ignorance is for students. There’s no history of scientists protesting outside of churches. Do you ever see that sort of thing? No. They’re [Creationists] free to believe what they want, and we don’t interfere, but the minute you quit teaching science — it’s just the beginning of the end.” Dr. Tyson elaborated with examples of avoidable, recent occurrences, which he felt were directly related to our societal reluctancies toward progress. “Katrina was a class three hurricane when it hit land. The levees broke after the storm passed. After, OK? AFTER! Faulty engineering is responsible for what happened there. That’s bad math.” He flashed images of the extreme devastation.

Total quiet all around. He truly felt this dumbing down of society. Furiously.

“Bridges collapse. Faulty engineering, again. A steam pipe exploded a couple of years ago. Remember this one? This is New York City, folks. What country are we living in that we can’t move steam in a pipe from one place to the next without this kind of thing happening?! OK, here, look, this is a good one: Two trains collided, and, by the way, this isn’t some podunk town. It’s Los Angeles. Los Angeles! This is technology that we perfected in this country in, like, 1903. What is going on!?” Then he let us in on the obvious answer: “Smart people went elsewhere.” We’re not generating interest amongst youngsters, and they know they can make money doing other things.

Naturally, I thought about my own kiddo. Bella was wildly irritated with me recently because I forced her into joining the science club. The school even tried to bribe the reluctant kids with the Golden Calf — a non-uniform day. Behold! Still, it was a hard sell until The Bell actually reported back from her first meeting: “Oh, my gosh. Mom! Science club was sooooo much fun. We did an experiment where we…and then we…and…and…and…thanks for making me do it.” That’s all it took. I am all too familiar with the validity of Tyson’s previous point regarding funding and urgency of promoting math and science. Our teachers generally do their best with the resources they can afford from their allotted and, frequently, personal budgets. Unfortunately, it’s the initial spark that seems to be most absent, and that’s what is truly crucial, I think. He’s right; we need to step up our game or continue to decline.

Earlier in the discussion, NDT presented several versions of the Periodic Table of Elements color-coded according to melting point, compatibility, as well as years and nationality of discovery. Then he pointed out the most common elements found within our planet as well as those found most frequently within the universe. As it turns out, Earth and its universe share four of the top five from both lists. With sextillion stars, Tyson noted, it would be, perhaps, the most conceited thought to believe we’re alone, that there aren’t beings looking at us exactly the way we’re looking at them through reversed images of the vast galaxies and universes between us.

We sat, all five bajillion gawzillion batillion of us, in the dark now, silent and thoughtful as the last image of the cosmos lingered on the screen. Russell held my hand, and I put my head on his shoulder.

“The universe is you, and you are the universe. There can be no greater reward than that.”

Doubting Thomas behind us broke the silence, “This guy is fucking genius.” I guess Tyson’s not just a rock star after all. He might even be a real scientist.

Or, perhaps, NDT is more aptly also a minister of science, a reverend of astrophysics, preacher man of the stars. Why? Because as the daughter of one Reverend Dr. Jack P. Busby, I spent my entire childhood held captive in a church pew listening to the quirkiest, smartest, most articulate theologian in this area — my dad — peddle Christianity every Sunday. He meant it. He BELIEVED in it, and I really wanted to feel the connection his congregation members obviously felt when they raised their hands and voiced their Amens and praise-to-be’d their Jesuses. It just never happened. Something wasn’t there, and I was pretty sure I was gonna end up somewhere on the dark side of Satan’s lair eternally confused. However, as I sat there with my head on Russell’s shoulder and my hand inside his, listening to Dr. Tyson’s evidence, feeling new and undeniable fellowship with Doubting Thomas and the other five bajillion gawzillion batillion people around us, it occurred to me that I was at church. Finally. It only took me thirty-five years to get there. Scientifically speaking, that’s not such a bad rate of evolution, I guess.

As the lights came up and Neil deGrasse Tyson began taking questions from the peanut gallery, Russell quickly ran to grab a place in line for the book signing. He texted my phone: “You’re so hot when you’re in student mode.”  We smiled at each other from across Texas Hall. Success. My Valentine scheme was triumphant.

The questions continued for an hour and a half: “What do you think about string theory?” “Does it bother you that you’re light years away from everything you’ve studied in the cosmos?” “Should we break up the NASA monopoly and initiate private launches?” “What do you think about PETA — People for the Ethical Treatment of Aliens?” When Dr. Tyson announced he’d taken the last question of the evening, a little boy stood in the far aisle somewhat dejected as the rest of the audience members settled back into their seats. Dr. Tyson interrupted the low muffle of the crowd:

“Wait, there’s a little kid right there. I would like to take his question if you don’t mind.”

The kid stepped up to the microphone and adjusted it as Dr. Tyson asked, “OK, how old are you?”

“I’m ten.”

“Ten? I was your age when I became interested in the stars. I used to look through my telescope at night and wonder what all was out there. You ever do that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re up kind of late, aren’t you? You must have a good question.”

It was almost half past eleven on a school night. The kid stood there for a minute before his voice filled the auditorium, “Dr. Tyson, I was wondering…what would you do with a black hole if you could control it?”

(Sigh) You know, sometimes there are moments in my life I know, as they’re occurring, I’ll never forget. This was one of them.

“A black hole, a black hole, a black hole of my own. Hmmmm. You ever do laundry at home?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you know how sometimes you wind up with one sock and always wonder what happened to the other one?”

The kid laughed, “Yeah.”

“Well, if I had my own black hole, I’d use it for throwing all those ‘other’ socks into. And garbage. I’d let everybody throw their garbage in it. That’s probably the best thing you could do with a black hole.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait, you know, if you ever just happen to find a black hole, you shouldn’t get too close because this thing called spaghettification will occur, and you’ll stretch ooooouuuuttt, which wouldn’t be very good. That’s why you should just stick to the lost sock and garbage idea.”

Gosh, I know it sounds crazy, but the whole thing made my eyes kinda mist up. I closed my laptop and joined Russell, who was still texting me sweet messages from his place in line on the other side of the room.

Even though he was absurdly late and totally off-schedule, NDT happily settled into a seat at the table on stage and signed books, etc., for the crowd. The line stretched around the entire auditorium. I couldn’t get past his enthusiasm. It was contagious. As he signed Russell’s book, I asked about the Rubik’s Cube next to him: “Do you always carry one or what’s going on here?”

He laughed, “No, they [pointing to a couple by the side of the stage] brought this and asked if I’d sign it for them. See, it’s only solved on one side, so if I sign it, it’ll just be scrambled if they ever try to solve it entirely. I’m going to solve it for them when the line’s died down, and then I’ll sign it.”

Astrophysicists are incredibly kind, patient rock stars, apparently. At least, this one is. What a super cool guy.

A little after midnight, we dragged our weary brains and feet to the confines of our vehicle. Dr. Tyson was still wiling away the night signing autographs, of course. Russell thanked me all the way home: “I really enjoyed that. I want you to know tonight was the coolest thing ever, and I love you so much.” He might have ruined Pluto’s rep, but NDT saved Valentine’s Day for me.

The next evening, Bella asked, “Mom? Didn’t you say you got a NASA sticker for me?”

After giving it to her, she immediately put it on her school binder,”This is so cool! Thanks.”

(This Neil deGrasse Tyson guy was scoring me all kinds of street cred, yo.)

“You’re welcome, Bella. Look, I have a brochure, also, on the scientist Russell and I saw last night.”

“Neil deGrassy…”

“deGrasse. He is an astrophysicist. You know what that means?”

“Yes, he studies the stars and planets.”

Good for her. “Yeah, but look at all the other stuff he does.” I totally sold Dr. T to her like there was no tomorrow, or, rather, like she was the only one who could save tomorrow. As she read through his bio, Bella said he seemed really cool. Then, she stuffed the brochure into her school binder behind the NASA sticker.

“You’re taking it to school?”

“Yeah, Mom. This guy is awesome. My news crew teacher is always asking for us to bring in stuff about good role models.” Wow. I went from being the worst mother in the world for making my kid join the nerd squad to being a beloved Science Mom. Yep. I’d ask for my gold star right about now, but I think this is the sort of thing parents are *supposed* to do by default of, well, being parents.

The world, with us in it, is kind of a horrifyingly beautiful, yet predictably random place. When everything comes together and the seas seem calm and endless, there are twice as many stars in the sky. Last night, Dr. Tyson donned his astrophysical superhero cape and reminded us of the importance of exploration — mentally and physically. He stormed the stage with anecdotes about Sir Isaac Newton. He implored us to become patrons within our scientific communities, to go out and foster our future generations. I’m giving my kid her starter cape to wear for her closed circuit, televised school report about Dr. Tyson’s role in universal scientific exploration. But first, I had to know: ”Bella, who was Sir Isaac Newton?”

“He was the guy who first talked about inertia.”

Inertia, she said — NOT “The Seatbelt Law.”

Dr. Tyson, there’s hope after all.

(Thank you.)

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:

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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.

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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.

The Virtues of Owning a Mexican Wrestling Mask

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I have been meaning to write something big and unimportant about the bizarre search terms people have used to pull up various articles from my website (predisastered.com). I’ve been sidetracked with other things – mainly Isobel’s five thousand school projects and Russell’s opening and moving and revising previously written works in hope they’ll appeal to people over eighty. By “people over eighty,” I mean “people who still subscribe to the paper.”

That can all wait for five minutes, though, because I have big news. Ready?

 

I can explain.

I can explain.

 

I’ll just quote Isobel directly:

“Mother, every day you exist just ruins my life that much more!”

This is a sign of successful parenting, I think. You might be wondering what I did that was so unthinkable, so I won’t leave you hanging. Here, I’ll let Isobel fill you in on that, too:

“I am NOT joining the Science Club at school. I won’t go! Nobody joins the Science Club.”

“But Bella, you’ll get a non-uniform day after each meeting.”

This was not a selling point. Standing out for her ultra-nerdiness wasn’t on par with her perceived image.

“Mom, do you remember fifth grade at all? I mean, AT ALL??!!!”

That’s when she disappeared into her room to tell her crawfish (yes, it really is still alive) how I have ruined her whole life.

During the eye of the hurricane, Russell appeared wearing a Mexican wrestling mask. I believe his thinking was that you can’t really hold on to blown-out-of-proportion anger when there’s a giant guy wearing a black and gold wrestling mask trying to reason with you.

She laughed. We talked. She’s doing the science thing even if it ruins her life, she says.

Thank you, Mexican Wrestling Mask. Thank you, Science Club. Thank you, God of Tweenliness. Thank you and good night.

Robots Who Smell Like Teen Spirit

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As I brushed my teeth the other day, I noticed the mish-mash of KristanRussellBella on the counter.

And that sums it up, I’d say.

Early Voting Try-outs for 2016

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It wasn’t her first election by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the first one in which I made Isy<3 pose in front of the polling sign. 

Grinding her teeth 'til 2016.

Grinding her teeth until 2016

Once inside, Isy handed me the black felt-tipped marker and poked her head around my shoulder.

“Mom, you forgot to mark the spot for the President.”

“I’m saving it for last, so don’t let me forget.”

“Okay.”

She waited as I carefully blackened the oval next to the name of each candidate who brought us there yesterday afternoon. Silently, we read the bond proposals. I filled in more ovals. Then I flipped the ballot back to the place we began.

“Okay, ready?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to really, really, really remember this for the rest of your life.”

“Okay, Mom.”

I didn’t want to forget it either, so I slowly darkened that oval like I was eating the last piece of coconut cream pie left after the Apocalypse. 

“Good job, Mom,” she whispered.

I let her feed my ballot into the machine, and we left. Isy<3 even allowed me to walk out with my arm around her shoulders. In public. Broad daylight, at that.

For the past two years, my daughter has listened to everybody’s riff-raff about this candidate and that one. She’s heard me quote Frank Black when I’ve dubbed them “Criminal Men of Virtue” (and women, too). She has seen me argue with close friends far and wide over my support (or lack thereof) for various characters in this race. She saw two women — a smart one and one who looked smarter than she was — fighting tooth and nail for political offices unavailable to women during the early life of Isy’s own Granny. She witnessed an indisputable war hero run for the highest office in a land where a man who is in his seventies can still do that. 

And finally, after all of this time in her short life, Isy<3 got to see something even crazier than the 2008 Presidential race: She saw me change my mind. Or adapt. (Or whatever you call it when you spend a lot of time likening a candidate’s oratory skills to Hitler’s, calling him a political vampire, questioning flaws far less significant than those of your own and then voting for the guy in the end.) Truth be told, I suppose that was a great lesson in the hypocrisy of politics for my youngster. My stomach’s full of crow, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We voted for this day, and it’s ours.

 

Wannabe voter and her ride.

Wannabe voter and her ride.

C.S.I. Isy<3: Sex Ed for Dummies

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Isy<3 is almost eleven. She’s tween-crazy, and man, it’s a confusing age for everybody involved. I knew this would happen when her sonogram came back vag-positive, but, as with everything else related to parenthood, I could only vaguely imagine the exact degree of madness.

The Birds and the Bees

Isobel’s trying so hard to figure out how to be cool, but I seem to always ruin it. In fact, I’ve learned an awful lot about how retarded I am through this new stage Isy<3 has entered. For example, I don’t know anything about fashion, while she, on the other hand, is an expert. Actually, this rule is applicable to everything from music to current events to computers to (insert whatever here). AND not only am I really, really ignorant, but I am also the most embarrassing creature on planet earth. It’s some kind of weird parental virus, I think, because all of the fifth graders’ moms at Isy’s school seem to be suffering from the same illness, which causes stupidity to suddenly impact adults regularly around the fifth grade girl in question, but without actually affecting the 10 year-old individual herself. Someone should contact the CDC.

Sometimes it’s hard to gauge exactly how much tweens really know because they’re multi-aficionados. However, I braved the storm last night and decided to go digging for information. 

“So, Bella, how was the school film about puberty?”

“It was ok. They had sock puppets explaining AIDS to us.”

(set marker for sock puppet strangeness at 2:18)

“Sock puppets?”

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Ear Buds: The Worst Things in the World

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Isy<3 wasted no time in ditching her iPod’s spongy, white ear buds.

Isy<3 protects her earphones from ridicule and motherly harm.

Isy<3 protects her earphones from ridicule and motherly harm.

 

“These are terrible.”

“What do you mean, Bell?”

“When you want them to stay in, they fall right out. Then, when you really get the ear bud part in there, it hurts.”

She wound the buds back up and tucked them into their plastic iPod sanctuary. Five minutes later, Isy<3 reappeared looking ridiculous, although I fiercely admired her practicality. She figured out the old, dilapidated earphones from my Sony Walkman, circa 1985, were compatible with her Nano. Bonus: They were not “icky, uncomfortable, stick-in-your-ear things.”

Events Survived by Kristan’s Sony Earphones:

  1. Hours spent under the delusion that I totally “got” Boy George’s art and that he was really hot;
  2. Likewise as ex. 1, except with Martin Gore of Depeche Mode;
  3. The worst part of puberty;
  4. Many overly adhesive punk rock/new wave hairstyles;
  5. Three years of ghettofab, pre-”green,” public transportation;
  6. The Beastie Boys’ entire career catalogue manufactured on cassette format.

The Black Beasts, otherwise known as the aforementioned “Kristan’s Sony Earphones,” were tech-chic in their day. There we ALL were with those things hanging from our necks, worried sick about people starving in Africa while Michael Jackson was busy buying all the Beatles’ songs he could get his hands on. Windows released version 1.0, the eighth wonder of the world. Clearly, the planet needed to be frozen in this era forever. Thank goodness Isy<3 was willing to stand up in 2008 and proclaim: “Ear buds are, like the worst things ever invented. There is nothing more terrible in the whole world than those ear buds. I am wearing earphones forever.”

“Bell, you really think they’re that bad? There are a lot of other things that I think are worse.”

“Like what, Mom?”

Think, think. My brain wasn’t firing quickly enough. “Head lice. Those are no good — muuuch worse than ear buds.”

She shook her head, “No. You can get rid of head lice, but ear buds are here to stay.”

Point. Head lice were a bad example.

“Seriously, Mom.”

And with that, she accidentally stepped on the earphones with her foot. A slave to her stubborn words, Isy<3 is still refusing the mighty, evil, dreaded buds, which are still wadded up in their case, safe from further contaminating modern listeners’ ears.