One of my favorite authors is Francois Fenelon, and I can honestly say his writings have changed my life. I’ve been reviewing some of his letters found in The Seeking Heart and thought this one was especially good. Enjoy:

—Small Things by Francois Fenelon

Great acts of virtue are rare because they are seldom called for. When the occasion for you to do something great comes, it has its own rewards: the excitement, the respect gained from others, and the pride that will accompany your ability to do such “great” things.

To do small things that are right continually, without being noticed, is much more important. These small acts attack your pride, laziness, your self-centeredness, and your oversensitive nature. It is much more appealing to make great sacrifices to God, however hard they might be, so that you might do whatever you want with the small decisions in life. Faithfulness in the little things better proves your true love for God. It is the slow, plodding path rather than a passing fit of enthusiasm that matters.

Sometimes you cling to trifles more than truly important things. It would be more painful to give up one of your pastimes than to give a great deal of money to charity. You are more easily led astray by the little things because they seem so innocent. Nevertheless, when God takes these little things away, you soon discover, through pain of their absence, how attached you are to them.

Besides, if you neglect little things, you will constantly offend your family, the people who work for you, and everyone else! No one will believe you love God when your behavior is lax concerning small, important details. If you won’t make small sacrifices, how will we believe you can make great ones?

You may need courage to attend to small things at first. It may not be easy. Accept the difficulty as God’s discipline which will bring you peace. Things will get easier.

Following A Tired Wife, I’m going to do this Kyooty’s Friday Fill-in (my answers in italics):

1. One week ago _I had hugely ambitious plans for this week which haven’t really happened_.

2. _Kids used to hang out in their own neighborhoods all summer since their moms were home when I was young. (It was pretty awesome even if it meant less women were working. On my street, a group of kids used to hang out together all summer. They were glorious days of sprinklers, popsicles, bikes and play.)

3. Mama told me _that if I was too funny or too smart I’d never find a man_. (Men don’t like it if you outwit or outsmart them dear.)

4. _It’s not the same without you and me.

5. Take your time _and enjoy the ride because life is too short to be too busy or too stressed; don’t miss out on moments that may matter_.

6. _My days of leisure_ will pass!

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to _seeing my friends from easylaughs_, tomorrow my plans include _improv class and a birthday party in the park__ and Sunday, I want to _take a walk in the woods and smell fall_!

The biggest lesson I learned on the half marathon is this: your mental game leading up to and during the race, all that’s going on in your head, is everything.

If you think you can, you can. If you want to believe the naysayers, then they’ll have power over your physical ability to complete the race. I struggled with some negative thoughts on the first 2km of the halfer until I realised quite powerfully that I was one of few people in the country, in Auckland, in the world who have done or will do a half marathon.  That meant that the most important goal was finishing the race rather than worrying about finishing last or not.

I certainly do not look like your typical half-marathoner. I’m not tall or lean. But I am reasonably fit, exercise regularly, eat healthily, and have trained for the past few months to do something like this. I also dropped more than 15kgs in the lead-up to do the half marathon. The weight loss was the initial motivation for training.

Now I train because I love it and I get a kick of doing something like I did on Saturday 19th September at the Arthur Lydiard Half Maraton. I always knew I could do a half marathon. I just had to prepare my body for the event because my mind knew a long time ago.

So stay positive and hang around people who encourage your efforts. Dish the rest. They’ll only hold you back.

Vienna

Yay, yay. I did it on Saturday 19th November 2009. I walked mostly, with a little bit of jogging here and there, for 21 kilometres on the Arthur Lydiard Half Marathon. I entered the race on my own. I walked it on my own. But I was sustained by the goodness and kind words of encouragement from total strangers, other competitors mostly joggers, on the same route, and field marshalls here and there.

NEARING THE FINISH LINE

The final push of encouragement came at the 18km mark from the ambulance paramedic on the motorbike who gave me the thumbs up as I walked in the pouring rain with a slight limb in pain. It makes a huge difference  and gave me the boost to keep going to the finish line. It was in sight in my mind even if I couldn’t see it. It’s like nectar from the Gods when your energy is low and you’re ready to give up.

Crossing the finish line was almost anti-climactic because it meant the struggle was over and I had made it. My family are proud of me. My friends are proud of me. Most of all, I’m very proud of me and what I achieved, particularly because I know there are people out there who really didn’t think I could do it, or would do it. No one said it directly to me. But I felt it at times. So to the naysayers, take a hike, a long one.

OF ALL THE HALF-MARATHONS

My friends, it’s the first half marathon, or athon, I have ever done. I’ve wanted to do a half marathon for many years. I always knew mentally that I could do it. It was a matter of getting into shape physically and being reasonably fit to do it.

Of all half marathons to do for the first time, I apparently picked one of the toughest, if not the toughest in NZ, I’m told. It was set in the Waitakere, fairly steep, taking you from the streets of New Lynn, Titirangi, Glen Eden, Oratia, Titirangi and back to New Lynn again.  At different points of the race, I wanted to give up a few times. But the mere thought of having to tell my sons that I didn’t complete the son was enough to keep me in the race. Otherwise, I would have happily thrown myself in front of a car if that’s what it took to eliminate me from the race.

IN MY MOMENTS OF DOUBT

I decided 15 minutes into the race, when I was on the verge of exiting for one of many moments of weakness, that even I was last to finish, I would finish and that was all that mattered. I mean, how many people in Auckland, and on this planet, can say they have walked or jogged a half-marathon? Exactly my point, there are quite a lot of people who have never jogged or walked a half-marathon and never will. But I did. I’m now part of that club of half-marathoners, whoop whoop. Okay, I’ll try not to get carried away but this is a huge feat for me so please indulge me.

POST-MARATHON

Four days later, my legs and butt muscles have finally stopped aching to high misery. I owe that end of pain to my miracle yoga instructor, Sue, who did companion stretching with me at the gym this arvo. If I could wrap her up in a bottle, and replicate her a thousands times over, the world of aching runners, joggers and walkers would pay big bucks for that bottle.

In the old days, and back home in Samoa, people walk long distances as a matter of necessity. These days here in the west, people walk long distance to maintain good health and as a competitive sport.

I walked 21kms in a half marathon in Auckland. Yes I did. Yes I can.

I am not ready to have a child.

I know this announcement is met with a resounding chorus of ‘Well, DUH’ from all of my readers.

This unreadyness is despite my ability to cook, my fair-to-middling amount of responsible-ness, my sterling record of childcare-without-serious-incident, and the cooing remarks of every older [than 30] woman at every church I have every been to (‘Oh, you’ll make a great  mom someday’*).

And it’s more than an unpreparedness due to my lack of a significant other, my desire for further schooling, the leaning towards a lifestyle of enjoyable chaos, my annoyance with the vast majority of life forms which are unable to have an intelligent conversation (this encompasses more of my peers than they would like to believe), my minuscule bank account.

No, mostly my life is just not babyproof enough.

A). My apartment is not babyproof. A few weeks ago I babysat at my place for the first time. While I am a klutz, and so therefore do not own a lot of damageable goods, I discovered I own a great deal of items which can be misused by tiny beings. Some things are obvious: unload the gun, lock it, store gun and ammunition in high and separate places. Bar the door leading down the the steep, wooden basement steps. Unplug the tangle of cords running from the (incredibly inconveniently placed) phone jack and outlet up to the modem/router/etc. Locate all pairs of scissors (kitchen scissors, material scissors, paper scissors, junk drawer scissors . . . ) and put them out of any possible reach, including anywhere that cam be accessed via climbing, using a chair, etc etc. But there is so much more! All but 3 pieces of my furniture was obtained cheaply (read: from Craigslist, garage sales, or free on the side of the road). I have tables with sharp corners and missing screws, chairs with tremulous stability, and a couch with the tendency to rip pants if sat upon wrong (I, a friend, and my roommate’s dad have all lost jean material to its maw). They give the house character . . . and also a bit of danger, on a sort of reverse Bell curve.

Rest assured, should you ever trust me with your offspring, I will obsessively overprotect them like they are my own mother’s. I have never yet had a child under my care – be it for an hour or overnight – come to physical harm which could not be fixed with a bandaid or other placebo-ic measures.

But psychological? Ah, now we’re at point two.

2). I am too immature, selfish, and absentminded right now to have children.

I am.

Do I think if I pulled a Lorelai I would manage to put aside many of my shortcomings, selfabsorbtions, head-in-the-cloud ways, buckle down and teach my child well? Yes. But having a child, like getting married, is not a cure-all for what ails you, without plenty of other factors.

I have a lot of respect for people who manage to grow children from amoeba to adulthood with all their limbs, a strong sense of responsibility and self-reliance, cultural and book knowledge, coping capabilities, no crippling fears or phobias, relevance to their surroundings, a critiquing and assessing eye, the ability to cook, do laundry, pump gas, string Christmas tree lights . . .

is it just me or is that list truly staggering? And it’s barely touching the surface.

Having kids is not just ‘the next step’ it’s like throwing ones-self headlong out of a plane. We’re talking plenty of preparation, packing, and sheer guts.

To all of you who have done, are doing, or are contemplating, I tip my hat to you.

As for myself . . . I shall content myself with spoiling yours rotten and returning them with a knowing smirk.**

-

*To which I always want to reply ‘Really? I will? You seem sure. What if I never get married? What if I’m sterile? What if I in fact just don’t want to have kids? Then if I have them, how does this temporary responsibility for little beings ensure my life-long success at this monumental task?’
I know they’re trying to be nice, and they think children are the endgame of every female on the planet, and so therefore they are complimenting my abilities while reassuring me my desires will be fulfilled, but . . . if I go to MarineWorld and get to be one of those volunteers who gives fish to the dolphins, and the dolphins really like me and I don’t harm them, should I start digging a pool in my backyard?

**That gramatical lack of attribution is intentional. We shall both have the smirk, your child and I.

The premise of yuppies (and scuppies) bother me not so much as their manifestations of shallow taste.

By which I mean, their proclivities for participating in indie and culturally significant (cultificant) activities simply because they are such. And then laughing at all the wrong times.

I recently saw (500) Days of Summer. Which, incidentally, was brilliant. But the few yuppie seat populators were mainly there to display their super abilities to go to a trendy theater on a rainy Sunday afternoon and watch a ‘limited release’ movie with “that girl from Elf.”

Hey, I judge not, nor will I complain when these same people see my first movie for the same reasons (except, I very much doubt, the ‘girl from Elf’ part. And you know they only watched Elf because Will Ferrell was in it* and is trendy, and yuppies do trend).

I know they don’t listen to or watch  ’that sort’ of music or movies because of the comments before and after the movie. Also the fact nobody but me knew the trivia question ‘What band, consisting of Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward, contributed music to the (500) Days of Summer soundtrack?’ I’m not complaining; I got to feel superior, and I got free dessert and drink, respectively.

When  we get right down to it, it’s the misplaced laughter part which really irritates me. Actually liking obscure music/movies/classic literature/etc seems to put me in great proximity to multitudes of yuppies recently, and they all laugh at the wrong things (and don’t see the humor in the subtle things).

It was extremely annoying when they laughed at the profound parts and missed the best ‘little things.’ At one point I burst out laughing and I could feel the whole theater thinking at me: “What on earth is she watching? It can’t be the same movie I’m watching.”

Ditto at you, oh yups who laugh at the misunderstood misery.

Similarly, when I went to the Guggenheim Grotto concert in Chicago, the crowd there (attending because it was in a back room and had tables, word) laughed all through a plaintive ballad about searching for lost love. They couldn’t possibly have understood the references, or they would’ve realized they weren’t funny ha-ha.

I’m not going to discriminate or campaign for certain people to be placed into ’yuppies only’ venues. I just want them to keep the laugh track to themselves and not cheapen things for the rest of us. And me.

Ego-centrism. Mmmmm. That’s not a yuppie trait by any chance? 

-

*I like Will Ferrell’s stand-up type comedy. I like his serious movies, such as Stranger than Fiction, Winter Passing, and Melinda and Melinda. But I do not care for his ‘typical’ movies. You know, the ones people think they’re getting when they accidentally view his serious movies.

I grew up in San Francisco. I know how to walk amongst traffic. I recognize the crossing signals for the blind that freak out people who’ve never heard them before. (‘It’s a bird! It’s a radar! It’s an alien attack!’) I may be a little out-of-practice, but I still consider myself a decent pedestrian.

Yesterday I walked to the library. On my way back, I had to cross one of the two ‘big’ streets in Our Town. I was at a crosswalk, but the only crossing lights in this village of Watertucky are on the big, bad Main Street. I saw oncoming traffic from both directions, I judged its speed and length of caravan, and I knew if I waited I could be there a while, especially considering the 25mph speed limit.

To the left, two blocks away, was a long line of at least 15 cars. To the right were coming two cars, then a substantial gap, then a long train of minivans. I started across, preparing to stop halfway, wait in the middle for the two right-hand cars to pass, then continue merrily on my way.

Instead, what happened? I reached the middle and paused only to have the two cars on the right come to a complete stop, acting annoyed! Or rather, the inhabitants acted annoyed, the vehicles displayed their trademark stoicism.

The frontmost driver waved me on. For some unknown reason, the line of cars to my left (now behind me) also slowed down, as if they thought I would change my mind and walk backwards to return whence I came.

I walked, not ran, across the rest of the street. If you don’t know how to drive with perambulators in your general vicinity, I’m not obligated to endanger my precious books, movies, and loose change (quarters in running shorts pocket = not secure) to save you any time on your commute to your weekly bingo game.

A few other incidents have convinced me this is the norm, not an aberration.  Unless I wear a sign saying ‘Learn how to drive, I’m not meandering here,’ I don’t know how to convey to people that they should simply act properly. Am I expecting too much, asking for ‘real’ driving from small-town folk?

Yet who takes the heat? Ultimately, I was the one who looked like an idiot. Who does she think she is, bringing traffic to a stop so she can saunter across the street? I try not to care, but it’s a bit annoying, and the self-conscious half of me fumes while the other half of me says ‘that’s your problem.’

This is a constant through life. You have roommates who don’t like being dealt fairly with, so they turn around and tell people you’re not compassionate. You have coworkers who don’t like the way you do things, it turns into office politics and caterwauling.

Should you just forget it and conform, making it easier on yourself? Or should you keep crossing the street and hoping eventually everyone else figures out how to drive? (Note the question not asked: how often should you assess your level of righteousness in these proceedings.)

I say: do it right, let the others follow, slam on their brakes, or get out of the way.

Lesson Resisted: conform to the lowest common denominator.

I’m 23 and I’m still in the set-up phase of the movie, with a few pages to turn before it gets going. What have I been doing with all this dialogue and wasted actions? Think of everyone who’s done something big and noticeable by now. Think of Alexander the Great and Amelia Earhart and John Lennon and Cameron Crowe* and on and on.

Then picked up my paper today, and I saw the ‘Life’ headline about Ashley Tisdale, only 24 and making it big!

Yes, look at everything she’s accomplished. High School Musicals 1 2 and 3, her own CD, fashion and a Disney tv show . . .

ok so a few phenoms peak and pique early. If one is not as sure on one’s feet, better to bide and brew and come out with quality.

Lesson Intermittently Learned and Forgotten: take your time, do it right.

I often use conversations as jumping-off points. For articles. For short stories. For creative non-fiction. For screenplays. For blog posts.

If you think you’ve recognized yourself on these pages, it’s possible, but I’m denying it all.

Write what you know. That’s what everyone says. Then they get mad when you do.

Most of writing is a composite of life. It’s something you’ve done, thought, or dreamed. It’s based on people you know, want to know, or think you know.

Everyone from Katherine Paterson to Victor Hugo has experienced some of what is in their books, to an extent. They’ve had friends like the sidekick, they’ve known villains and blackguards,they’ve eaten sumptuous feasts or gone hungry or loved deeply or likely had that exact conversation with someone. Then they take those snippets of their life and weave it into fiction, where only a few people ever recognize it because they know the author or, ‘Oh, that old hag IS ME.’ But it’s so beautifully couched the rest of us don’t care it wasn’t all ‘made up.’

Depending on which of my writing endeavors end up seeing the light of the sun streaming through a window and hitting an honest-to-goodness printed page . . .

who are we kidding.

Depending on which of my writing endeavors end up seeing the light of the high-watt energy saver fluorescent bulb streaming through the swarm of dust mites and yellowing an honest-to-goodness printed page, I know a great many people who may be buying tar and feathers, based on actual or perceived likenesses.Many of them are related to me.

On the plus side, some of those who will be presented by me will either be too repulsed by my presentations, or just too uncultured, to see themselves at all. Still, plenty of people I like will see or imagine they see themselves, and then

‘The shit hath hitteth the fan . . . ith.’**

My Lesson In The Process of Being Learned: don’t believe what people tell you. Act on it, sure, just be prepared for the double-crossing and rotten tomatoes.

-

*Then there’s Stephanie Meyer . . .

**Which line, I’m sure, was truly spoken during some play rehearsal when the director blew up, and was then remembered by someone who was in that rehearsal when they wrote their teenage-riff-on-Shakespeare movie script.***

*** 10 Things I Hate About You.****

**** But you knew that.

Last week a friend and I were going down the road, discussing so many things I don’t remember what led to our discussion of a post-Apocalyptic list.

The concept had crossed my mind, but here it was, in spoken form. Somehow the intangible act of saying something, translating thoughts and synaptic energy into audio, makes it more concrete. 

Say some major, catastrophic event happened that would result in martial law.

No no no, nothing that terrifying. Just a disruption of the judicial system and order long enough to allow you to take some retributive action . . . all for the good of humanity, of course.

Whom would you choose to visit your holy wrath upon?

Would it be (and I type carefully, as the FBI watchlist is not a Top Ten I want to be on), a member of the current political administration? Or perhaps the recently discarded political administration?

Would it be that neanderthal who took your your girl and your dignity back in the 7th grade?

Would it be a past boss, a current nemesis, or just that guy who cut you off in traffic and caused you to spill your coffee all down your lap (resulting in burns, stains, and worst of all, no caffeine to get you through the morning)?

Can you see them now, eyeballs bulging like overripe grapes, tongue lolling out of their open, fishlike mouth as your thumbs squeeze their windpipe? Never mind that it’d be much easier, faster, and safer for you to do a choke from the rear, cutting off their air and blood flow all at once. No, if you’re going to make the world a better place, you may as well enjoy it.

I didn’t know the person upon whom my companion desired to visit pain. But after a moment of pondering, I knew who mine would be. I bet you’ve thought of at least one in the time its taken you to read this.

Scary how vindictive we humans are.

On a micro level, most humans feel deep love and passion (or convince themselves they feel these things, which is not the same). It makes sense there must be an equal and opposite reaction. It would also make sense they who love the most and deepest hate with the same intensity, at least without cognitive tempering of one passion or the other.

On a macro level, there are some humans who have a large capacity for passion and great depth of love, so it would make sense others have deep wells of hatred. That’s* the basic premise of Unbreakable: ”If there’s someone like me in the world, shouldn’t there be someone on the other end of the spectrum?” You would expect this ‘logic’ to carry over into other realms of life. Assuming anything related to passion is innate.

In case you were wondering, this whole post hasn’t said much. It’s just sort of pondered. I am fascinated by people.

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*I can’t believe I’m using a Bruce Willis movie – and one I’ve not seen in years, to boot – to explain my point.

My son has the car this evening for work and it’s only just occurred to me that I need to get moving now if I’m going to make it to yoga on time for the 6.30pm start at the gym.

Did I tell you it’s also raining pitifully outside? And that I’ve been working in my office in pjs all day. Now I need to jumpstart myself out the door and make in time to class. Okay, wish me luck pls. If I survive the night’s walk through the heavy traffic, I will live another day to be able to tell you all about yoga tonight.

If you haven’t tried it already, yoga is amazing for health. I sweat each time profusely, the same way I do with an intense workout of weights and cardio alah Jillian Michaels styles. Truly. I return home in a dazed and calm state with my body detoxing and emptying out for the next day or so. It’s a miracle this yoga I do. Sue, my South African instructor, is a gift from above. She is the only reason, her yoga class that is, that I signed up for a 12 month gym membership.  Slap me as I said I would never join a gym again. And you don’t need to join one at all. I lost weight just exercising at home and following circuit training and interval training programmes. Plus healthy nutrition goes a long way. Keeps the body fuel clean, they say.

Well, I’m not sure how long I’ll write this for. I just know I need to do something to record it since I can’t locate my usual log book that travels with me everywhere. If I can do this, anyone can, believe me.

My Best Life Yet refers to this year’s training regime which I started with friends many months ago. I won’t name them as they have a right to their privacy. But suffice to say, they are an accomplished and successful group of women, who happen to work in news media, communications, sports and in the helping professions. We meet every Saturday, rain or shine, for an hour or so of exercise. These weekly sessions with an inspiring group of women early Saturday morning keep me going and motivated to attend. Something about girl power.

My goal is simply to be healthy in all aspects, lose weight, and overcome some poor habits that are going to take a sheer miracle to overcome. I am that miracle so far.  Because I have been religiously exercising now for long enough to have it be something my body is used to.

I’ve also started yoga which leaves me breathlessly relaxed, going to the toilet ever so regularly, and sleeping like a baby. What more could I ask for? Well, a slim completely toned and healthy body for one. That’s on the way. That’s high on the wish list for myself. Not for anyone else but moi. Because I will not break this promise to myself. Before I die, I want to fit into any outfit I wish, instead of leaving clothes hanging in the wardrobe after my up and down body sizes.

What’s different this time? Well, if I didn’t do something fast, like make exercise a regular part of my life, like breathing, I would not be able to fit into my clothes.

For now, be content to hear my tale before I’m ready to go public and live with my weight loss stats. Let’s just say I’m losing. I’m a size 14 right now mostly and struggling to move fully onto a size 12, so help me please.

This week, though, for the first time that I can recall in many many months I did something really provocative with my nutrition and that’s the motivation for this blog. I had a day where I simply ate chocolate because the cupboards were close on bare. Okay, I lied, the cupboards weren’t exactly bare. It’s just I didn’t have the time, given commitments, to cook anything appealing. But I’m back on the programme. No more silly stuff like that again. But I did enjoy it briefly though never the lows that come with such a strong dose of chocolata. Forgive me children.

I had to run into WalMart early this morning to buy the most interesting combination of items the checkout probably saw.

There was only one lane open, and I was in a hurry, but whatareyougonnado at 8AM on a Sunday?

Well, if you’re the guy behind me, you’re going to gripe, loudly, about The Man and how he’s screwing you over.

“They need to HIRE more people!” he declares. “It’s like the customer’s time ain’t worth NOTHIN’ to these people. No, they gotta save every penny, who cares how long I have to wait. Time is money, idiots. Enough people don’t have jobs; they could do some honest work and get me in and out. WalMart could stimulate the economy. But NOOOOOOO, we can’t have that. We have to sit in line and waste our good time . . .”

We’ll skip the obvious (much more so because of the Atlas Shrugged reading I’m getting closer to finishing) ridiculous notion that the Big Companies ’should’ hire people, and that said hiring will actually ‘help’ anything at all.

First: there were five people in our line, none with more than 10 items. We’re hardly Communist Russia.

Second: you’re buying a case of beer* and a mirror. Nothing about this shouts LIFE-AND-DEATH-URGENT.

Third: if you think time is money, well then actual money is money too, right? The more people they hire, the higher the price of your beer is going to have to be to cover those salaries.

Fourth: griping and criticising the place is only going to make our sourpuss checker go . . . that . . . much . . . ssllloowwwwweeerrrr . . .

Maybe it was his second case of beer* on the day, I dunno. His belly would seem to suggest that.

-

*Was it an incredibly bad weekend? Because three of the five people in line were buying alchohol, two in copious quantities.

Also, I find it interesting Wisconsin lets your buy beer on Sundays, but not after 9pm.

Some people seem unable to interact with strangers comfortably. They’re awkward in social situations, or can’t make small talk. Maybe they’re shy, maybe they don’t like relationships that are completely fleeting and casual, maybe they just hate the idea of people in general, until they know they’re not likely to be inundated with stupidity or crass advances or any number of such things.

I’ve discovered I can get along with basically everyone on a superficial, temporary level. You have to be a world-class jerk for me not to be able to discuss the weather and the price of gas. In fact, sometimes  talking to the most idiotic, despicable scum on the face of the planet, while smiling and thinking how to shoot my next episode of 1001 Ways to Die, (Practically Applied Edition) can be an exercise in entertainment and compartmentalism.

But I’m pretty quick to figure out whether or not I’d enjoy continuing to communicate or commune with you on a deeper level. Most of the time . . . not so much. Meg Ryan’s brilliant example notwithstanding, I’m not going to fake it.

Relationships, social and close, which consist solely of superficial speech and which too often compose the entirety of people’s lives and interactions,

I don’t understand people who can drivel on about nothing important or, worst, nothing interesting. (I certainly don’t understand people who would marry such conversational partners. It’s like diving headfirst into purgatory.)

The ability to make small talk and be diplomatic is a good one to cultivate. But don’t confuse it with making a fool of yourself as well.

-Are you enjoying your breakfast?
-I don’t know if I like pop-tarts.
-Did you fall on your head while you were sleeping?
-I don’t know. Do I like this? Is this something I like?
-So, you fell on your head, and now you have some kind of very specific amnesia, is that it?
-Last night I was dreading mom and dad’s reaction to the breakup, right?
-Right. Dread, dread. I remember.
-And then they didn’t react; not one bit. It’s almost like the absence of their reaction was worse than any freak-out they could have had.
-Okay. Sure.
-Then I thought, “Why? Why do I care if they freak out? What do I get out of it?”
-Uh huh.
-And then I thought, maybe their freak-outs are like some kind of compass for me, you know like, I know I’m doing what I want to do if it freaks them out. And then I thought, what if I don’t want to do what I want to do because I want to do it, but because they don’t want me to?
-Huh?
-I mean what if I don’t like what I like because I like it, but because my mother doesn’t like it and doesn’t want me to like it? What if I don’t actually like the music that I like or the movies or the clothes or the men? What if I don’t like what I seem to like?
-Ah, hence the pop-tart.
-Yes. Hence. I can remember the first time I had a pop-tart. It was at my friend Erica Catcha’s house, and she said, “do you want a pop-tart?” And I knew my mother would recoil at the very idea of me having a pop-tart. I could just picture her. ‘”A pop-tart?!”’ And so, I had one. And I opened the little silver wrapper, and I took a bite, and I thought nothing had ever tasted so good. I thought it tasted like freedom. It tasted like I was my own person. The pop-tart tasted like freedom and rebellion and independence.
-Wow. That’s some pop-tart. What flavor was that?
-But now I think I don’t know if I like pop-tarts. What if I don’t like pop-tarts? Would I like pop-tarts if Richard and Emily had served me pop-tarts on a silver platter and demanded I eat every bite? I don’t know.
-Hey, where are all the pop-tarts?
-I’ve been experimenting.
-You ate all the pop-tarts?
-If it makes you feel any better I don’t know if I like them!

When you google ‘how to prepare an’ the first thing that comes up is ‘income statement.’ The second? Artichoke.

The Notebook is not not not absolutely in no way ‘one of the best romantic movies ever.’ So few people seem to know this fact, but I could name dozens of better in just one breath.

America is a Democratic Republic.

Gelatin is made out of ground-up animal bones.

Chick flicks are not just for girls. Action movies are not just for boys. Oscar movies are not just for people over 50.

People who speak over 300 words per minute (more than twice the average rate of speech) are still quite intelligible. You just have to listen quickly.*

Insurance companies have more hoops than the Westminster Dog Show. And most of them are on fire.

Low-fat cheese is one of the most acidic, bad-for-you foods on the planet.

*And it would make my life a lot easier if you would.

Here are some images that made me pause this week. Which ones stop you? Why? (All images link to source content.)

A little something to make you smile:

Presuming there is a lesson, the lesson here is… be trusting like a duckling and hope that there is a huge pile of leaves to catch your fall. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck in the tree. Erm.

Or something.

I have decided to take this blog in a slightly different direction for the rest of 2008.

I will still regale you with tales of my life and mishaps, but I in the similar vein of this post, I really want to put some great media out there, specifically books and movies, with a little music.

This started several months ago and culminated today in reading a great blog on movies (more on that when we get to movies).

So anyways, a while back I made my brother a very basic list of things he needed to watch and read. Some things he hadn’t heard of, others he knew of but had never actually enjoyed.

Several weeks ago, I was talking to a friend and was shocked by the fact that he had never really watched anything but popular, newly-released movies. He had no prejudices against old or indie films (and by old I’m talking anything before the 90s!) but he’d never really ‘gotten around to’ anything else.

Then this past Sunday I told a writer friend I didn’t think anyone could be a good teacher without being well and widely cultured. She asked what I meant, and I threw out a ‘For Instance’ which utilized two (I thought) incredibly basic examples. ”For Instance, if one has never seen Hitchcock, or listened to the Beatles.” *blank stare*  Oh come on, REALLY????

In My Humble Opinion, these things are absolutely essential for people, especially writers or teachers. The impact Hitchcock’s films have had is phenomenal, and they all work on multiple levels. He was groundbreaking in cinematography, in psychology in film, in symbolism, in suspense, in his use of characters and dialogue. The Beatles essentially reshaped the culture, and even if you don’t like them (*ahem* Jon) you have to be familiar with what they did. Then you start sprawling out and seeing who influenced and was influenced by these people and you hit Elvis, James Dean, Anthony Minghella, Brian De Palma, Coldplay . . . the list marches on to infinity, but you see what I mean.

How can you understand your surroundings or write about or teach them when you don’t know where they came from?

So for the next month or so I want to highlight influential cultural icons. These may be people, movies, books or ‘other’, but hopefully they all have caught your attention or will in the future. I may or may not go by category. If you have your own list or suggestions, feel free to comment or send it on and I’ll give it its own post. (Schnopf, I know you’re out there.)

At least at first, I’m not going to pick anything obscure. Sometimes the most obvious, familiar things are the things we fail to notice, and the things most people sadly haven’t experienced. I hope some are controversial, and I hope you give them all a chance.

And as always, feel free to argue my picks or suggest better ones (I know the AFIs lists always inspire me to rant and rave to such extremes that my mom has been rather afraid for the safety of our TV screen).

Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.

There exists in our world an annoying dearth of intelligence.

I don’t mean the ability to do complicated mathematical equations, or list every country and the world complete with capital and population.

I mean the ability to hold an informed conversation. The basic grasp of what is important in the world. Being cultured. Too many people are just stupid, or worse, boring.

Six conversations of the past week may illustrate my point.

1A. Ate dinner with a friend. Discussed drugs, movies, and politics. Why are certain things outlawed, what do certain drugs do to people physically and emotionally, what movies should be rated and why, what movies each of us should watch, and (all roads seem to lead here these days) the Presidential election, and what each candidate REALLY brings to the table. 

2A. Lunch with another friend (are you getting the food theme yet?). Clothing, music and the problem of Ego. A comical story with only a little malice, what makes movies good and music either worth listening to or worthless, and why someone who silences all critique or honest (even not-so-well-intentioned) questioning is not fit to lead, and is headed towards dictatorship.

3A. Conversation with two friends. Censorship, media techniques, personalities. What we put up with and why, the frustrations of certain constrictions, how to compose a shot (this more done than said), and how each of us fit and act in different social circles, and why.

All of these conversations were not only varied, but interesting. We could have talked for hours, we fairly well-rounded, intelligent beings. Topics are sometimes interesting in and of themselves, but the point is not so much what you talked about, but how you go about it, just as two movies with the same basic plot can be at opposite ends of the spectrum as far as brilliance. The key is the breadth of knowledge and ability to go beyond the surface levels of the topics.

Well you cry, who am I to decide what constitutes intelligence?

Partially, it’s subjective, I admit. But I happen to think my subjective is correct, and should be a general guideline. Let me now address three of the same topics, but with my bad examples, and see if you can tell what I’m getting at. Each conversations covers one of the topics from a conversation above. (I even labelled them for you. Aren’t I sweet.)

1B. Co-worker and I, also talking about politics. The conversation went, “So, how about those elections next week? Hey, you wanna hear this funny song?” He proceeded to play me a (badly done) song parody mocking one of the candidates. That was the extent of the ‘conversation.’

2B. Another co-worker, in passing, about rules. A friend and I had been discussing why certain things were wrong on principle, and why Ego gets in the way of open-minded decision. Co-worker walks up, expressing shock we would question such a thing. “It’s the rule” “Why?” I don’t know, it just is.” It’s one thing to advocate obedience while pushing for change, and quite another to insist on blind submission to stupidity simply because someone has been handed a position of ‘power.’

3B. Yet another co-worker and I talking about personalities. ‘I love my boyfriend, but sometimes . . . I want to make sure I don’t want anything else. I want to experiment. Do you think I can get him to cheat on me so I don’t feel so guilty about going out with another guy, just to try it? But then I want to keep [Guy #1].’

OK. Same topics, vastly different levels of brainpower and interest.

The first protest I can hear is ‘You only talk to people who agree with you!’ On the contrary, my best friends and I often disagree on numerous issues, and I enjoy arguing and can do so without losing a shred of respect for the person opposing me (Friend in conversation 3A told me he remembers seeing me debate literature with a teacher, and loving it. I do, because that person was smarter than me in said area, and so not only was it a challenge for me to prove my point, but I could learn much more than if I were talking to Joe Schmoe about it.)

Another is ‘What, do you expect Einstein-ian intelligence every time anyone opens their mouth?’ Hardly. I am perfectly fine with ‘pointless,’ meandering conversations with friends. But said friends are only that because we have the ability to talk about difficult, deep subjects, whether we do or not. You don’t have to knock yourself out to show me your intelligence. But you do have to possess it in there somewhere. 

And within 5 minutes of talking to you, I can usually determine what you are.

 - Data-smart, but dumb as a box of rocks.

 - SEEMS smart, but mainly parroting and doesn’t really think for themselves.

 - Have potential. (Usually someone willing to think, but sheltered. Limited experience is a drawback, but one we can work with.)

 - All abstract, no clue what’s going on.

 - Both well-rounded in experience (books, movies, prolonged contact with more than just one stereotype of people) and able to think for yourself. Willing to consider other points of view and change your mind, but also insistent on what you truly believe.

So there you have my slightly scatterbrained thoughts on people. If you get it, well and good. If not, either I haven’t expressed myself well enough or (more likely) you would not be a whole lot of fun to have a real conversation with.

Unless I were studying you, to write about later.

Allow me for a few moments to give you a snapshot of just a few seconds worth of my day, recounted in the last post.

Before our (too early) game on Saturday, the team all stood together for the national anthem. Sure I was exhausted, but after an hour of warm-ups my blood was racing and I was wide awake. I stood there on the line with my teammates for one of the last times. Julie, Melissa and I have been together for four years, hundreds of practices, hours of road trips, and many games. Some others have come and gone, but here we are, 18 standing strong together, waiting for the whistle, listening to  Hayley singing both right behind us and (a heartbeat off) over the loudspeaker. I know four more games and the playoffs loom, but this is the first time I realize both that I have made it, and that it’s almost over.

The other moment that stands out took about 3 seconds. It is startling how much can flash through your brain in that amount of time. More than a lifetime could fit, I’m sure.

About 15 minutes until the end of the game the other team had the ball down on our half. Someone crossed to their forward, who was a good ways inside our box, and the defenders couldn’t step fast enough. She one-touched a shot.

If she had put it in either corner there was no way I could have had it, but because my defenders were closing in, she just blasted it low and as far over as she could.

I see her foot hit the ball, and then that frame freezes, and the player skips, and in the next frame the ball is about three feet from me, a foot off the ground. I’ve left my feet and am diving. In retrospect, I should have pushed off with my right foot, but I pushed with my left, and my arms are fully extended to reach the opening between ball and net. As the air being pushed by the ball hits my gloves, I realize I won’t be able to catch it. In that millisecond between realization and impact, my brain tells my body to start scrambling after the sure rebound, then contradicts itself because if I start to scramble before I fully deflect the ball, I will likely miss entirely or tip the ball into the net.

Impact. My fingers tense and grasp, but the ball has ricocheted far beyond my reach. My body hits the ground, followed seconds, eons later by my hands, propelling myself up and after the ball.

I’m in a tunnel now, with the echoes of my teammates yelling for and the other team yelling against me a muffled hum. I see a small patch of blurry green, but dead center is the only thing my optical camera has focused on - that white and blue ball, spinning away in complete clarity. I somehow think enough to angle my body between ball and opponent before I actually go for the ball, a trick I’ve seen Melissa and Kutz do thousands of times and must have subconsciously absorbed. As I scoop the ball, securing it in a vertical vice with my arms as bars, sound and sight whooshes back and I have just enough time to clench my teeth and lower my shoulder as the oncoming players rams me, full body to full body. Time fully regains its equilibrium and I survey my surroundings, several feet away from where the play was made.

I’m weak and powerful and terrified and exuberant. I punt the ball away and I go back to the net, knowing for the first time that I’m not going to be scored on this game.

I can’t describe it for you, but this is my feeble attempt. It was quite the few moments in time. I want to do it all over again, and I’m not sure I could stand a repeat. Adrenaline and fear and excitement and elation - pride for myself and my teammates - sorrow for the coming end - joy for the memories lasting forever and belonging only to us - all mingle and swell to form an overwhelming sense of something that, if it were describable, would be somehow cheapened.

From the Web site:

“Blog Action Day is an annual nonprofit event that aims to unite the world’s bloggers, podcasters and videocasters, to post about the same issue on the same day. Our aim is to raise awareness and trigger a global discussion.

One Issue, Thousands of Voices

Global issues like poverty are extremely complex. There is no simple, clear answer. By asking thousands of different people to give their viewpoints and opinions, Blog Action Day creates an extraordinary lens through which to view these issues. Each blogger brings their own perspective and ideas. Each blogger posts relating to their own blog topic. And each blogger engages their audience differently.

What is the aim of Blog Action Day?

First and last, the purpose of Blog Action Day is to create a discussion. We ask bloggers to take a single day out of their schedule and focus it on an important issue.

…the blogging community effectively changes the conversation on the web and focuses audiences around the globe on that issue.

By doing so on the same day, the blogging community effectively changes the conversation on the web and focuses audiences around the globe on that issue.

Out of this discussion naturally flow actions, advice, ideas, plans, and empowerment. In 2007 on the theme of the Environment, we saw bloggers running environmental experiments, detailing innovative ideas on creating sustainable practices and focusing audience’s attentions on organizations and companies promoting green agendas. In 2008 we aim to again focus the blogging community’s energies and passions, this time on the mammoth issue of global poverty.

Mass Participation

From the smallest online journals, to huge online magazines, to EU ministers, to professionals and amateurs, Blog Action Day is about mass participation. Anyone is free to join in on Blog Action Day and there is no limit on the number of posts, the type of posts or the direction of thoughts and opinions.”

I’ve decided who I’m voting for.  I may, of course, change my mind between now and November 4th, but for the moment, I have decided.

Lots of people have been trying to sway me. To vote for Obama, to vote for McCain, to vote third party, to just not vote (as some badly conceived statement of protest, I think the last one is.*)

I don’t mind intelligent discussion and attempted persuasion.

What I do mind are ignoramuses.

Really, that’s too polite.

What I can’t stand are idiots.

For example, politics in general came up in a group discussion. A guy next to me said something like ‘Anyone who votes for Obama is a moron.’ The guy is entitled to his opinion, however juvenile-ly he may state it, but I asked him ‘Why?’

 - What do you mean why?
 - Why would I be a moron to vote for Obama? I know all sorts of people voting for Obama. Some I would consider highly intelligent.
 - Yeah well Obama is going to increase abortion, he’s going to destroy what we’ve worked for in Iraq, he’s going to increase handouts to people who don’t deserve them, the tax burden will increase, and look what type of person he would put on the Supreme Court!

While I don’t like a lot of Obama’s stances, I also don’t like people misstating the facts. But I ignored the fact that abortion is already allowed, and unless Obama holds a gun to pregnant women’s heads, individually, he’d have a hard time INCREASING it. I ignored the fact that this guy probably couldn’t actually tell me what we’ve worked for in Iraq (I heard the conversation going something like: Him -”We’re there because of 9/11, duh.”  Me – “No, that’s Afghanistan.” Him – “We’re in Afghanistan?”). I ignored the tax thing because it’s waaay to complicated to address with these people. 

I asked just one question. It’s the same one I asked when someone told me they were voting Obama, because McCain was ‘too pro-life’ and ‘would start wars with any country he didn’t like’ and ‘Look who he would put on the Supreme Court!’

What I asked was “Did you vote for your last Congressperson?”

Blank stares both times. Again, “You don’t have to give me names, just did you vote for your representative in the House and/or Senate?” *stammer stutter equals no*

Here’s what I told both of these people.

McCain does not have the power to start wars willy-nilly.** Obama cannot simply pick the most liberal, loose constructionist, anti-life person out there and appoint him or her to the bench. Neither of them can fundamentally alter the tax system.

Without help, that is.

Our country has a fundamental system of checks and balances. The President pushes agendas, but cannot simply declare what he wants and have it happen one way or the other. It’s a ‘family’ decision. Congress allocates money for war: no dough, no war. The Senate must confirm Supreme Court nominations, and whom they don’t like, they vote down (Harriet Miers ring any bells?). The President can veto bills, but can be overridden.

So when you claim to be concerned about the state of the country, and you are quite vocal about who we need to elect, and you tell me my vote in the presidential election is ‘a monumental deal’, and yet you don’t vote in Congressional elections, you do not understand our country, and you are an idiot.

A friend of mine thinks we should go back to the system of having only landowners vote. He’s got a complex argument, but it boils down to; they’re the most effected, they are (in general) the most educated, the system worked in the past, etc.

I beg to differ. My main arguement is that such a system is ripe for abuse. Once people have that power, it would be a stranglehold. There’s a plethora of things they could do. They could make land taxes low and food taxes high. They could pass legislation making it almost impossible for anyone else to ever acquire land. Land would be passed to heirs, and who would want Paris Hilton being one of a select few to determine our next leader? 

Hmmm. That’s an idea.

Is there a way we could just keep the stupid people from voting?

 * Yoda-ism for the day.

** Or is that what Clinton did in the Oval Office?

I thought of Mum a lot in the week leading up to the Arthur Lydiard Half Marathon. I’m glad these thoughts came to me days before the Arthur Lydiard Half Marathon and not on the day, otherwise I would have been in no state to compete.

The first thought was that I appreciated late in life why my mother walked so regularly every day for the last several years of her life. Some days she would walk for an hour or an hour and a half early morning. She’d just walk and walk. I never took it seriously when I joined her on a walk. Actually, she walked miles ahead and I walked miles behind. I could never understand why she couldn’t just walk leisurely with me. Why did she have to walk like she was racing? Now this year I’ve come to understand why.

She also was on the exercyle regularly and I could never get into it with her. But she made a religious effort with walking, cycling and would say “you eat to live, not live to eat”. She was a beautiful woman with a figure that I didn’t inherit without seriously starving myself.

Days before the halfer, she came to my mind strongly. That’s when I had to stop the car, and be still.