A wannabe writer looking for something meaningful to say

On celebrity death and loss

My first real memory associated with Prince does not involve listening to his music. First, I should point out that I am a child of the ’80s so Prince’s music (and Michael Jackson’s and Whitney Houston’s—both also gone from this earth) was playing in the background everywhere as I grew up. The kind of stuff that you recognize the moment it comes on the radio, that you know, even when you don’t KNOW. And I didn’t KNOW Prince until this particular moment.

It was 1987. I had moved to the United States from Colombia with my mom that year. We lived in upstate New York, in a small town called Watertown, where we knew exactly one family when we arrived. The dad, an American whose name I don’t remember, had worked with my mom in the past and was married to a Colombian woman. He had two children from a previous marriage. Both of them were blond and blue-eyed and looked to me exactly like what gringos were supposed to look like. The younger of the two was Dusty. He was 12, I think. Older than me (I was 9) but not so much older that he was too old to play with a 9-year-old girl who barely spoke his language. We got along fine for the short time we knew each other, though I bet he probably doesn’t remember me the way I remember him. His older sister was a teenager. I can’t remember her name. Or how old she was exactly. I have a single memory of her, but it’s a vivid one.

The memory is this: We are in their dad’s car, going I don’t know where. Dusty and I are in the back seat, and she’s in the front. I’m behind the driver’s seat, so I can see her face when she turns toward her dad. At one point, he asks about the music she is listening to on her Walkman and she turns and looks at him with the kind of surly look only teenagers are capable of and spits out, “PRINCE!”

I know that I had heard his music before that moment, but I didn’t KNOW who Prince was, what he was and what he gave to young people. At 9, I was too young to get it, but in retrospect, it’s easy to see why that memory—of all possible memories to have of the first friends I remember mom and I having in the United States—has stuck with me for almost 30 years. Prince, his music, his persona, his artistry—all of it is freeing. Listening to him makes you just want to let go in the best possible way.

I think of that memory now and I think of a girl asking to be left alone to listen to music that lets her be herself by herself. And I think, “Leave her alone, dude, it’s PRINCE.”


Some time later, while we were still in Watertown, Gary Shandling hosted the Grammys. He did so for several years in a row, and at one point, he told a joke about the accountants who tally the votes. The accountants were standing on stage smiling and awkward, and Gary Shandling says, “Accountants all over the country are saying right now, ‘Those guy are hot!'”

It still makes me laugh. He still makes me laugh. He’s also dead.

Celebrity deaths hit harder now because the ones dying now are ones I recognize, ones whose work I know and sparks a flood of memories and emotions. I remember the accountant joke, but what’s worse, I also remember laughing about the joke. And I remember how the laughter felt, which makes me remember being a child. I can still go back to the memory. I can still watch old episodes of The Gary Shandling Show or The Larry Sanders Show. I can still remember Gary Shandling bantering with David Duchovny at the Emmy Awards. I can still listen to Prince or David Bowie (or Whitney Houston or Michael Jackson). I can still watch Hans Gruber fall in slow motion on YouTube. I have every Harry Potter movie and could rematch every “ob-viously” Alan Rickman ever uttered until I wear the DVDs out. So in effect, I haven’t lost anything. They are all gone, but I didn’t lose anyone I knew personally. I still have them in my life in the same form the existed in before they died.

So why do their deaths make me sad? Because I don’t exist in the same form I existed in when they were alive. That’s what I’ve lost. The piece of me that they made a little bit more alive is only a memory now. All I have left is to be grateful that they made me laugh and dance and be a little bit more myself.

Mini Book Review: Bumped

Bumped (Bumped, #1)Bumped by Megan McCafferty
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Once again, my initial reaction to completing a book by Megan McCafferty is one of frustration that she can’t seem to encapsulate or tie off a narrative appropriately in a single book. Seriously, even when you know there will be sequels, books in a series should be self contained and END rather than merely STOP.

All that said, I was really taken by her conceit: That a fertility-killing virus has turned a society that once treated teen sexuality as anathema is now systematically coercing kids not just to copulate but to procreate. Bumped doesn’t exactly feel like the futuristic/post-apocalyptic Divergent or Hunger Games, but it’s certainly in the same school and feels much more plausible and, therefore, scarier than those two.

The protagonists, Melody and Harmony (I know it’s silly, just go with it) don’t always feel fully formed—especially Melody—but this is partly owing, I think, to the fact that Melody doesn’t know who she is. Neither does Harmony, and neither one figures out that she doesn’t know who she really is until the story reaches its climax in the final hundred pages. And that’s maybe why, in the end, I enjoyed this one. I’m a sucker for a young woman on the verge of finding herself. And once that happens here, the girls and the narrative feel more whole.

There are what feel like plot holes and questions left unanswered, but maybe they’ll be settled in the sequel, which I’ll be starting in 3, 2, 1 . . .

View all my reviews

Easing on down memory lane

I’m emerging from my almost year-long blog hibernation for a short memory in honor of tonight’s live performance of The Wiz. (Well, live for the east coast, anyway.)

I moved to the United States when I was nine years old, a few months before I started fourth grade for the second time. (The first time was back in Colombia, where I was so smart, I was a year ahead of where I was supposed to be in school.) About a month (or was it a week?) after I started fourth grade, three girls came over to the apartment mom and I lived in for a sleepover. One of them became my best friend. Her name was Trilbey. She was into music and acting, and played Annie in the local community theater’s production of Annie when we were in fifth grade.

Also in fifth grade, she was the only kid in our class to vote for Michael Dukakis over George H. W. Bush in the class election. Now that I think about it, there may have been two Dukakis votes. I can’t remember. This was upstate New York, so everybody was Republican. Everyone except Trilbey’s parents. Naturally, she followed suit. It was supposed to be secret ballot, but everyone knew who everyone was voting for and from what I remember, she didn’t mind that people knew. (I voted for Bush for no other reason than everyone else was. Politics and what it all means wouldn’t come into my life for a long, long time.) Anyhoo, Trilbey was cool in a way that was wholly impossible for me to be at the time. We were friends until 7th grade, which was when I moved away. I was sad about the move when it happened, but it was just as well because when I left she was well on her way to becoming one of the popular girls at our school, something else that was impossible for me to be at the time, so we were likely going to drift apart eventually. We wrote for a few years, and then she moved also. At least, I think she did.

So what does my childhood best friend have to do with The Wiz? As I said, Trilbey was into theater. Once, we went to see the local high school’s production of Pippin. Totally her idea. I had no idea what Pippin was, and to be perfectly honest, that didn’t change much after having sat through the show. Our houses were about a mile apart in the town we lived in and like most kids who grew up in the ’80s, we were allowed to walk alone a lot. When we did, she used to sing “Ease on down the road.” I didn’t know where it was from. (I didn’t know a lot back then. Everything, pretty much, was new to me, and it took many years of living in the United States before that changed.) But for years after, I would sing that song to myself without thinking about it. Sometimes without realizing it. When I did I would think of her and smile.

I hope wherever she is she is smiling too.

Mini Book Review: Eleanor and Park

Eleanor and ParkEleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Reading this book felt like wrapping myself up in a warm fleece blanker. From the moment Eleanor steps on the bus for the first time, everything about it felt familiar and just as I’d lived it, even though Eleanor and Park’s experiences turned out to be very different from mine.

At a time when fiction about young people is mired in the dystopian and fantastical (some to great effect, some less so), it was wonderful to read a story about the sometimes painful, sometimes humiliating, sometimes even joyful normality of adolescence. No time is wasted describing a world we don’t recognize (however alien the 80s may seem to today’s youth), setting up the overly convoluted plot or explaining the thing from which the protagonist is going to save us. Instead, Rainbow Rowell spends her time living inside of each of the two main characters and letting us into their disparate worlds and hearts in a way that feels fair and compassionate, not indulgent or overly intrusive. I came to love both Eleanor and Park as individuals and as a pair and, being many years removed from my teen years, felt eager to protect them from everything they go through in the book and everything that I know comes after.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been moved by a work of fiction with so few moving parts. Nice to know that a setting we know so well and that has been explored so thoroughly (high school) can still surprise us.

View all my reviews

Awards Predictions Were a Lot Easier When I Actually Watched Movies (But Here Are Some Anyway)

Hubby and I are movie people. Going to movies almost every weekend and methodically working through the 300-plus titles on each of our Netflix queues were things we both did before we met. He even worked at a movie theater once. And a video store. One of the first gifts he gave me was the movie poster for Cinema Paradiso, a great movie about going to the movies. So yeah, our love of movies might as well have been written into our wedding vows.

Then, our daughter was born and, any parent of a small child reading this can probably guess what happened next. Movies became a rare treat, rather than the default plan for the weekend. How rare, you ask? A friend gave me a couple of gift cards for a chain of theaters two years ago and I still haven’t used them both up. (In fairness, I tend to forget I have them when we do make it to the theater—chalk that up to the sleep deprivation that also comes with being a parent.)

So this thing that once felt essential to my life, suddenly no longer did. It happens when someone else’s eating and pooping schedule rules your life. And yet, I don’t mind as much as I thought I would. A shift like that happens gradually, and you don’t really notice until you see a trailer for a film that your movie-loving psyche identifies immediately as MUST SEE and then months go by and you happen to see another commercial, this one for the DVD/Blu-ray, and you realize that not only did you not see the movie in the theater, you completely forgot it existed. And what’s more, it has been available on iTunes for weeks and maybe you’ll see it some night after the kid is in bed . . . or maybe you just won’t. Either way, life goes on, because whatever it was that I used to get from movies, I either need less of or I get someplace else. Either way, I have little time to think about it because the kid is a gray-hair inducing handful. Then, the kid smiles at you and gives you a hug, and in that moment, who cares about the movies, right?

Being all Zen about missing out on good movies does have an exception, of course, and that’s when awards season comes around. It’s then that I really wish I still had the time and inclination to see everything with the potential to be nominated. We try, but on a good year, we seen three, maybe four, of the dozen or so in contention for the big prizes, so when the award shows happen, I have no idea what will win and, what’s worse, no sense of indignation about what should have won at the end of it. I love talking about movies at Oscar time, but can’t muster up much to say with any kind of authority.

I know the movies I’ve seen (this year, that’s Boyhood, Gone Girl and not much else), I know what movies seem most enticing by the look of their trailers (Selma, The Theory of Everything) or by the look of their casts (The Imitation Game, Into the Woods). And I know what actors should win based on the number of snubs they’ve had to endure (Julianne Moore, ever and always) and what actors would give the best speeches (Bill Murray, ever and always).

So, based on absolutely nothing but my own uninformed biases and current whims, then, here are my Golden Globe predictions:

Continue reading

But Don’t Call Them Resolutions

I intended to post this right after my birthday in June. If you look at the date of the last post on this blog, you can see how well that went.

Anyway, last year (and by last year, I mean 2014—Happy New Year!), I turned 36. When it happened, I started to think about what I wanted to do for my 40th birthday. I’ve never been one for big celebrations on my birthday. In fact, there are only a handful that I remember especially vividly:

  • 15, when my stepmom insisted on throwing me a quiceañera
  • 16, when I made tie-dyed shirts and camped out in my back yard with a bunch of my friends from school
  • 21, when I went out with my mom and I ordered a cosmopolitan for my first legal drink; the bartender realized it was my birthday and offered to give me my next drink free and then said I was crazy for ordering a white Russian.
  • 27, when I threw myself a party and hung out with hubby for the first time

Still, 40 is one of those numbers that looms especially large on the calendar for everybody and, therefore, necessitates special acknowledgement. Truth be told, I’m really looking forward to my 40s. No, really. I am for all sorts of reasons, but mainly because after I turned 30 I realized that all the things I didn’t do in my 20s, I could still do, with the added benefits of experience, wisdom, greater financial stability and a husband and kids with whom to enjoy them. So the thoughts of what I’d do to mark my 40s turned into thoughts about what I wanted to do once I turned 40, which, in turn, became thoughts about what I could do now.

The result was this list—40 things I want to do before I turn 40.

Continue reading

Recipe Review: Softbatch Cream Cheese Chocolate Chip Cookies

I wish I could remember the first time I ate a homemade chocolate chip cookie because I feel like my life since that moment has been an endless, fruitless (though chocolate-filled and therefore often delicious) effort to bake the perfect one. Yes, I realize that I ate my first chocolate chip cookie as a child, and for me at a young age, “effort to bake the perfect one” usually just meant baking variations of the recipe on the back of the Nestle Tollhouse Morsels bag.

Variations, you ask?

Oh, you know.

Semi-sweet vs. milk.

Softened butter vs. melted butter.

Light brown sugar vs. dark brown sugar.

Nuts vs. no nuts.

And my favorite . . . adding oatmeal.

As a grown-up person, I’ve gotten better and more adventurous with my baking. I still follow other people’s recipes. When it comes to stuff that I and my loved ones and I are going to eat, I’m not one for the road less traveled, not when it’s made by me, anyway. Being a follower is not a terrible thing some of the time. I’m getting away from my point. Anyway. As I was saying, I like recipes, though I use them more as a general guide rather than a strict set of rules.

Still, all that said, I’d never varied too much beyond what’s listed above, when it came to chocolate chip cookies. The standard recipe is easy, and there’s chocolate so even when they’re bad, they’re good. But realizing that I’ve passed on my chocolate chip cookie addiction on to my daughter, it occurred to me that if she is going to love the chocolate chip cookie as much as I do, I’d like for her to believe that the cookies we make at home are better than anyone else’s. I mean, whenever she wants to have a really awesome cookie, I want her to say, “Mommy, let’s bake!” instead of, “Mommy, let’s go to the store and buy cookies!”

So with that in mind, I’ve looked at recipes here and there that were a step above the old standard, but not so complicated that my 2-year-old couldn’t help me (or that I couldn’t keep an eye on her while in the thick of it because she got bored and decided to go color on the table in the dining room—it happens). Ideally, the ingredients would all be stuff I keep at home on a regular basis, and they’d bake soft.

Here’s a recipe, from the blog AverieCooks.com, that I landed on in that search, and while I won’t claim it’s the perfect cookie. It’s pretty damn good.

(Fair warning if you follow the link to the recipe: There are so many pictures of delicious gooey cookies before you get to the actual recipe that you will be convinced you have to make them right then when you finally do.)

cookie2

One of the things that makes the cookies soft is that the recipe replaces some of the butter (softened) with cream cheese (also softened). You can’t actually taste the cream cheese, but the resulting batter is much thicker and stickier than for cookies I’ve made in the past. Instead of chocolate chips and chunks, as suggested, I only used chips.

The recipe also calls for refrigerating the dough for two hours (or up to five days!) before baking. I never do this when I follow cookie recipes. I’ve been told that cookies baked at just the right temperature are all the tastier for it, but who has the time or patience for that? Not me. In this case, I put the dough in the fridge while my daughter sat on the potty for 20 minutes before scooping onto the baking mat. Don’t know if it made a difference. The resulting cookies were delicious either way. Very soft and very tasty. I took some to a friend’s house who had us over for dinner and her kindergardener confirmed that they were very good indeed. I highly recommend this one.