Mumbling Madly

I finally got around to visiting the whole “The Secret” phenomenon recently. I didn’t read the book, I went straight to the dvd. You know, this is the book that has suddenly (re)revealed the power of positive thinking and claims everything from finding a parking spot to wealth if you just ‘ask,’ ‘visualize,’ and ‘receive.’ There has been a lot of speculation about this latest self-help trend; The Stranger wrote about The Secret and hated it, Oprah (of course) loved it, and spiritual leaders are offended.

I so wish I could find the power of positive thinking. As it is, the idea of ramming nothing but positive thoughts into my my brain sounds exhausting. I’ve always told myself, “It could be worse.” And I say this often: My long commute? My hideous job? My rickety right knee? Well, it could be worse (it could be a longer commute, a service job, an amputated knee). Now, according to The Secret it could be a whole lot better–if I only put my mind to it. If I want to make $100,000 a year I need to write it on a piece of paper and affix it to my ceiling so that every morning I wake up and see it. If I want love in my life I have to exude nothing but loving energy (which believe me is WORK) all the time and I will ATTRACT love back.

OK, so the law of attraction has some merit. You know how you kinda have a hankering for something and it just sort of pops up? There have been times when a strange, unconscious desire has popped into my head and has been executed with an amazing ease. Taking a walk seven years ago in the mountains I decided that when I moved to Ft. Collins I wanted to be a modern dance teacher…and I was. With very little effort I visualized my life as a dance teacher and found the perfect job posting online a few months later. I wanted desperately to move to Seattle after Josh graduated, I visualized, prayed, exerted a ton of mental force on the idea that we might get out of CO. It was a hideous time, but here we are…in Seattle.

I’ve sort of categorized my thoughts as:
1) Worry (about life, money, my job, my career, etc) 2) Speculation on the future (”if I do this, we might be able to do this next month.”) 3) The past (”I really learned from that mistake, and yet, here I am getting angry about the same thing”) 4) Hopeful dreaming (one day I’m going to be a Writer, Actor, Dancer, Parent, etc.) and everything else in between. Continual musing on God is thrown into my thought process occasionally (”Are you there God? It’s me Mara…No really, are you THERE?) and extreme doom and gloom (”What would it be like if I got hit by a car today?”) All of this is neither here nor there…and most of it is probably not very Secret-esque. The secret to life is creating whatever you want, whenever you want it, simply by willing it into existence. But what if it just doesn’t happen? Aren’t you kind of setting yourself up?

Case in point: I REALLY wanted to travel with the Thalia cast to Amsterdam in January…they could only take four of us and I knew the odds were stacked against me. I thought about it, focused on it, prayed about it a little…and then realized I was getting obsessed. What good would it have been to put all this effort into ASSUMING I was going…and then not go? The CHANCE, the mere possibility of me going was almost impossible if we look at the science of it all, the statistics, the percentage of likelihood, etc. Sure, I had a greater chance of going to Amsterdam then winning the lottery, but again, the opportunity was slim and it did not present itself. (Although I suppose someone could always get sick, have an emergency, etc. and I could step into her place). Now a true Secret believer would have claimed that I did not want this opportunity badly enough…and this might be true. I could have hung around the theater more (never mind that I’m committed to a different theater currently and when I did show up I sprained my thumb onstage), begged (which I practically did), and focused on nothing but going (polishing my passport in eager awaiting). But what good is that when, really, it just ain’t gonna happen…and no amount of wishing or believing is going to cause it to happen. This lies one of the many flaws of The Secret.

In the meantime, maybe I am just too skeptical to fully believe, hence, I’m going to continue to live my mildly pessimistic, slightly neurotic, vainly hopeful existence.

I could not sit through Pans Labyrinth. I tried. I closed my eyes during the bashing with the bottle and thought, “OK, they established that this is a very bad man, it can’t get any worse.” I had really thought that this movie, being billed as a ‘fairy-tale for adults’ was talking about fantasy violence, similar to the Lord of the Rings. I can handle that kind of violence. I can not handle violence against innocent people, animals, and especially children. I dislike watching children not being listened to, and the protagonist was certainly not ‘listened to.’ Remember when the writers on Sesame St. decided to reveal Snuffalufagus to the rest of the muppets because they were concerned about Big Bird not being believed? They wanted children to know that they would be heard? I stand by this logic and it made me cringe to watch this poor kid try and explain: “No! I need to save the mandrake root baby,’ ‘my step-dad is an asshole he’s going to kill us all,’ and ‘I trusted you all to keep me safe’…and then not be heard and perish in the end.

I wanted to see more creatures, more fairies, more of the guy-with-eyes-on-his-palms, and more puking toads. I wanted to experience more of the heartaches, like realizing her beautiful party dress has fallen in the mud. I wanted to see more success in the fawn’s challenges and a sense of growth, hope, and possibility.  THIS is what I expected out of the movie, an extraordinary fantasy world balanced with a terrible reality. Instead this movie failed me the way reality failed Ofelia. It made me feel nauseous. I had to leave the room. I should have trusted my brother who (once again he called it) said, “This is not a Mara movie.”

Similar to having a low tolerance with movies that show abuse against women I am even less tolerant of movies that depict violence against children. I am surprised this movie, with its egregious child abuse and child murder was not rated more strongly and written up more harshly. A fairy-tale for adults? How so? I hang out with small children every day who are very in tune with their favorite fairy tales and the standard run-down goes like this: protagonist is in trouble, protagonist faces enemy, protagonist prevails (and maybe finds true love and happiness in the end). Little Match Book Girl? I have yet to have a single kid mentioned this tale as a favorite–she dies of cold after all what’s so great about that? What about the Tin Soldier who melts in the fire into the shape of a heart? Yeah, he never comes up in conversation. Three-year-olds are pretty damn happy with the idea of happily ever after. That’s the purpose of fairy tales. Sure, when they’re older you can wander down the weirder paths of Alice in Wonderland, sequels with Dorothy (TickTock of Oz anyone?) and even the original text of Peter Pan is a little spicy (what with Tinkerbell being kind of a bitch). I don’t think you can combine horrible images of war with CGI created monsters and call it a ‘fairy-tale.’ (Adult Fantasy is a better term for this movie, however, I realize that is another name for porn).

Maybe, as an adult I’m a more in line with my young students: I like happy endings. You don’t have to try so hard to ‘get me.’ Just show a child (or God forbid a BABY) in trouble and you pretty much have me trembling. I realized that I’m probably different then most adults, or at least I am according to the director who said: “Now we, as adults, in order to be shocked by the horror like a kid and experience the wonderful like a kid, I have to push your buttons and they’re hidden under layers and layers of social fat. I have to push really hard like deep tissue massage….” For continued revelation check out this interview.

Interesting things I have done lately (while listening to “The Swing Years and Beyond” this dark rainy night):

1) Participated in a gaming trial at the Microsoft campus this morning. Five of us sat in a fake living room and played the game “Scene It” which will be available for X-Box 360 this November. Josh and I were the green team and, sad to say, we came dead last. However, the trial was super fun and we gave our feedback after the game, rated it, etc. In exchange for our time we can each redeem something from the Microsoft store and then sell it or keep it. (Haven’t picked yet but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna sell). We also got free coffee and chocolate milk. Score!

2) Listened to Rick Steves expound on the benefits of legalizing marijuana on NPR during my morning commute.

3) Was recently cast in a show where it was requested I hand write three letters to celebrities asking them to generate text for our show. I wrote letters to (deep breath): Oprah Winfrey, Britney Spears, and Henry Rollins. The first two I had to create characters for in order to write a genuine letter. Henry Rollins was easy since I really do worship him. (We’ll see who writes back…form letters will do just fine…an autographed picture would be even better, BRITNEY).

4) Went to a blow out 75% off sale at Evo Gear (home of some of the nicest girl snowboard clothing in Seattle). With giddy delight I plopped down two Burton items which each retailed over $100 a piece. Paid a mere $60. I now own a bright orange reversible windbreaker with copper rhinestone accents and a mohair sweater covered with cowboys, stars, and horses.

5) Still can’t decide about my job but really enjoyed ‘pulling rank’ all over the place this last week.

6) Had to explain to a Safeway pharmacist the difference between a nuvo ring and a diaphragm.

7) I have to recommend the Ivar’s Happy Hour (available all night on Fridays) once again. Huge menu, plenty of pickings, and a waterfront view to boot (complete with mass seagull feedings happening right outside our window–but don’t feed the pigeons according to the sign).

8) Learned a few new things: the color grey is supposedly the hot fall color (REALLY?), gold continues to be BACK BACK BACK, and cinching your waist with a belt is all the rage.

To continue on with my previous post about Green being the new catch word of environmental marketing, I have to take a moment to regard the new trend in buying local. Sure, we all went organic, we all read with great concern how pesticides and chemicals are stunting our collective growths, and we cheered when Wal-mart started carrying organic food. We reached deep into our pockets and paid up for organic milk because we had heard wicked stories about puss dripping utters. After Oprah’s Green special we went out and purchased cloth bags so that when asked “Paper or Plastic?” we answered, “Neither.”
The organic label has been a political playground as the FDA entertains lowering the standards of what can be labeled ‘organic.’ This tampering has caused a large backlash among the purists: Back off corporate America! Certain ingredients are not organic, (like food coloring, baking soda, etc.), no matter how lenient you want to be. Bumper stickers scream out at me on my commute home: “You Were Born Organic And Free,” “Eat Non-Organic At Your Own Risk, and my favorite, “Healthy Crops, Healthy Craps.”
Perhaps this strong reaction against changing the organic standards created the Buy Local movement. This is the whole idea that, sure, you can buy organic but how many miles did your organic strawberries travel to get to you? Were they frozen on the way? Did you buy them at a huge corporate-y store? From NPR to the internet, the new bestest thing is to NOT buy organic produce from Safeway but buy local. If you’re gonna spend the big bucks (and believe me, you do) spend it on your local farmer.
Now…the actual going to a farmer’s market. I have found that in my two years of regular market attendance that they can go either way, boiling down to either the fun, community-building, feel good experience, or the crowded, stifling, self-indulgent slog. I’ve gone in the rain, in the sweltering heat, after battling rush hour traffic and a full day of work behind me. A good day at the market is one where I feel very connected to everyone there. The farmers stop and talk with me, they throw in an extra tomato for my salsa, they share cooking and gardening advice. A bad day is when I have to wait in line for ten minutes to buy a flat of strawberries; the people in front of me keep eating berries off the random flats, irritating the farmer–who is very busy–and myself. I have to keep track of which flats they kept their fingers out of so I can choose the one with the most berries to take home. A crowded market means chaos, rifling through picked over peaches, over-hearing the most pompous, hifalutin, conversations about how great Metropolitan Market is, the local playground at Madison Park, and comparisons to our local cheese with the kind you can buy in the south of France (jerks, I want to go to France).

The opposite perspective is to look at the impact local farms have on communities: do they employ illegal immigrant labor? Are they using pesticides? Are they using heavy, gas guzzling machinery to do the work instead of employing real people? Sure, there are those costs to weigh in too. However, all politics and marketing aside, there is something very smug and satisfying about swinging your little cloth bag under your arm filled with produce while holding a large bouquet of fresh flowers: You just know you did the right thing.

I can’t express to you all how absolutely lovely the movie “Once” is. I saw it on a whim and just loved it. Don’t let the term ‘the new musical’ scare you (it did for Josh), this is nothing like “Showboat.”  Imagine your favorite album layered over scenes, monologues, and scenery shots. The result is a goose pimpling, smile resulting, unusual film experience. There is easy-to-follow narrative, so don’t be alarmed, in fact it’s a bittersweet love story. Bare bones, renegade shooting in public without consent of the city, shot for a mere $150,000 budget, we need more of these sort of movies in the states. Songs from the movie are on their myspace page.

Widely received, “Once” received a whopping 97% on Rotten Tomatoes , critical acclaim at Cannes, and is sneaking up on the states to be a sleeper hit. (OK, stuck-up indie rag The Stranger didn’t like this movie, so please, read their terrible review with a grain of salt. It’s almost like the reviewer felt like he had to be all hardcore and go against the grain, because, you know, The Stranger is so cutting edge with its hideous pack of angst-ridden staff). This Irish love story is magnificent, my only regret is that I will never be able to experience it again for the first time.
So, my dear readers, just GO…GO SEE THIS MOVIE.

Going Green.

For starters, I was raised as a happy little hippie recycler. I once heard a reference to my siblings and I as “granola children” to which we laughed: “Granola? We never got granola…wheat germ and plain yogurt maybe.” My Mom was Green before the term was coined. We grew a lot of our own food, our dinners were made from scratch, and instead of microwave dinners we ended up with the ‘nothing-is-in-the-pantry-let’s-pull-out-the-frozen-pesto’ kind of fast food. Mom always stacked newspapers and made monthly trips to the recyclers (this was before curbside of course). She drinks out of mismatched mugs, uses sheets from the 80’s, and hates to shop. Therefore very little is ever thrown away in my parent’s household. Mom doesn’t use trash bags, has one of the first (and not very functional) water-saving shower heads, and cuts up t-shirts for rags. I grew up throwing banana peels and other food waste under the sink in a bucket for the compost pile.
I try…there is a lot my mother does that has influenced me as an adult, however there is a line. Yes, I reuse ziploc bags…but not the plastic bag the bread came in. Josh couldn’t stand our mismatched and slightly bent silverware so I caved and let him buy a new set. Both my parents use public transportation to get to work–which I did for year until we moved and I switched jobs. I just can’t bring myself to use cloth maxi-pads.

I remember in the early nineties the whole hippie, save the earth, ‘reduce, reuse, recycle’ trend hit the airwaves, fashion, and the media. This was perhaps a response to the first Gulf Crisis, the desire to purify and contain our fragile world. Or maybe it was because the word “Ozone” was being thrown around. Images of landfills, clear cutting, and baby animals with their little heads stuck in six pack rings prompted me to take action: I hand painted a gigantic earth onto one of my tie dyed t-shirts. Teen magazine had a whole spread on hippie gear: from head scarves to flowey peasant blouses. Since I didn’t have any money I handmade peace necklaces using a homemade clay recipe from “Feed Me, I’m Yours.” I painted the necklaces with bright tempera paint, coated them with nail polish, and sold them.

Now we focus less on the iconic images of the three R’s and more on the actual product. My necklaces should be painted using lead free paint, using vegetables dyes, and purified water. Houses are being built green and sold for huge prices to wealthy ‘green bandwagon’ buyers (case in point). Milk should be organic, chicken without hormones, and red meat should come from the happiest grass-fed cow or, better yet, a buffalo.

The Green chatter started bubbling as soon as people realized that temps were heating up, hurricanes were shaking, and, for reals, global warming is a fact. And then Oprah had a big special on being Green. None of her news was earth shattering: If you’re not going to use your plastic bags as trash liners then for God’s sake keep a cloth bag in your car for shopping trips. Throw away the Comet and use vinegar and lemon juice. Unplug your toasters (which I’m really bad about actually). Replace your lightbulbs. (My Mom has this dim little fluorescent from eons ago still flickering in her laundry room).

All of this recent attention on going Green has prompted me to reflect on how we as a society have grown environmentally. Who doesn’t recycle? In Seattle it is illegal to throw away paper or cardboard boxes; you receive a fine if you try to sneak them into your garbage can versus your recycling can. Gone are the “Save the Whale” stickers, hello “Go Solar,” and “George W. Bush: No Tree Left Behind.” I have ebbed and flowed as a life long environmentalist. You can repackage the concept over and over again but the fundamentals are still there: reduce your ‘carbon footprint’ (god, that’s such an NPR term) and your children’s children will still be able to play under a tree. We won’t be burned to a crisp by rising temperatures. Ice caps won’t melt and turn the world into a big swimming pool. Sure, the hardcore religious folks believe that the world is going to hell anyway, that eventually the rapture we’ll happen and the good will be plucked off this good for nothing planet. Why bother taking steps to improve the earth we live on when the righteous will be transported to heaven leaving the smog behind? This opinion frustrates me. How wonderful it would be to just throw it all to chance, the hope that the earth is meant to combust, and any effort we may put into saving it is fruitless. I like to work more for the present: right now, the earth needs me.  You know what I mean?

I have beef with the last one…because I firmly believe we live in a business culture that prefers people to show up to work regardless of their personal health. Oh sure, there are exceptions…I’m not talking about when you’re so sick you have to spit in a cup because your throat hurts from strep, or profuse vomiting from bad sushi, or the killer flu that knocks you flat for a full week. I’m talking about that cold, that goddam cold that sneaks in and makes you feel like total shit for days. I’m talking about that barely functioning level of illness where you’re hacking up green gobs and feel foggy from a sleepless night breathing from your mouth instead of your stuffed up nose. I’m talking about that dragging, nagging, painful level of functioning where you can barely drive your car out of the driveway. It’s the grossly common level of sick where you lie in a grog right before your alarm goes off trying to determine: “How sick am I?” “Am I sick enough to say eff it all and stay home?” (And if you’re a wandering free lance dance teacher who is paid crap and doesn’t get any sort of sick time:) “Can I afford to take this day off?”

Inevitably the answer is NO, I can’t afford to be sick, or to slow down, or to really listen to my body. Sure, I’ll answer honestly when people ask how I’m doing: “Well, I have wicked cold actually…no, no, I’m fine, not to complain…yeah it’s been going around, now it’s my turn, heh heh.” Sure, I’ll sit at the computer I work at part time and stare aimlessly at the screen unable to comprehend anything past my mucous filled sinuses. I’ll pretend to work, gaze off into space, and maybe answer a phone call here and there sounding like a dusky call girl who has smoked one to many cigs. Because, okay, really I’m the one who makes the choice, right? If I’m really feeling all that terrible, I need to just fess up to it and suck it up with a day at home. But how often do you EVER hear a co-worker acknowledge, “Wow, you look and sound awful, why don’t you just go home?” This has never happened to me. Perhaps this is because I work in a “no Sick Day” work environment; a climate where getting a sub for a dance class is like asking Gandhi to come teach for me. People back away from me like I have the plague, covering their mouths to protect themselves from my filth, recognizing the ‘light in my eyes has dimmed,’ and yet no one stops to say, “What the hell are you doing here? Just go home!” Perhaps I’m just a kid and I need permission.

When we were growing up, my Mom always took our illnesses very seriously. We were parked on the couch, unable to get up unless we had to pee, and there was never any TV. We were not allowed to go outside, hang out with friends, or sit at the dinner table until we were fully recovered. There was never any Kleenex in our house, only rolls of toilet paper parked next to the couch and maybe a cat or two to keep us company. This resulted in, (and I’m not kidding), a zero level of ‘faking it’ in our household. Oh, sure, maybe there were a few times one of us may have feigned a little something here and there but I’m certain the sheer boredom of staying home would have driven us to health pretty quickly.

This preservation of my well-being was immediately thrown out the door when I entered college. Unless you had a doctor’s note there was no sympathy from my professors. I learned how to suck it up, bundle up, and show up to class regardless of how sick I was. I also discovered cold medicine. When we were growing up the only thing we were ever given was two children’s tylonal smushed into a spoonful of honey–and this was only if we had fevers. Pepto Bismol, antacids, anti-histamines, Nyquil, all of that was to be discovered in my early adulthood. Oh sure, I dabbled in supplements: acidopholous, echinacea, etc. And honestly, my immune system was pretty strong, so I only got strep throat a few times in college with the rest being a battery of colds and the occasional flu.

When I first entered the work force was when I realized what a harsh and cruel world it is when it comes to personal well-being. For starters, I’m kind of a prone to guilt, (insert Catholic joke here), and the act of calling in sick always made me feel bad. I usually pushed through–as we all do when faced with the option of calling all your co-workers who hate their job as equally as you do and asking if they can ‘cover for you.’ At Starbucks there really was no option: you HAD to come to work. I remember feebly calling other employees flat on my back, my lips purple with 104 degree fever, begging someone to cover my morning shift. I was so sick that JOSH even took the day off so he could keep an eye on me and take me to the hospital if I turned even grayer. I remember another Starbucks employee telling me how she had merciless morning sickness and was still required to come to work even though she begged her manager to have mercy on her. You would think a corporation who pats itself on the back for its marvelous employee benefits would have something like Sick Days to avoid the possibility of phlegm floating around in someone’s caramel macciato.

Let’s face it: It’s more admirable if you show up to work a little sick then if you stay home like a sucker. It shows gumption, resilience, and dedication to your job. It shows that you’re tough, a team player, and have a high tolerance for pain. Nobody likes a whiner and certainly co-workers don’t like knowing the details about how you can only breath through one nostril. If you call in with your best sick voice and ask, “How badly do you need me?” People will sound put out, irritated, and will usually answer honestly, “Gosh, I really have to leave at three today…” I know, because, I’m certain I’ve done this before myself. I don’t want to have to cover for anyone either, what a drag…just suck it up.

When I taught kindergarten last year it was the second job in eight years of working that I’d ever been given the option of taking Sick Days. Still, I only took two days out of eight…and I really regret that. You would think in a climate of well educated, well meaning, teachers there might be an understanding that it would be wise not to spread your germs around. After all, we were regularly coughed on, snotted on, and spit on by well meaning four-year-olds. However, I’ve never seen the ‘just push through it’ attitude more prevalent then in the classroom. The dependence on your co-teacher was so huge, that the idea of them being gone was terrifying, impossible, and down right looked down on. Part of this was that I was only a pion and still finding my way. My dear co-teacher made it her mission to show up to work despite being gravely ill…she set the sick bar pretty high. Last school year was the sickest I’ve ever been in my life, as many of you know…you would think I would have learned a little something like TAKE YOUR FREAKIN SICK DAYS WHEN YOU HAVE THEM.

Now I’m back to my floating world of dance and theater teaching–with more studios in the works. This means calling in sick is a rarity for me. How I wish that the culture of staying home when you’re ill would catch on. Eff you public service announcements with your “wash your hands, cough in your sleeve, stay home when you’re sick” bullshit. If this was truly a philosophy people believed in I wouldn’t be relapsing from a cold as we speak.

BTW, if you haven’t read the previous post and cast your vote for a solo show please do so now!

I’ve recently felt like a Baby Name Wizard…I spend my entire day with children. Sure, I teach 2-5 year olds, but I also work at a location where on any given day I encounter dozens of infants. This gives me a lot of exposure to names, and what the naming trends are–at least in the pacific northwest. I do a lot of data entry too, so day in and day out I’m entering dozens of baby names into our database. While typing in the name “Huckleberry” for a two-year-old boy I couldn’t help but point out the egregious choice by the boy’s parents to my co-workers. Can you imagine young Huckleberry trying to score with the ladies in college? Oh sure, he’ll go by “Huck” and that’s a fine nickname, but COME ON, eventually he’ll have to tell the love of his life his Mom gave him the unmanly title of Huckleberry…like in Hound or Finn it’s cute in literature or cartoon but not in person. I was voted down by co-workers, who thought the name was kinda cute–the nickname especially. I argued that this was worse then the baby I met last week with the first name of “Scooter.” (C’mon, you have to feel the pain on that one).
Because I spend so much time with children I have an insight into what names people think are rare but are actually becoming popular: “Max” is a great example of this. Most noted in literature as the protagonist of “Where The Wild Things Are,” I’ve met several little young boys by the name of “Max.” Enough that I feel like I should warn those who want to use what was once a very original name into something else: “Max” is starting to get played out. “Julian” is another example of this…so is “Riley,” for a girl.
I’m not talking about the usual abuse of ‘old’ names like “Emma,” “Emily,” “Hannah,” and “Ethan.” I still shudder when I think of all the little “Madisons” I taught five years ago who are now represented as Madison H. and Madison R. in their first grade classrooms. Now the common doubles I have in classes are “Sophie” or “Sophia,” I currently teach four girls with this name–three are in the same class! I have also run into a quite a lot of two-year-old girls named “Ellie,” “Ellis,” or “Ella.” And let’s not forget the huge “Mia,” “Maya,” trend. Or “Chloe…”
For boys, I think it’s a little easier…sure there are the old standbys of “Jacob,” “Alexander,” and yes, a ton of little “Sams.” But no little “Tylers” and very few “Ryans.”
I’ve met two babies named “Atticus,” already which is unfortunate for more then one reason.
There are many names that are adorable for babies, but will probably be difficult to grow into and present as adults. “Clarabel,” “Daisy,” and “Toby” are good examples of the youthful naming trend. Really terrible renditions of states and capitols are still used like “Indyanna” (baby went by ‘Indy’ for short). ‘Indy’s’ sister went by Tea, but you have to imagine a flick over the ‘e’ so it was pronounced Tay-ah. When entering her into the system, I couldn’t figure out how to add the little flick (kinda like now)…so the child will forever be known as Tea (and cookies).

C’mon people, sometimes you just have to be careful. Giving a kid a name is such a huge, huge deal–I would imagine since I’ve never done it. I love my name, it’s shaped who I am. I would be entirely different if my parent’s had named me ‘Huckleberry’–or ‘Tara’ which was their second choice, (or ‘Gina’ which was their third baby name and consequently taken by my sister).

Josh and Hilevy are watching The Grudge downstairs. Now, as I’ve probably mentioned before I am a huge chicken and don’t ride roller coasters or watch scary movies. Does this have to do with my super sensitive nature? Perhaps…I tried to think back to my scary movie history and this is what I recall:

Way back, we’re talking four years old or so, my family watched the Sesame Street Christmas on Christmas Eve. I became extremely scared when Big Bird fell asleep on the roof while waiting for Santa Clause and icicles appeared on his beak. The following year I became very distraught over the last scene when Cookie Monster eats the tree. This probably merely offended my sensibilities, but I expressed this by woefully crying over the eaten tree. My parents took this as an indication that I would probably not be ready for Snow White–due to the scene in the forest when Snow White is lost–and kept me viewing nothing but PBS programming for many years. Therefore I grew accustomed to Mr. Rogers, Nova, and Nature in my youth versus He-Man or GI Joe. I watched a lot of old movies, such as Music Man and Sound of Music and even sat through many an opera with my father on the weekends.

The first movie I saw where I thought I might be a little out of my “fear league” was Baby: Secret of the Lost Legend. This is the terrible movie about the couple who find a baby dinosaur in Africa and have to save him from being killed by poachers. Of course, the baby’s mom shows up and kicks ass at the end and everything is all fine and good. I watched this movie in third grade at my first slumber party. The whole experience was so traumatic it would be my last slumber party for five years (at 14 I decided I needed to tough it out and try another sleep over). It wasn’t just the movie, it had largely due to the group of back stabbing bitches that attended the party–culminated with a painful version of Sleeping Bag Tag where I was accidentally kicked. I know that watching a film with a lot of action and a mother dinosaur killing a poacher was the last thing my fragile spirit needed during my first night away from home. “It’s just ketchup,” another party-goer assured me. I watched through partially splayed fingers as the mother dinosaur tromped her way through the terrain only to capture a human in its jaws and hack the body in half (it should be important to mention that this was a gentle brontosaurus who had very unscientifically turned into a killing machine). Needless to say, the birthday girl’s dad had to take me home at 10pm. I didn’t make it. I wept from embarrassment in his trans-am as he drove the six blocks to my house. “You might be a little young for slumber parties,” my Mom consoled. “We’ll try again next year.” (Never, I secretly swore as I snuggled down into my own bed: I’m NEVER sleeping over again).

I have to say that there were a few other movies that frightened me but I eventually developed a tolerance for the scary parts. One of these movies was The Never Ending Story, which is just so excellent I couldn’t opt out entirely. I rewatched that movie with a bunch of kindergartners last year and I have to admit that the wolf-like creature is truly a scary character. I realized, as I watched is an adult, that I have ALWAYS closed my eyes during the scene where foxy Atreyu stabs the creature in the heart. Speaking of, let’s remember how much of an impact that character made on most of our young minds: I truly believe it was my attraction to Atreyu that kept me going through that movie–which we owned and watched repeatedly. I confirmed the acceptability of having a crush on Atreyu as a kid when Joey confided that he too had similar feelings. (Curious about where the actor went I did some browsing).

My Dad watched a lot of Dr.Who (on PBS of course) in the evenings and I occasionally watched with him. This was until I started having nightmares about box like creatures: My Mom banned me from watching Dr.Who for a little while. I know, even campy british sci-fi was too much for me at one point.

I remember watching Jurassic Park as a young teen and realizing that if I just closed my eyes during the violent parts (of yet another dinosaur eating people movie), I could make it through. I toughed it out and could brag that I had seen the movie. (”Remember the toilet scene?” “Oh, yeah!” I lied, “I loved that scene.”) This actually serves me quite well, and it’s a tactic I still employ. The more subtler movies like The Sixth Sense managed to truly terrify me–even keeping me from going into the basement on the night we watched it. Which asks the question: Is it the violence or the thrill that scares me? I certainly couldn’t stomach violence for quite some time. As soon as someone starts waving a gun around I immediately put my hands over my ears–which made Pulp Fiction unbearable. I always say that I must have been shot in a past life because gun play freaks me out so much. Violence isn’t so much scary as it is gross and disturbing. However, movies like The Grudge, The Saw, etc. are just too frightening. Why, even the opening credits for The Grudge made me nervous…and stuff jumping out at me? I’m a heart attack waiting to happen. Just ask Gina, we went on the Haunted Mine ride at Lagoon back in 99 and I screamed my heart out at every jumping ghoul and ghost. I ask you: What is the appeal of being scared? Why does one desire the experience of leaping half out of their seat? Am I just a big wet blanket? Is it something you get better at with practice? Am I missing out by not being enthralled by The Grudge?

Johnny has tagged me with an internet meme: Five things my readers may not know about me.
1.) When I was small I used to imagine my food turning into little cartoon character vegetables holding trays of whatever veggies they were; The food would join a big party and maybe do a few choreographed numbers in my stomach.

2.) Panels from one of my earliest zines are in the book From Girls to Grrlz : A History of Women’s Comics from Teens to Zines .

3.) When I was in college I dated this guy while his girlfriend was in Spain for a quarter. He claimed to be a former hit man for the South American mafia. He came to Seattle for a fresh start and would only tell me a few ‘hit man’ type stories–not too many…he didn’t want to scare me.

4.) I was a regular guest for Dan Savage back when he had a weekly 2-hour call-in show called Savage Love Live on Seattle’s KCMU (now KEXP).

5.) I was a catalog model for a seamstress who specialized in old-fashion underwear worn in the annual Frontier Days in Wyoming.

As I look at these, I figure a lot of people may actually know these stories…so perhaps I’m cheating and they don’t really count.  (Except for number one, I know I haven’t told anyone about the dancing vegetables).

I’m tagging Erin, Kimberly, Samuel P., Clay, and Jeff.