i love tv
Warning: this post is shameless in its lack of literary and intellectual value.
Suddenly, I'm beginning to really love TV again. There are several new shows that I actually look forward to, that keep me riveted the entire time, either from suspense or from my anticipation of the next big laugh. Some of these shows are so compelling that I stay up past my bedtime to see them (even though I have Tivo).
My favorite of the moment is Boston Legal. James Spader and William Shatner just slay me. Throw Candice Bergen into the mix, and you have one hellaciously funny show. The humor is so smart, so unpredictable, so hip and freaking clever that I can't wait for each new episode. It was worth tuning in last week just to watch Spader's tongue roll as he uttered "lesbian."
Next on my list of favorites is still Desperate Housewives. It's not quite as good as it was in the beginning, but still a refreshing change from the ubitquitous reality shows and tired soap operas like The OC. My only complaint with the show at present is it's becoming predictable in its routine cliffhanger at the end of each episode and outrageous revelations. Still, I like it--I like the dark comic overtones and its shameless campiness. It's like a soap opera that's winking at you the whole time, making sure you know that they know how silly this all is. Fun.
My hubby and I also started watching Lost recently. It's interesting, but I'm beginning to weary of the mystery surrounding everything and I'm starting to wonder if the whole thing is going to end up being some very unfunny joke played on the viewer (kind of like the Bobby Ewing, Dallas-thing--the last 2 years were just a dream, or maybe, in this case, everyone there is already dead?) If you're a writer for this show and happen by some bizarre cosmic coincidence to be reading this, I can only say for all of us, "Please, write well. Please please please don't play any dirty writer tricks with us." End of begging.
I've also been enjoying Medium, though this past episode got a bit hokey and sported some pretty weak writing. I like the concept of the show--here's this average suburban housewife who's not so average after all. And I appreciate that she's working for the DA under the radar--that's cool. The last episode ended just a bit too conveniently though--the whole guy named Wolf chasing the girl in the red riding hood seemed a bit trite. So, Medium writers, please--don't do that again. (I did really like the whole thing with her daughter having the same gift, though--very cool.)
All of this means I'm spending much more time watching TV than I have in years--and much less time doing anything that has value. Call me shallow, I guess--or maybe just American.
irony
We had Open House tonight. It was generally painless--as one teacher observed, "like a cocktail party, without the cocktails." Okay, maybe not so painless.
Here's the funny thing: I had this kid last semester, Slacker-boy, whose father decided he (the father) would take my course via email correspondence with me. It got to the point that the dad was emailing me 2-3 times A DAY, asking for clarification of assignments, wanting to know exactly what I had SAID in class that day, etc., etc. I thought I was going insane. At one point, I printed out all the emails and was shocked to see there were even more of them than I had imagined. I was SOOO happy to see that Slacker-boy was no longer in my class this semester.
So here's the funny part: The dad stops by my room tonight to say how sorry he is that Slacker-boy is not in my class this term. I assure him that Mrs. ___ is a great teacher. The dad shakes his head, "Yes, but she's not you. I just can't think of enough good things to say about you." I thank him. He continues, "You may not remember, but Slacker-boy started out with a 29 in your class. He ended up with a 77. You're the best."
I didn't remember. I thank him again. I am grateful for his kind words. And even more grateful that Mrs. ____ has Slacker-boy this time around.
blah blah blogging
Lately I find myself feeling that I have to create something worthwhile if I'm going to write here. I've noticed since I started posting more regularly (and then, just as quickly, stopped) that my posts on this blog are far different than posts I have made on previous online journals. Maybe the very terminology has heralded the difference. Blogging is different than journaling. There is always the potential for an audience (this is also often true of online journaling, but a much smaller audience, I'm afraid). My consideration of audience with the blog leads me to write differently and about different things. I find myself thinking of blog entries as articles, creative nonfiction pieces, vignettes or reflective essays, but NOT as journal entries.
I think this is a very good thing. Let's face it--journal writing is pretty narcissistic overall. And that's okay--it's kind of the point. But no one really wants to read anyone else's narcissistic drivel--all that rot about your feelings, your anxieties, your confusion, your low self esteem. It's boring. In fact, I had gotten to the point that it was even boring to me, even as I was writing it.
Blogging is more interesting for a number of reasons. First, I've found a number of blogs that I really enjoy reading. Some make me laugh, some make me think, and the best do both. Reading others' blogs is, I think, a vital part of blogging. It's how the whole concept of community comes about. You read theirs, they read yours, and so on, and before you know it, you've got a nice little circle of friends/writers.
I know that none of what I've just written is ground-breaking stuff. But as I move my use of blogging into my classroom, it's important for me to keep reflecting on how writing for a blog differs from writing for oneself, and to carefully consider the advantages to this form, as well as its potential disadvantages.
Okay, I think I'm done for tonight.
dark and light
Christmas Day was not typical this year. With my mom just beginning to experience the wrenching side effects of her first chemo-treatment, nothing was right. She was stubborn, determined to proceed as though nothing had changed. But of course, everything had. She spent most of the day traveling from house to house, with my father pulling over frequently to allow her to be sick. Finally, she arrived at my home, spent, fragile, and no longer able to put on the brave face. While the kids tore open packages and raced around the room showing them off, my mother huddled in a chair, her eyes closed much of the time, wishing only that she were in her own bed, that this Christmas were over.
The rest of us tried to maintain the illusion, tried our best to make it "Christmas as usual." But early in the evening, my mother had had enough. She had just enough energy to make it to the car, her goodbyes half-hearted and barely audible. As I watched her walk across my lawn, leaning heavily on my dad for support, I felt my insides collapse. I wondered if this would be our last Christmas with her, this awful day, memorable only for her palpable absence, in spite of her physical presence. I could feel the hysteria threatening to overwhelm me. My sister reached for me. For once, the roles were reversed, her the stoic one, me the basket case.
I wonder now how terrible the night might have been if not for one unusual event. For the first time, my four year old niece was spending the night with me. Not only was it a first time for Katie, but it was also the first time in my adult life that I have cared for a young child over night. Katie had been looking forward to this for weeks. Throughout the Christmas festivities, her tiny voice had crooned, "I'm gonna spend the night with you-ou." Looking at her gorgeous, joyful face, I wished I could be her for just a moment, be ignorant of my mother's condition and just enjoy the magnificence of Christmas.
She slept in the bed with Joe and me. For at least 30 minutes before she finally slept, she cuddled with me, occasionally cupping my face, kissing my cheek and softly saying, "I love you, Aunt ______." So many times that night my eyes filled with emotions I could never express to innocent little Katie. And yet, she saved me from despair that night. And the next day, somehow, everything did seem better. And once again, hope dared to wrap its tiny arms around my neck.
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