Spring Has Sprung, That Bastard

I met up with a confederacy of co-workers (not a single one of them dunces) for happy hour in Hell's Kitchen last week. We were shooting our collective shit at some Yelp-recommended watering hole, quaffing our way through a nifty craft-beer menu and dissecting everything from social media metrics to the inherent charm of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, when the conversation turned to how glad everyone was that spring had arrived. Naturally, because I can be a bit of a social misfit — and because I had already consumed two Ommegangs, which is usually the point at which I start to say things that make others say "Omme-god!" — I blurted out, "I hate spring!"

There are many things I am (this is the part where you keep your thoughts to yourself and keep reading), but "spring-lover" is not one of them. I'm nocturnal, maternal, I keep a journal, I'm just not ... vernal.

OK, I don't really HATE spring, because:

It's just that, comparatively speaking, spring is really quite meh.

This is the part where I explain my equinox enmity in great detail. In a VERY particular descending order (because approaching spring is akin to a long, slow, tortured descent into Hades), here are my official rankings of the seasons from best to worst:

AUTUMN
SUMMER
WINTER
SPRING

"Dang, you should've at least stylized SPRING in all green," you're thinking. "Have some fucking RESPECT. Seasons have feelings, too!"

Like it's that easy. As I ponder these things and rely on my visceral reactions to guide my seasonal favoritism, it's instantly apparent that my most intense memories emerge from the first three only.

Autumn is the easy favorite. There's the brilliant foliage, the bonfire-conducive temperatures, the distinctive bouquet of wood-burning fireplaces, the caramel apples, the fall seafood festivals here on the Island (tell me you've never filled a plastic soda bottle with multicolored sand while devouring fresh littlenecks and local wine — TELL ME!), the lead-up to Halloween and Thanksgiving (more eating, please!).

Summer is an oh-so-close second. Because summer means the beach. That's about it, because that's all you need. Well, there are also the barbecues and daytrips to Fire Island and catching fireflies and s'mores and fireworks and even the got-damn cicadas, the sound of which lulls me to sleep better than my fancy sound machine.

Most people don't get my third-place ranking of winter, because winter is The Horrible. After that first really pretty snowfall we get here on the Island, resulting in Facebook feeds more saturated with overexcited posts about precipitation than they should be, most of us are done. All that snow represents to our transportation-dependent region are crappy LIE commutes, delayed LIRR trains (though these also regularly take place when it rains, hails, and the sun shines), and stunning illustrations of how town highway offices still don't have their shit together after at least a century of dealing with this stuff. But, despite these truths, I love the extremes that winter brings. The high-key photo opps, the beauty of an icicle in the sunlight, the desolate beachfront after a new snow, the way our cheeks feel after coming in from a day of sledding, a red cardinal juxtaposed against a blanket of white, the eerie way that every sound cuts through a winter day's silence.

And then ... there's spring. Spring doesn't bust its way in with a blizzard or a heat wave: It simply la-dee-das into existence, like the docile ungulate it is. I mean, what kind of milquetoast are you if you have a Death Cab for Cutie song named after you? (the song isn't technically about spring, but go with me. I need this).

Here's a better way of illustrating this: Today (meaning yesterday, because I'm writing this at 2 a.m. on Sunday), on this fine spring day, I cleaned up the shit in my yard. I donned my workgloves and picked up brush and dead leaves and deflated swimming pools  and leftover plastic Easter eggs minus their candy spoils and other mostly nonidentifiable debris forced between the fence posts from Hurricane Sandy. I then wandered the aisles of Home Depot, eyeing a Japanese maple or two that I'm going to attempt to plant tomorrow (meaning today) in my latest home-improvement fever dream.

This is my routine every spring. As soon as the ecological and astronomical reckoning begins, I'm inspired to renew, rejuvenate, resurrect. This phenomenon usually involves me impulsively planting things that eventually die, or similar gardening/landscaping projects that turn into spectacular fails, because they aren't designed for impatient impulsivity. I've spent hours exuberantly raking red decorative rocks over flower beds, only to realize I never put the weed-retardant tarp down first. I've unsuccessfully tried to transplant hostas. I've rooted ornamental shrubbery shaped like pom-poms and birthday cakes and within weeks watched them morph into unruly, uncontrollable beast-bushes, because I have no clue how to wield a hedge-trimmer (though I've tried that, too, to mixed results). I've wasted countless hours and cash attempting to replicate the professional-looking curb appeal generated by my apparently handier neighbors, who hide their green thumbs in Smith and Hawken workgloves, not Target-brand workgloves (because you KNOW that's the root of my dilemma).

Yet, as the Earth starts tilting toward the sun, so does my brain's equilibrium — everything suddenly seems unbalanced yet exciting, unpredictable yet hopeful. Despite my previous failures, I'm impregnated with irrepressible optimism. I find myself once more swathed in sunlight, digging in the dirt after four or five months of brooding and digging in the dirt in a metaphorical sense. I'm once more marveling at unearthed ant colonies, listening to my feathered friends (yo, my peeps!) setting up shop after their long Southern sojourn. I start fiercely absorbing and assimilating all of the season's amenities into my stubborn double helixes so I cease being the cranky shut-in I've transformed into during that long, third-place winter. I'm suddenly fixing things. Feeling good about life. Trying again.

Ah. I see what you just did there. You're the worst, Spring. But that personified, initial-capped shout-out signifies my newfound respect. You're not half-bad after all.

If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is where you should go.

Hauswife's Hump-Day Haiku: Narnia, 'Breaking Bad,' and the Ghost of Christopher Hitchens

If Jesse from Breaking Bad bumped into Christopher Hitchens' mothball-ridden corpse as he made his way into the bowels of Digory Kirke's wardrobe, great things would happen when he finally emerged in Narnia.

Today's theme is ...

WHAT I JUST SAID 

Hey, Aslan, whaddup?
Fuck that C.S. BS, yo
You're no Jesus, bitch.

—J.A.G.

If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is where you should go.

So, Parents, What Do We Say Now?

It's like the sex talk: Just tell them.

When a national tragedy occurs, especially one in which young children are senselessly murdered, how are you supposed to explain it to your own children? Should you a) immediately initiate a conversation and talk frankly about what happened; b) make vague inquiries to determine what they already know ("did you guys talk about anything interesting in school today?"); or c) simply try to preserve their oblivious bliss for just a tiny bit longer, keeping the TV on a 24-hour Nickelodeon loop so that they have no clue about what's going on outside of their circle of Barbies and Bakugan? 

The answer is all of those. Maybe. Depending. But probably the first choice.

Am I helping? No. Sorry. I'm confused, too. In the name of parental due diligence, I've been perusing articles online on the best way to talk to children about the Boston Marathon bombings. Sadly, this isn't the first time I've had to undertake such a bleak exploratory campaign. I did the same thing after the murder of Leiby Kletzky, and after the Aurora shootings, and after the horror in Newtown. My kids weren't born yet when 9/11 happened, but most of the advice dispensed back then was similar, and it's all sensible stuff: Tell your kids that the people around them are doing everything they can to keep them safe; let them know you're there to talk; limit TV exposure; keep up regular routines.

I can't add much more to these expert-generated lists, but as the pile of national horrors grows, I've found myself leaning more toward choice "a" (the frank, parent-initiated discussion), with an occasional reliance on choice "b" (the "sooooo, what's happenin', dude?" tactic). With the exception of the Santa Claus/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy long con*, blunt honesty seems to be the way to go. Because, unfortunately, the "Happy Ostrich" (choice "c") isn't really a viable option once your kids start going to school.

Once your kids are regularly around other kids, they are going to hear about everything that happens in the world. IMMEDIATELY. From somewhere. In detail. After Newtown, I tiptoed around the subject. When my 8-year-old son came home from school the Monday after the shootings, I asked him if his teacher had talked about anything of note that day (I had kept both my children isolated from any information about it for the entire weekend). He said no, but that evening, as I tucked him into bed, he nonchalantly asked me about the "guy who shot all those kids in Connecticut." He had heard about the murders from other kids on the bus (complete with a slew of wildly erroneous details). I had asked the wrong questions, instead of simply bringing up the subject and giving him the correct, age-appropriate information in a calm, secure environment where he feels safe.

I didn't bring up the Boston Marathon bombings immediately, either, continuing to follow the advice of experts, subtly prodding him to see what he knew with vague "how was your day?" questions, reading his cues, and waiting to see if he brought it up with me. He strolled in the door the day after the Boston attack, and I grabbed the TV remote to turn off the news, which I had had on all day for work. He rolled his eyes at my slick mom maneuver and informed me he already knew about the bombings and that I didn't have to turn the TV off. He had been reading the newspaper over the bus driver's shoulder that morning while they were idling in the parking lot waiting for the school doors to open. Apparently he reads the newspaper over her shoulder quite a bit. He then gleefully told me that he had seen a naked lady in the driver's newspaper a few weeks back. (Note to self: Find out what newspaper said bus driver is reading.)

It's true that every child is different and requires different approaches when it comes to dealing with these subjects. My son is entrenched in that golden "no-bullshit" period that no one warned me about. He should contract out his internal BS detector to Guantanamo: White lies don't work; neither do the outright ones (I'm hoping there haven't been too many of those). It doesn't pay to try to give him the run-around — he wants specifics, he can decipher the meaning behind every furrow in my brow, and he puts me through inquisitions that make my head spin until his curiosity is satisfied.

The other day he asked me how Hitler died. I didn't even know he knew who Hitler was. After finally coming to the conclusion that my other, more murky M.O. has been something of a failure, I provided him with the brief unsanitized details, he asked a few more questions, and then he went back to playing "Skylanders Giants."

My 6-year-old daughter is more stoic, seemingly unconcerned with what happens outside of her inner sphere of friends and Justice shopping sprees and "Minecraft." Nothing seems to faze her. I once disciplined her for refusing to clean her room by bagging up every single toy and book, telling her she wasn't getting them back until she agreed to clean her room when asked, and she DID NOT GIVE A SHIT. For a whole month, nine Heftys teeming with kid crap languished in my bedroom and blocked the pathway to my own bed, until she finally backed down in her typical matter-of-fact, emotionless fashion. She's the most frustrating child on Earth to punish, because she'll look me squarely in the eye and say, "I DON'T CARE." And she really doesn't.

For those reasons, it's tempting not to rock the boat and bring up current events with this reticent creature who seems to have mastered the art of aloofness and doesn't wear her emotions and thoughts on her sleeve like her brother does. But, as I discovered after accidentally coming across her diary recently, this kid's got a lot on her mind. She thinks everyone hates her; she is in love; she wants to set everything on fire; she thinks life is wonderful; she thinks life is terrible.

In other words, just because she's not bringing stuff up with me doesn't mean she's not thinking about it, and thinking hard about it. I can pretend she doesn't know about Newtown or Boston, but she's probably heard something, even if it's not the full story, or the accurate story. You've got to jump-start conversations with these types of kids, too. Of course you've got to gear it to each child's age and emotional fortitude and not push the little poker-faces to talk about it more than they want to, but it would be naive to not bring it up at all.

When I was a nosy 6-year-old, I found this book about the birds and the bees on my aunt's shelf. It had naked cartoon pictures**, which totally fascinated me, and clinical-yet-friendly explanations for weird grown-up stuff I had no idea existed. I asked my aunt if I could take the book home — I still remember the weird look on her face and the "I have to ask your mother" response. I guess my mom was OK with it, because it came home with me that night. I absorbed its contents cover to cover, and then I knew all about sex, and that was that. None of my friends believed me until about four years later, when we had to go to school on a Wednesday night and watch "The Film" about our bodies. I remember seeing some of my classmates freaking out and just feeling relieved I already knew.

There are things you're "supposed" to do as a parent, but ultimately, there are no set rules, just as there are no set rules for love, or war, or life. That's why we cling to routines, and why we instill these routines in our children to temporarily erase this truth from our brains: When you're a parent, you're winging it about 95 percent of the time, which is a frightening endeavor fraught with self-doubt, panic, and anxiety.

There's a reason you'll often see Facebook posts from parents (myself included) in the vein of "Someone tell me what to do here!" or "Is my kid the only one this happens to?" or "I am going to SERIOUSLY punch the school bully in the face myself if the school doesn't start f^&*ing handling it." We post our issues and queries and anecdotes because we want to share (it's comforting to know others are experiencing the same challenges), but we also want confirmation or validation that we did the right thing, handled a situation the correct way, made the right call — did what we were supposed to do.

There are no easy answers, though, when it comes to kidnappings and hijackings and bombings and shootings, and we shouldn't beat ourselves up too much if we feel we've mucked up these parent-child conversations. Work through the chaos, not around it, the best you can — it's not going away anytime soon. Most kids are remarkably sturdy if you're open, encouraging, and honest. Muster up as much confidence as you can and just tell them the truth. They'll know they can trust you even when the world is at its darkest.

Talking to your kids: a few helpful links

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/wp/2013/04/16/how-to-talk-to-children-about-deadly-boston-marathon-bombings/

http://www.today.com/moms/8-tips-talking-kids-about-boston-marathon-bombing-1C9361539

http://boston.cbslocal.com/2013/04/15/boston-marathon-explosions-talking-to-your-children/

* It's like a surprise birthday party, people — the scam eventually ends, you see it was done to make you feel good, and you STILL get treats!

** You totally clicked on "naked cartoon pictures," didn't you.

If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is where you should go.

Hauswife's Hump-Day Haiku: Ian Ziering Joined Chippendales

Today's theme is a doubleheader. I'm an overachiever.

IAN ZIERING JOINS CHIPPENDALES

Shake it, Steve Sanders!
Your 9021 O-face
Will make us complete.

—J.A.G.

'FRIENDS' REUNION RUMORS DISPELLED

Monica will not
Rev Chandler Bing's search engine.
You've got me now, God.

—J.A.G.

If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is where you should go.

Getty/TMZ composite

Back in Black

Birthday present to myself. Acoustic AND electric. At the same time! They can do these things now.

Peace.

Hauswife's Hump-Day Haiku: Hot Dogs!

To celebrate 80-degree weather, the firing up of barbecues across The Land, and the potential comeback of Anthony Weiner, today's theme is ...

HOT DOGS

Seductive nitrites,
Temptation crammed in casings ...
Bring your condiments.

—J.A.G.

If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is where you should go.

A Man Known for His Thumbs Wasn't All Thumbs With Words

What we've learned (or relearned) about late film critic Roger Ebert over the past few days has been exhilarating. In addition to the nearly universal veneration of his contributions to the film world, our Facebook and Twitter feeds have been overwhelmed with tributes to his humanistic, positive outlook on life. There was no snark (that I could find) in announcing his passing. Even Gawker kept its big mouth shut, sticking with a simple "Roger Ebert, Legendary Critic, Dead at 70." The Onion naturally went with a hyperbolic Ebert review of human existence, but at its core, the parody wasn't too far off from his true feelings on our collective condition.

How do you not fall in love with a guy who says this (and yes, I vetted it to make sure it's not one of those social media hoaxes where someone attributes a quote to Gandhi when Bret Michaels really said it — it's an excerpt from Ebert's memoir Life Itself):

"Kindness covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out."

Or someone who posted this for his wife on the eve of their 20th anniversary. If you're not reduced to a withered, weeping mess on the kitchen floor after reading it, you must be a cyborg — the contract between us has been terminated.

What we did already know was that Ebert was a great writer. Roy Peter Clark thinks that calling him a good writer is "good enough," though he does transition to "damn good writer" by the end of his assessment. I'm comfortable in going with "great."

Ebert was a writer in every practical sense of the word. Not even counting his astonishingly prolific film-based output (he was known as the fastest writer in the business), he also penned the screenplay for "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls," a book about his favorite walks through London, and "The Pot and How to Use It: The Mystery and Romance of the Rice Cooker." He won a Pulitzer in 1975 for his movie analyses — the first film critic to do so.

The quality of his writing set him apart not just from other film critics, but from most writers who have to meet demanding deadlines and provide consistently compelling copy. I'm a proponent of conversational writing that's clear, simple and immune to the temptation to veer unnecessarily into the Web of Really Big Words or the stubborn overuse of punctuation or other stylistic quirks that effectively stop the reader's flow and disrupt easy comprehension. The rage that I succumb to when I see "April, 2013" or  the spelling-out of "four hundred and forty-eight thousand troops" in the New Yorker is epic.

I also hate movie snobs (and snobs in general). I changed my major in college from English to psychology because I couldn't take the highbrows in my upper-level lit classes. Which was really silly and stubborn, now that I look back, but I did a lot of silly and stubborn things in college (and still today, come to think of it). Anyone lower down on the learning curve than you with a genuine curiosity for a subject isn't ignorant — it's called wanting to LEARN. I've had the humbling experience of being the dumbest one in the room on more than one occasion — not dumb in terms of intelligence (because I'm S-M-R-T!), but in terms of my overall knowledge base. Some of the gaps in my brain's foundation are stunning.

I never felt like the dumbest one reading Ebert's reviews. Despite his hilarious evisceration of video games, he was no snob. Through his reviews, blog posts, and tweeting addiction, he communicated his thoughts on movies and a variety of other subjects (politics, inspirational stories, his illness) in an accessible, conversational way that was never condescending and always inclusive. That's the mark of a truly gifted writer who's confident in his own voice. 

With his clear, concise writing, he made you feel like his opinion — and, by extension, your opinion — mattered. In the wake of his passing, Forbes called Ebert a "great American writer"; the New Yorker explained how he "didn't waste time clearing his throat" when crafting a review or blog post. Ebert himself expressed disdain for critiques that excluded the curious couch potato: "Jargon is the last refuge of the scoundrel." (For more on Ebert's thoughts on writing, check out this excellent compilation of quotes on The Atlantic site.)

Not everyone was enamored with his "accessibility" — namely Armond White, the contrarian New York Press critic who believes Ebert "destroyed" film criticism. Just a few days before Ebert's death, White got some digs in about his nemesis during his excoriation of Stanley Kubrick fans and The Shining-inspired documentary Room 237, a movie that White histrionically labeled as "confirmation of the end of cinephilia." (That's not to say you shouldn't read the review. It's classic Armond White gold). Ebert had graciously defended Armond White in the past (with caveats), but sadly, this never happened.

White has probably never seen an episode of Survivor and is now shooting daggers at me through the Internet for even suggesting he'd watch such a thing. On Survivor — an interesting (albeit producer-manipulated) microcosm of how people in the real world deal with challenging situations — the most informed player isn't always crowned the winner. That game, like the game of life, isn't just an intellectual one: There are also social, psychological, and emotional factors to consider. Armond might be the know-it-all cinephile with the facts and strategy on his side on a theoretical level, but he acts like a dick and doesn't bother getting to know the others, because he thinks it doesn't matter. He'd have no chance of nabbing the grand prize. Roger's tribemates respected the way he played the game AND simply connected with him better. Maybe it's not "fair," but the tribe has spoken: Communication is facilitated by personal connection. 

* * *

Ebert once said that he often relied on how a movie made him feel during his valuation process: “Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions never lie to you.” That probably explains his favorable review of Booty Call and other films that more "serious" critics thought should have landed in the straight-to-video pile. It made him laugh — what else is there?

It also explains what happened when I took my then-4-year-old son to see Up a few years back.  Within the first five minutes of the film, I was blubbering from what I thought to be a deeply complex montage that chronicled the life of main character Carl Fredericksen, pulling us through the timeline from Carl's childhood to his courtship to when he and his wife, Ellie, find out they can't have children to the quiet devastation of Ellie's death (which was not explicitly shown, simply implied). Plus all the stuff in between that makes up all of our timelines.

There was no way my preschooler could have understood some of the more nuanced aspects of that montage, yet when it was over, he turned to me in the dark and said, "Mommy, that was so sad. And why did she have to die?" It was emotion that shaped his understanding of the movie's message — not his encyclopedic knowledge of Bresson and Kurosawa.

* * * 

Ebert used writing to mitigate the toughest days of his illness. He particularly lamented the "loss of dining," after cancer stole most of his jaw. Not the loss of food, necessarily — though he likely missed that, too — but the removal of the entire dining experience. The talking, the jokes, the arguments, the spontaneous poetry recitations — all of those things we take for granted when we sit down to sup with family and friends. "It's sad," he said. "Maybe that's why writing has become so important to me." 

Words can transcend even the most debilitating disease, even if they can't cure it. Ebert showed us that the loss of his speaking voice didn't have to mean the loss of his real one — the voice that Roy Peter Clark said effectively exempted Ebert from some of his more "disastrous" ledes (just the messenger here), rambling sentences, and other literary rule-breaking that other, lesser writers would be taken to task for. 

TED talks usually creep me out/annoy me, but this one where Roger, Chaz, and other panel members use Roger's own words to explain how he has "remade" his voice (Roger using the computer-simulated "Alex" as his spokesman) is inspiring, moving, and wow, I really have no excuses for half the stuff I make excuses for:

Roger's devastation at the loss of his physical voice, and the loss of sharing that goes along with having one, was strikingly similar to that of Christopher Hitchens, who wrote about his own experiences in his goodbye tome, Mortality. Like Ebert, Hitch was stunned at how cancer had ravaged his body and stolen parts of him he hadn't anticipated:

"In the medical literature, the vocal "cord" is a mere "fold," a piece of gristle that strives to reach out and touch its twin, thus producing the possibility of sound effects. But I feel that there must be a deep relationship with the word "chord": the resonant vibration that can stir memory, produce music, evoke love, bring tears, move crowds to pity and mobs to passion. We may not be, as we used to boast, the only animals capable of speech. But we are the only ones who can deploy vocal communication for sheer pleasure and recreation, combining it with our two other boasts of reason and humor to produce higher syntheses. To lose this ability is to be deprived of an entire range of faculty: It is assuredly to die more than a little."

Like Ebert, Hitchens desperately wanted to reclaim "the freedom of speech," but more than that, he feared not being able to write. Regularly scheduled injections to relieve his excruciating pain numbed his arms, hands, and fingers, "filling me with the not irrational fear that I shall lose the ability to write. Without that ability, I feel sure ... my 'will to live' would be hugely attenuated. ... I feel my personality and identity dissolving as I contemplate dead hands and the loss of transmission belts that connect me to writing and thinking."

Despite the hell of cancer (and though writing about hell is often the sexier choice), Roger Ebert decided there was enough hell on Earth already and served up some weekly heaven instead, right to the very end. He may have lost his ability to use his vocal cords, but he never failed to strike a chord with his readership as he transported us, via the written word, to his cinematically inspired Shangri-la. Washington Post scribe Dan Zak put it best: "Roger Ebert taught me to love the movies, and therefore life itself."

Enjoy your great gig in the sky, Roger. Keep kind and carry on.

If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is where you should go stat.

UPI/Christine Chew