Wishful Drinking & Spiked Sweet Tea

"Laughter gives us distance. It allows us to step back from an event, deal with it and then move on."

- Bob Newhart

Recommended tea: Spiked Sweet Tea

Sometimes at the bookstore, customers can get a little upset. Sometimes it's because we don't have the book that they want, or because we haven't heard of something that they consider an essential piece of literature. Most of the time, though, it's because of something else - their husband snapped at them on the phone before they walked in, their mother is in the hospital. Usually they're already upset when they walk in the door, and we just happen to be in their line of fire. 

One day, I was up at the registers and a very pregnant woman walked up with her two other children. One was a toddler, and the other was probably seven or eight. Now, for no reason that I've been able to understand, we have these very wobbly pedestals in front of the registers that are usually piled high with very heavy books. Attached to these pedestals are velvet ropes, which to children, look like swings. But what happens when a child puts any weight on one of these "swings"? Both pedestals will fall on top of them, along with all of the books on top of them. We do our best to keep this from happening.

Imagine my horror, then, when this particular customer's seven year old was holding the toddler up in the air, hopping over the velvet rope on one foot as if it were a jump rope. 

Immediately I said, in my Kindergarten teacher voice, "oooooOOOOOOH! Be careful!"

To which, the very pregnant woman replied, screaming in my face, "YOU KNOW WHAT!? WE'RE DOING THE BEST WE CAN!!!!!!!!!!!"

She then stated that she would never shop in our store again, and left all of her merchandise on the counter.

I would like to say that I laughed this off. My reaction, of course - being the strong, independent, Stevie Nicks-esque woman that I am - was to cry. I tried to stifle the tears, of course, but that only made them all the more determined to come streaming down my face. While sobbing, I continued to ring up the customers. 

"Did you-hoo-hoo f-f-find eve-eve-everything oka-a-a-ay?"

And what do you know? Those customers came to my rescue. 

"What I want to know, honey, is are you okay?"

"Well, obviously, she's not doing the best that she can!"

"My goodness - she needs a vacation."

One customer came around the counter and held my hand. "Honey," she said, "I've been pregnant twice before. Don't you worry! It's not you. It's the hormones. I would cry too if I were you! Just let it out!"

Later, one of my co-workers - let's call her best friend co-worker - was on the phone with a customer.

"WELL, I wanted to get this book, but you, of course, said it was on (dun-dun-dun) BACKORDER! Tell me, please, do any of you know what you are doing? I would like to speak to a manager."

To which, best friend co-worker replied, "Ma'am, I am a manager."

Crazy customer then said, "PFUH! I HIIIIGHLY doubt that!" and hung up.

And you know what best friend co-worker did? She laughed, being the strong, independent, Stevie Nicks-esque woman that she is. I know that my reaction would inevitably have been tears. 

This is when I realized - it takes more strength to laugh than it does to cry when faced with these situations. My reaction to problems has always been to look them in the face, sternly, seriously, and try my best not to let them break me. If they do break me, I usually cry. I usually cry even if they don't break me, to tell you the truth. 

But what would my life have been like if I had laughed instead? How many warriors among us are hiding their battle scars with clown noses? Do you really think it takes more strength, more sacrifice, to wallow in victimhood than it does to climb the victim mountain, stand on top, and move on with your life?

Carrie Fisher is most definitely a mountain climber. When I have looked at Carrie Fisher in the past, I have always seen her as someone that didn't take herself too seriously, but had a pretty privileged, easy life. 

HOO-DOGGY! I was way off. Ms Fisher has not only dealt with alcoholism and addiction (which she argues are the exact same thing), but divorce, death (her friend died next to her in her bed), Bipolar Disorder ("I'm a Pez Dispenser AND my picture is in the Abnormal Psychology textbook!" she says), and - oh yeah! - her dad, Eddie Fisher, leaving her mom, Debbie Reynolds, for Elizabeth Taylor. The kind of stuff we all have to deal with...right?

But in spite of all of this hardship, Carrie Fisher is able to look at it and smile, to laugh, to share these hardships with us wrapped up in a nice little chuckle package. It makes us as readers feel stronger, like we can get through anything. If she can survive, laugh, have a good attitude, and create something brilliant with these horrors... can't we? 

She says, "If my life wasn't funny, it would just be true - and that is unacceptable." 

Life of course hands you the bad, but the warriors - they take the bad and they turn it into something good, inspiring, something that can lighten someone else's load - something I like to call "art." In my opinion, this is the single most selfless act in humanity - to wipe off the tears, and bravely put on the clown nose or pick up the paintbrush or pick up the pen. What is art if not the ability to reach out to other humans and say "Hey! Look at this! I'm human, too, and we're human together!"


Ms Fisher has now officially been added to my "strong women I aspire to be/be like" list. And you know I want one of those knit Princess Leia hats. 

Hey! Look at this!

• Knit your own Leia hat
• Buy your own Leia hat

I TOLD you it was real

I found this when I was cleaning out my childhood room -

No, your eyes do not deceive you! That says,

 "To: Amanda 

Love, Dolly Parton"

I hate to say I told you so... actually, I don't. I told you so. 

And I bet Dolly would've told you so, too, if she'd had the opportunity.

I have to find a place to hang it that the dreamy husband will approve of 

(What's wrong with over the bed, hubby? Seriously...)

Now I've just got to work on the other (living) members of my "Strong women I want to be/be like" list.

(Stevie Nicks, I'm lookin' at you)

Columbine & Earl Greyer

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places."

- Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

Recommended Tea: The Republic of Tea's Earl Greyer

Recently I was working at the bookstore and one of our regular customers approached me.

"Do you have the new Lucy Cousins book?"

This particular customer is a whiz when it comes to kids' books. He knows everything new, usually before we even know about it. Thankfully this time we happened to have the exact book he was looking for.

I love helping Mr. Enthusiastic, as I have dubbed him, because he is... um... enthusiastic.

"Look!" he said, "I have to show you this page..."

He flipped to a section of the book that told the story of Little Red Riding Hood. There, in this brand new children's book, written by the creator of Maisy, was a picture of a wolf getting his head chopped off with an axe.

"GEEZ!" I exclaimed.

"I know!" he said, "Isn't it fantastic?"

I started to tell him about an article that I recently read about fairy tales. About how in the good ole days, children's stories weren't all roses and sunshine. They were scary, graphic, terrifying, usually involving diseases and orphans and murder. Think the fire in Bambi (I still get a little shaky thinking about that) times one-thousand. The article argued that stories like this were important for a child's development. When introduced to concepts like violence and death at an early age, children, apparently, are able to process these things more easily later in life rather than being completely blindsided by them. They SHOULD learn about these things as children in a safe way rather than being raised to believe that in life, everything is tied up in a nice little bow.

It was at this point that he looked at me and said "Yes... in real life, there is no happily ever after."

It struck me as more than a coincidence that this encounter occurred while I was reading Dave Cullen's Columbine - a book that I had been eager to read for months.

I know exactly where I was when I found out about the shooting in 1999 (which, Cullen argues, was actually a failed bombing meant to kill hundreds). I was in my grandmother's living room, sitting in her big leather chair that is now my big leather chair, watching the footage on her television that was as old as stonehenge.

I remember seeing all of the images, now burned into our consciousness, for the first time. Children running with their arms above their heads. Heads thrown back in sorrow. The boy in the window.

Almost immediately, the media (as we liberals like to call it) started providing answers to the collective American question mark surrounding the horror. "Oh, they were bullied." "Oh, they listened to Marilyn Manson." "Oh, they were nazis." "Oh they were goth kids." "Oh, they were racists."

Then the heroic stories started to pour out. Cassie Bernall declaring her faith in the face of death. A modern day martyr. Then came the songs, the sermons, the books, the testimonies.

Guess what? None of these things actually happened.

Cullen's book, rather than being an exposé on the inner-workings of twisted, bullied, outcast kids serves as a means to show the world what they really were - kids. One introverted, lacking self-confidence, with a desperate need to feel loved and accepted. The other, a textbook sociopath. Both were popular, well-liked, and intelligent. They were desperate to go to prom, to get dates, to fall in love. Both had close friends that were Christians and minorities. Neither of them were goths or racists.

But this just goes to show what we as Americans are trained to do when a tragic, unimaginable event takes place - we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and find the moral. Find the lesson learned. Find the happily ever after.

When I was about to turn 13, my older brother passed away. I thought that if I could find the lesson that this event was supposed to teach me (we Southern gals and our "sposed ta's"), I would be healed. If I could wrap it all up in a big bow, make it all make sense, it would be as if none of it had ever happened and my pain would vanish.

I took the standard "Well, if this had not happened to me then x and z would not have happened, either, so really, it was a good thing," approach. This made me feel "fixed," like I wasn't screwed up anymore, and didn't have to deal with all of the scary questions. I could now be the brave girl with her life completely together, better and wiser than she was pre-tragedy. At that age more than any other, you see the world in black and white terms. There is an answer to every question. Doubt is not okay. Doubt equals weakness.

Turns out, I'm just as confused now as I was then. The only difference is that now I'm able to admit it.

Later, I found an old brown paper bag with some of my brother's last wishes written on it. "Tell Amanda that it's okay to ask questions," it said. Only now do I fully understand what he was trying to tell me.

Usually when I blog about the books that I've read, I try to describe a moral or lesson that I've learned from them. But the very point of Cullen's book is that there aren't always morals. Trying to tie up all of the loose ends can sometimes cheapen the experience and nullify the humanity. It serves only to provide us mental relief - "okay, we've learned what that was about and now we can move on." But who wants to see their lost loved ones reduced to a lesson or a microcosm? What high schoolers want to see their school reduced to a symbol for what is wrong with young America? The truth is that truth - life - is more complicated than that, and reducing everything to something that you would read on a sampler doesn't do truth, or life, justice.

Our role as humans is to examine, to pursue, to use our minds and wrestle with what life hands us. Sometimes, there are no answers. Sometimes, there is no black and white. And only through embracing and accepting the question marks, the grey, can we see ourselves as we really are - complex, terrifying, beautiful, irrational creatures.

Like Ms. Stevie Nicks says, "Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life? I don't know."

I don't know. And guess what? That's okay.

Julie & Julia & Butter Tea

"If I was going to follow Julia down this rabbit hole, I was going to enjoy it, by God - exhaustion, crustacean murder, and all. Because not everybody gets a rabbit hole. I was one lucky bastard, when you came down to it."

- Julie Powell, Julie & Julia

Recommended Tea: Tibetan Butter Tea

Recently a friend and I had a discussion about our careers.

"I'm so tired of working at a job that I don't care about! Well, I care about it, and it's a great job, but I'm so tired of not being able to do what I love," friend said.

"Well," said I, "maybe you would feel a little better about your job if you did some more stuff on the side that you really DID care about. Like, if I only worked at my job during the day and didn't do anything else, I would lose my mind. Which is why I act on the side. And blog. And volunteer. And act some more. And direct sometimes. And teach sometimes. And sometimes dress up as storybook characters and read to kids. And read. And garden. And write plays."

This is what my life has always been like. Student/bookseller/filer by day, devious actor/volunteer/playwright/director/gardener by night. This has been what has saved my soul and kept it in its little birdhouse. Since I was twelve I have always gone a billion miles a minute, have always done ten things at once. And I intend to keep it that way.

But there's something about working that post-college job that really, really depresses you. Sure, there may exist (in some alternate universe) a collection of people who were able to go right into the job that they always dreamed of. If those people exist, I have never met them. More power to them.

For the rest of us, there's that doomed phrase - "make a living." I touched on this a bit in my blog entry for Into the Wild. After college, after spending four idealistic years studying what you love so that you can do what you love for the rest of your life, you forget about all of the steps that it takes to get to the place where you CAN actually do what you love instead of doing it in your spare time.

This is especially true for the artists among us (and I proudly, maybe a little naively, throw myself into this category). There is no road map, no route to get to your dreams. But there is a light bill. And rent. And food. These are clear, touchable things that you can wrap your head around. Survival means eating and shelter. Eating and shelter mean money. Art and money, at least at first, do not...well... "mesh well."

So you apply at the restaurant or the clothing store or the (cough cough) bookstore. You think "I'll only be here for a little while - just until I can get started. Then it's DREAMTIME!"

Months or even years later, you're still there. And you're still not in dreamville. And the longer you stay OUT of dreamville, the harder it is to find your way back to your route. I am convinced that this is why the world doesn't have as many artists as it should - the artists get trapped in a cubicle and get so comfortable (or scared) that they never want to leave.

But for those of us with one foot in retail and one foot in the arts, there's an overwhelming need to create. To do something that matters. To do ANYTHING that isn't paperwork or folding or (cough cough cough) shelving.

This is what Julie & Julia is about - finding that thing that pulls your soul out of the deep, dark, "make a living" hole and puts it somewhere inspired. Whether that route is cooking your way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking or singing karaoke at Twin Kegs on a Saturday night, the creative have GOT to find ways to create, ways to stay connected to the muse, no matter what they may be.

And what better place to find inspiration than Mrs. Julia Child? Julia Child, in my humble opinion, should be right there on the "great, strong women" shelf next to Eleanor Roosevelt and Katharine Hepburn. She was able to find that thing that she loved more than anything, even though it took her 40 years to find it, and seek it with all of her heart while staying poised and positive. And when she found that thing, she threw herself into it heart and soul.

Julie Powell is similarly worthy of admiration. Not only because she threw herself into this extremely daunting project heart and soul, but because she was able to bring inspiration into her world, grab Julia's hand, and pull herself out of the cubicle ocean.

I also completely adore the idea of following in the path of a (my favorite phrase) "strong woman" in order to learn how to blaze your own. For Julie, that trailblazer was Julia. For me, there have been maybe a billion - Dolly Parton, Stevie Nicks, Audrey Hepburn, Katharine Hepburn, Jo March, Elizabeth Bennet, Sarah Bernhardt, and, the one nearest and dearest to my heart nowadays, Virginia Woolf.

One of the things that I love most about being a woman is the feeling that these women (be they fictional or real) are my sisters, my friends, my family members. That they sit on my shoulders like little angels, whispering their words of wisdom, completely ready and willing to help me drag myself out of that ocean of comfortable mediocrity and into the universe of my dreams.

Jo tells me to cut off all of my hair.

Elizabeth encourages me to speak my mind.

Dolly whispers, "If you don't like the road you're walking pave another one."

Stevie screams, "ROCK ON, Gold Dust Woman!"

Katharine shouts, "If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun."

Virginia gingerly places her hand on my shoulder and says, "They say that one must beat one's wings against the storm in the belief that beyond this welter the sun shines; the sun falls sheer into pools that are fledged with willows."

And what have they all told me to do in unison? What did Julia tell Julie to do?

JUMP!

Jump into life! Jump into your dreams! Stop wasting your time, energy, and talent. Take a risk. Find a way to make your life about what is really important to you instead of about earning a pay check. Build a little birdhouse in your soul. Show the world that you are a force to be reckoned with instead of trying to play by the world's rules.

And that is exactly what I am going to do.

Hey! Look At This!

• The Julie/Julia Project
• Visit Julia Child's Kitchen!

Julia Child shows you how to make an omelette

The Time Traveler's Wife & Passion

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Recommended Tea: Tazo's Passion

Recently, my husband and I celebrated our one year wedding anniversary. We went to the site of our wedding, visited all of the important places. It was strange - strange because those places had changed.

"That Sonic wasn't there before, was it?" "When did they start doing construction here?" "It's not as humid as it was last year."

It was as if we believed the happiness that we felt on that day had the power to keep anything from changing.

It is this belief that leads millions upon millions of people to get married. The belief that what you feel is so strong that it will keep anything from changing. Ever.

Unfortunately, time doesn't freeze. Time keeps going. As it ticks away, things change. You gain weight, you lose weight. The house is clean, the house is a wreck. The fridge is full, the fridge is empty. You're getting along perfectly, and then you have a disagreement.

You're young, in love, and together... but then, one day, one of you is gone.

This is a fear that has haunted me since the day that I knew my husband would someday be my husband. The fear of never finding "the one" is immediately replaced with the fear of what will happen when "the one" is gone. Or you are gone. I cannot imagine anything more terrifying.

The reality of death hit me at a very young age, when someone in my family passed away. After experiencing the reality of that horror, death has turned into my noisy neighbor, the paparazzi hiding behind the bushes and peeking into my windows, wrecking moments that are supposed to be personal and private. I know that he is there. He knows that I know that he is there.

On the one hand, the knowledge of this keeps me thankful. I became aware, earlier than most of my friends, that we would not have each other forever. This gave me an appreciation for the people around me.

On the other hand, this has placed a shadow over much of my life. I could be watching the sunset with my husband, only to burst into tears at the thought that he, or I, could die tomorrow. Every time my mother travels, she calls me and tells me where her will is, where she keeps her valuable jewelry, and how much she loves me. Every doctor visit, every late night phone call, every time my husband doesn't come home when I expect him to.

The Time Traveler's Wife has a similar theme. When you love someone, time gets a bit warped. In my heart, the present day and my wedding day, the present day and the day I will lose my husband, all seem to blur together.

On my goodreads.com account, I gave this book three stars. I enjoyed it, I felt like I knew the characters (sometimes maybe even a bit more than I would like), but my response to it is (without going into specific details and giving too much away) ...meh.

The themes, however, and the concept... those, I give ten stars. The themes alone - regardless of the story - make this book worth reading.

Niffenegger's argument seems to be that time travel is a metaphor for differences in a relationship. When two people decide to live a life together, how can there ever be harmony when one of them has a mind that works like an actor and the other has a mind that works like a professor? Can they actually be at the exact same place at the exact same time, or is their whole relationship an attempt to reach across their differences, or, in Clare and Henry's case, time?

There's also the big scary thing called expectation, or what we in the south sometimes call a "case of the sposed ta's." I'm supposed to get married. I'm supposed to have a baby. I'm supposed to be happy. I'm supposed to have this job or that job. Clare and Henry are husband and wife. This is the future, this is what is supposed to happen. This is what we, and they, are told from page one. But, in my own humble opinion, they don't seem too compatible. You start to wonder "Hmm... would these two be together if they didn't think they were supposed to be?" And there's a good chance that they wouldn't be. Because Clare and Henry know that they are "supposed to" be together, they get married. And in life, the pressure of the sposed ta's rarely keeps things from happening... well... the way they're sposed ta.

Time travel could also be a symbol for that mysterious I-don't-know-what that keeps people together. One moment that I keep traveling back to is the night I had one of my first panic attacks. My husband and I had just started dating, and the panic set in while we were spending time alone together. I remember he had an important test early the next morning, but he drove me to my bed, tucked me in, and sat up all night watching me to make sure that I was alright. This was when I knew that I wanted him there by my side for always and always.

How many times have I visited this moment? Thousands. Maybe millions. It is visiting this moment that makes the crappy part-time job, the messy apartment, and all of those little-things-that-seem-big-at-the-time moments vanish into the background while my husband stays beautifully focused in the foreground.

Are all of these what Niffenegger was hoping to communicate in the writing of this book? I have no idea. And that is why it deserves ten stars. The theme is there, and it is brilliant. What it means... that's for you to figure out.

And in the meantime, we keep holding on to each other, keep watching those sunsets, keep traveling back to the past and keep anticipating, looking forward to, and dreading all that is to come.

The clock keeps ticking, and we hold on like hell.

Hey! Look at This!