I Married MacGyver

I think like most women of my generation I pride myself on my independence and “can-do” spirit. No task too great, no mountain too steep; no goal unachievable if I set my mind to it. I’m a parent, a well-travelled, fairly educated individual who has lived alone. I know how to change diapers while changing a light bulb!!

However, and there is a “however”, I have certain challenges. One is that my internal compass had to be consciously created to prevent the continual disorientation I felt when trying to go somewhere. The other is if asked whether something is two inches or six I’m not sure I could answer with any degree of accuracy. My can-do spirit has allowed me to say I can find a ruler and measure, and then give an answer.

This summer I have faced a few challenges. Before embarking on three day trip to the beach with my children I purposefully studied several maps and written directions before walking out my front door. Given the previously mentioned issue with my internal compass I have a tendency to over prepare. Well, it didn’t entirely help. I was confronted with a literal fork in the road that hadn’t appeared on any maps or written direction.

It was hard to ignore the knowledge that help was just one little cell phone call away. Looking in the rear view mirror I saw that the kids were happily listening to a book on tape, munching away on a bag of snacks, oblivious to my confusion. So, I quickly pulled out the cell phone, dialed the familiar number, and was instantly connected to my man, MacGyver.

After providing him with the location of the fork in the road, he had me pin pointed within moments on a map and had me reassured that I was headed in the correct direction. My man MacGyver hadn’t fashioned a home-made compass using a piece of steel and random sewing kit he found lying conveniently in the hallway outside his office. No! He had used his computer!!

Checking my rearview mirror, I pointed my car in the correct direction, the one I was already heading, and let the roads take us where they may (as long as it was Southwest)! Not too long after, we drove through rolling hills peppered with small towns and farmland, the random and oddly located cemetery, and little else. As a bonus, the sun was shining brightly adding to the bucolic scene.

An hour or so later, the rolling hills had been replaced with the coastline. A dense grey layer of clouds had hidden the sun and a heavy mist bathed the stunted woodland hills just outside the town of Newport. “We’re there,” I called enthusiastically to the children, who were still distracted in the back of the car, this time playing video games. Thankfully, a road construction crew was working on the road, giving me an opportunity to look at yet another map to find out where we were staying.

Twenty minutes later I’d driven up and down the same short stretch of road several times and couldn’t find the address I was looking for. Not wanting to get overly irritated in front of my kids, I parked out front of a lumber store, pulled my cell phone out of my purse and clambered from the warm comfort of the car into the cold, wet, and darkening day.

Dialing the phone number quickly, I huddled in my shorts and t-shirt against the hood of the car, letting the heat of the engine keep me somewhat warm. “Hey, it’s me,” I said to MacGyver once again. I quickly explained the situation, and in no time he’d found a map that showed the cross streets I had given him and gave me a very quick explanation of where I needed to be. Gratefully I thanked him, chatted for a few moments and then leapt into the warmth of the car.

Soon the children were running throughout the house we had rented on the beach, checking every nook and cranny, claiming their beds, and neatly arranging toys, pillows and blankets brought from home. I paused to take in the view of the harbor from the living room windows as I lugged in another load of suitcases and tote bag of beach toys. “Just the cooler,” I thought to myself.

My parents, who had joined us minutes before, were settling into the bedroom they’d be using for the week. The kids were now talking a mile a minute to their grandparents about the suite upstairs, and could they, would they, come take a look at it? Being very indulgent grandparents, they quit unpacking mid suitcase and wandered upstairs, offering much praise for the way the children had decorated their newfound bedroom.

The evening past cheerfully; the warmly painted walls, cozy furniture, and filling dinner left everyone feeling replete and happy. Not too late, everyone drifted off to their rooms to sleep. Kids tucked in, grandparents chatting behind closed doors, I tiptoed out onto the balcony overlooking the bay that sparkled lights from boats and houses back at me. Dialing the same number as before, I chatted quietly about the rest of the day and then listened to the recounting of his day; we chatted for a little while about whatever came to mind before saying goodnight. I slipped back inside and quickly got ready for bed.

This is when I have to introduce my greatest challenge. Sleeping!

It was while I wrestled with my white noise machine, trying to remember what plugged into what, that I noticed the skylight above my bed. I groaned when I realized I didn’t have a sleep mask. Mentally calculating when the sun might rise, I quickly figured out I’d get six hours of sleep. That included the time it would take for my sleeping pill to kick in, and I’d finally fall into deep, nourishing oblivion. I congratulated myself when the rush of soothing noise erupted from the speaker that would rest next to my ear all night. My last thought of the day was that I’d find a sleep mask tomorrow.

The sun rose close to the predicted hour and I tried to find enjoyment in the sunrise. Unfortunately the sun was deeply hidden by another wall of dark grey clouds. I made coffee and spent a few hours pleasantly reading while the rest of the family slept.

The day went on to pass quickly; playing on the beach, running up and down sand dunes, shopping for fresh seafood, cooking, swimming in the pool, running up and down the ramps that lead to the boats anchored in the harbor tired us all. It wasn’t until I was staring at the skylight that night that I realized I had forgotten to buy a sleep mask. "Tomorrow," I thought.

I followed the previous day’s routine of sneaking quietly about the house while others slept. Tired and envious of their abilities to sleep through sun and sound, I drank coffee, read, knitted, organized, tidied, and whatever else I could until the others rose well rested.

Slightly less energetic from two nights of sleep deprival, I dozily participated in making plans for the day. We set about kite flying, running around sand dunes, building sand castles and walking through the local tourist shops. By dinner I was asleep in my plate. I sat up with a jolt when I realized that I still hadn’t purchased a sleep mask. Irritated I tried to convince myself that I was exhausted enough that surely I would sleep through sunrise.

Somewhere around five a.m. I woke and stretched an arm out for the extra pillow. I plunked it down on my head hoping it would block the light. Unfortunately the air got too warm, and the only solution was to pull the pillow off. I tried various permutation of this until I gave up, quite grumpily I might add. I stared up at the skylight with great disdain cursing the inventor, designer, contractor, and anyone else who had anything to do with my window to the sky.

After a few cups of strong coffee and a talk with myself about attitude, I set about rounding up all the paraphernalia we’d dragged in and carted it back to the car. It was check out time! I was thrilled. While schlepping suitcases and coolers isn’t much fun, I was about to move inland and to a new abode! Even after several breathless and exhausting trips to the car I giggled at the thought of a room with no skylight and a good night’s rest. We said good-bye to the indulgent grandparents and went off to explore the day and meet MacGyver’s train late in the afternoon.

All went well, until, and I kid you not, we hit another fork in the road. At this point, if any of you are cartographers, I plead with you to include forks in the road. They are loathsome inventions that confuse the compass challenged amongst us. We have a split second to make a decision that could take us to into the wild or thrust us onto one way roads of towns that are best forgotten.

So, I did what any sane person would do, I asked for help. The local had no idea what to do. So, I did the next sane thing, I used my GPS gadget. Are you wondering at this point why I was only just now using it? I’d forgotten I had one. It’s that simple.

MacGyver was on the train and had intermittent cell phone reception and was without wi-fi! So it was just me and my GPS gadget. When we finally got to the train station (three times around a series of one way streets), I literally wanted to explode out of the car and find justice. However, all the caffeine I had consumed along the way in order to stay awake had other demands. So, I quickly kissed MacGyver hello, and ran for the restrooms.

Happily ensconced in the front passenger seat I recounted the horrors of one-way roads, forks, and the fact that I couldn’t hear the man on the GPS machine. With a gentle tap on the GPS screen MacGyver showed me how to turn the volume up. Just one little tap on the screen, that’s all! I actually smiled. What I was really happy about was that a bed in a dark room with my name on it was just a short distance away.

Being quite late and dark when we arrived, we set about schlepping all the paraphernalia into our new abode. The kids were settled and life was good. I sat down to rest on the corner of the bed and only then noticed a pained smile on MacGyver’s face. That’s never good!

I began to scan the room and quickly realized that the room was open to the floor below, there were huge windows allowing the woodland view into the living-room just below our bedroom, and lo' and behold, there was a skylight above our bed. Someone has a twisted sense of humor!

I will allow your imaginations to decide what I said and felt about all of this. You may paint a kinder picture of me that I actually deserve.

So! Exhaustion had caught up with me enough to allow me to sleep until seven o’clock. We spent a lovely day playing in the gently flowing river and strolling through the scrubby woodlands. Late in the afternoon the sky turned graphite grey, the booms of thunder were loud, and the rain fell in massive globs to the ground. People ran pell-mell for cover. After dinner the storm had passed, so we ventured out for a late swim and found the remnants of the storm; beach towels and pool toys all around the pool deck.

Now, one thing to know about MacGyver is that he is a tidy guy. He piled the spoils of the storm under shelter while the rest of us readied to return to our woodland abode. After everyone had readied for bed and were settling down, MacGyver asked our daughter for a pillow she made for her doll. I guessed it to be the size of pot holder. She handed it over and went to bed.

Reading in bed and waiting for the sleeingp pill to take over, I looked up to see a satisfied grin on MacGyvers face. He handed me the doll pillow and a nose plug. The pillow was sewn from brown and blue fabric that had the drawings of Tiki characters on it. The nose plug was a bright pink “U” shaped object on the end of a very long white elastic band. Utterly confused for a moment I suddenly realized I had a sleep mask!

Laughing at how ridiculous I had to look, I hunkered down with the pillow hugged to my face by the nose plug! I slept until ten o’clock!

I never did buy a sleep mask. I so appreciated both MacGyvers inventiveness and the fact that he loves me so much that he could look past how ridiculous I looked that I happily slipped on the pillow with nose plug every night. After all, the least I can do is support his ingenuity!

Thanks for reading!

Pump Up the Volume!

First of all, I have to admit that the quest I set for myself in my last blog was a tad bit of a reach. A week or two to find a book that I found interesting enough to read and write a sequel to wasn't realistic. However I still have the goal, but will shoot for another day.

I was re-reading my very first blog and found a topic that is near and dear to my heart, and thought I would venture forth and look into the consternating subject of why some women who wear so much mascara that their eyelashes are fuzzy and clumpy. Following the rule of “write what you know” I went in search of the history of mascara.

[I would like to take a little pause here to thank all those involved in creating the internet and those who upload mountains of information, no matter how momentous or inconsequential!]

For those of you who are like me and find trivia fascinating, let me share what I’ve learned about mascara. About 6000 years ago the Egyptians were not only practicing hair removal (read Hairy Heroines) they were also wearing mascara along with eyeliner. Crocodile dung was mixed with kohl, water and honey; then it was applied to the lashes with a comb made out of ivory or bone.

Because eyes were considered the window to the soul, the eyes were concealed to ward off evil spirits and bad energy.

You can look at many ancient drawings found on papyrus and pottery, along with frescos and hieroglyphics depicting ancient Egyptians and not a single one of them shows a woman with clumpy fuzzy eyelashes. So, research into the subject continued!

You have to leap all the way forward to the Victorian Era before mascara was used to cosmetically enhance women for beauty. Before that mascara was used by many cultures during times of war, celebrations and in funereal ceremonies. Victorian women generally made their own mascara out of anything from rose water and ashes to elderberries and wax.

Even though most women of a certain financial stature wore the cosmetic, it wasn’t produced and marketed commercially until the early 1900’s. You can bet that there are plenty of Victorian Era people rolling in their graves at this financial oversight!

To be fair, when you go in search of portraits of wealthy women of the mid-1800’s, the paintings are generally of elaborately posed women, and more detail is spent on the clothing and background than on the eyes… yet, still no trend of clumpy fuzzy eyelashes to be found.

For a while I thought I was on to something when I learned that in 1913 mascara was a combination of coal dust and petroleum jelly, a product invented by chemist T.L. Williams for his sister Mabel. She loved it so much, he formed a company for the production and sale of mascara, and hence the company Maybelline was founded. Everyone knows that petroleum jelly is sticky and could clump anything together. Again, a brush or comb like device was used to apply it. BUT then Max Factor came along in the mid 1960’s and invented the wand that is commonly used today. The product is now commonly made out of natural waxes (carnuba or bee), coloring, polymers and nylon fibers! To top it all off an incredible amount of time and technology has been devoted to the issue of non-clumping mascara!

At this point I have decided that this isn’t a product issue; it is an individual’s preference. I was 99% certain of this to start out. While I loathe to stereotype, stereotypes exist for a reason, kind of like tourist traps. The Roman Coliseum is pretty spectacular and if you go to Rome, you ought to see it along with every other tourist. It is an architectural feat, and has incredible history. That doesn’t mean you need to buy a souvenir mug or t-shirt with a picture of the ruins on it.

Generally there is an overall persona of an individual who likes the clumpy eyelash look.

Clacking and popping her gum as she walked across her new carpet she called out, “Gloria, hold your horses! I’m coming. Shesh, give a girl a chance why don’t ya?”

Opening the door in gleeful anticipation, Tanya said, “Whadda ya think? Tell me, don’t you just love it?” Snapping her gum some more, she turned her back on Gloria to lead her into the newly remodeled living room.

“It’s gorgeous! I knew it; I knew when we saw that carpet that it would match the wallpaper perfectly! I just love brown carpet with all the swirls in it! It looks clean forever, you won’t even notice when the kids spill their coke or Johnny’s ashes fall on the floor. It’s perfect.”

Tanya nodded in happy agreement the entire time; she chewed her gum in rhythm with her head bobbing up and down. “It’s perfect! And it matches the sofa so well.” She danced her bright red talons across the caramel colored suede sofa that perfectly matched the loveseat and recliner; leaving a swirling pattern across the fabric.

“Wow you sure are lucky your uncle’s in the carpet business. Do you think he’d give us a deal? It’s the only way Mikey would go for it.” Gloria complained. She hadn’t had new furniture, let alone new carpet in over twenty five years. Both women laughed; they knew Mikey would spend the money without hesitation on bowling, but the house, forget about it!

Smoothing her red blouse over her animal print leggings, Tanya showed off her new pleather belt and said, “You wanna coffee while I fix my face? I just made some fresh.”

Gloria declined, “Nah, I’m good. My pants are so tight; I don’t want to have to pee at the Mall.” She followed Tanya and stared at herself in the mirror at the end of the hall. “Do you need anything in particular there?”

By now Tanya was firmly planted in front of the mirror in the bathroom carefully examining the make-up she’d applied an hour before. “I’d like to buy some throw pillows and maybe one of those silk flower arrangements at ‘Home Décor’. After that I’ll barely have money for lunch.” She answered while digging through her make up bag, looking for her pink and green tube of mascara. Finding it, she picked off a few clumps of mascara, and then set about applying a fresh layer.

Tossing her make-up bag back into the drawer, Tanya left the bathroom and looked at Gloria in the mirror, “I tell ya, you still got it. With those curves, Mikey’s one lucky man.”

“Aw Hon! Thanks! You ready?” Gloria asked.

“Lemme just switch off the coffee,” Tanya said, tripping across the carpet in the new heels she bought to match her blouse. She’d been thrilled. Red was her signature color.

“Alright, let’s go!” Tanya said returning to the living room, seeing Gloria’s undisguised look of envy.

Putting her arm around her lifelong friend, “Don’t worry sweetie, you’re gonna get your new carpet,” she said with a knowing smile. Mikey wasn’t all bad.

As for me, my first memory of mascara and its application comes from my sister Michelle. She is six years older than me and as an early pubescent girl I would sit and watch her put make-up on, trying to pick up some tips. Michelle was meticulous. First came out the eyelash curler, then a layer of mascara was applied, followed by a straight pin being used to divide the lashes, followed by another layer of mascara. If necessary another round with the eyelash curler and voila! Perfection!! Her eyelashes, naturally long and curly, were dreamed of by chemists, make-up artists and women everywhere.

Michelle very patiently tried to teach me how to make my eyelashes into perfectly divided wondrous hairs of beauty! A couple complications… my eyes are so recessed that there wasn’t an eyelash curler made that could grab ahold of my short and stubby lashes. I am now the happy owner of dozens of eyelash curlers. It has become a joke amongst friends that on my birthday I receive the latest and greatest in eyelash curling innovations! There are one or two that do the job, but at this point, I wonder what is the point?

The question has now become, when and why did having thick, curly eyelashes become part of our sexual identity? That seems to be a much trickier question to answer, considering it defies all stereotypes!

Dedicated to Michelle and Rachel. Michelle for being a great big sister and Rachel, her daughter, who owns a tube of every brand of mascara ever made, and has lovely lashes, with or without it.

Thanks for reading!

Prologues, Parodies, and Presentations: a continuation!

As opposed to Epilogues, I am quite a fan of Prologues. Perhaps it is vaguely reminiscent of my personality, but prologues allow you to barge in on the story with a certain savoir-faire. Two or three pages of set-up do me quite nicely. Just enough to introduce the characters, get everyone in place, and then off you go to the meat of the matter.

As opposed to the epilogue in the final chapter of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I have yet to read a prologue that warrants specific address. Sorry, that isn’t what this blog is about!

Just before school let out for the summer I read a very good book called Rebecca and Rowena, by William Makepeace Thackeray. He is most famous for Vanity Fair (published in 1847), a satire on wealthy members of British society in the 19th century.

One review of Rebecca and Rowena calls it the “burlesque sequel to Ivanhoe.” Published in 1850, it is a continuation of Thackeray’s tongue in cheek parody on western civilization. He writes passionately about the tragedy of a book coming to an end when the romance is in full bloom, the villain captured, or the mystery solved. He makes very witty remarks about how a woman of “five and thirty loses all interest to society, especially once her waistline begins to expand.” He writes a healthy argument for continuing to read the hero’s story to see if the hero in fact is a hero or just a one hit wonder.

Thackeray mocks the whims of the time (and because he doesn’t like the story as written) he ups the ante quite a bit with Rebecca and Rowena taking off where Ivanhoe ends. Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott, in a nutshell, is the more political, less romantic version of Robin Hood, set in the year 1194. The original storyline is barely detectable after Thackeray is finished with it. While it didn’t go on to receive quite the favor that Vanity Fair did, it has become a highly referenced book in literature and feminism courses.

However, this is not what the blog is about! The blog is really about the on-going obsession readers across the world have with Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice.

I have read the book a time or two; watched the 6 hour BBC version starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth at least ten times, have seen the 2005 version around 4 times, and have even seen the 1938 version! That’s a lot of Pride and Prejudice.

Recently I was wandering around the local book store in the “literature” department, just browsing and reading titles. I think I had made it to the “C” section when actual shock overtook me after observing how many books linked themselves to Jane Austen or to Pride and Prejudice. So, me being me, I made a bit of a project comparing how many books referred to P&P versus Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Mansfield Park, Persuasion or Northanger Abbey. While I couldn’t actually keep tallying the numbers, there’s only so much you can write on the back of a paper napkin, I can answer without any hesitation, there are a whole lot more books borrowing upon P&P than any of the others. (How’s that for scientific research?)

I gathered up a pile of books, hunkered down into a chair, and read the descriptions of 42 books. I decided to bring home Mr. Darcy Presents His Bride, A Sequel to Pride and Prejudice, by Helen Halstead. As I write this, it is hard for me to decide which direction to go. Do I talk about how flabbergasted I was to find out that Helen Halstead had the courage to call the book an actual sequel? Do I talk about the fact that there were more than 42 books? Do I just talk about the book?

Much has been written about Jane Austen and her unconventional life; she chose to not marry and instead lived in her family home until her death. Most of her time was spent at what would have been conventional tasks, those very much like Elizabeth Bennets pursuits; reading, practicing the pianoforte, sewing, visiting acquaintances, and dancing!

It turns out that Helen Halstead has a bit of William Makepeace Thackeray in her. Not that her book is a parody, but that it seeks to follow the storyline beyond “romance in full bloom.” The story follows what would have more likely been Elizabeth Darcy’s reality; trying to win the favor of “society” after being ostracized by them as a result of Lady Catherine de Bergh’s influence, and its effect on her relationship with Mr. Darcy. Helen Halstead also does a remarkable job carrying the Bennet and Bingley families forward as well.

I’m not really writing a book review, so much as again appreciating the desire to imagine what more there could be to the story. I truly sit in awe at Thackeray and Halstead’s dedication in creating the ‘more’ they wanted to know. The beauty in writing a book is that you never really wonder what will become of your characters; you finish telling their story, but they continue to live in your imagination and their future is only limited in your desire to write a sequel. I find myself wondering what Jane Austen would make of Helen Halstead’s attempt at furthering Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam Darcy’s story. Much is written about Sir Walter Scotts reaction to William Makepeace Thackeray’s parody – for the most part it was unappreciated!

I think for entertainment purposes, my next blog will be an attempt at continuing the story line of a famous book and seeing what you think of the outcome. I will post a poll and you’ll be able to let me know whether I did it justice. If you have a suggestion to make as to which book, please feel free to leave a comment.

Thanks for reading.

Epilogues … To Be or Not to Be

As it turns out, there are two really important things to know about me (hopefully there are more, but for this Blog we’ll limit it to two). I strongly dislike the word “hate” and I hate epilogues.

I think of epilogues as a lazy way out. When I’ve read a really great book I truly enjoy thinking about what is continuing to happen within the story. For me the story lives on. One of my favorite things to do with my husband is to run various versions past him and see which one he likes best. (I freely admit that I’m not sure this is one of my husband’s favorite pastimes!!) However, isn’t what makes a great book great is that people continue to think about it?

Going out on a limb I will declare, for myself, the worst written epilogue to date is by JK Rowling in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. If you haven’t read the series and plan to someday, now may be the time to quit reading, perhaps.

While I can appreciate that the author wanted to wrap it up all neat and tidy, I think the epilogue deserved more than fifteen minutes of her time. Predictably Harry names his children after key characters, couples are formed, alliances maintained, and all is well – Harry’s scar hadn’t pained him in nineteen years. We find little out about the backbone characters and a little shake up might be nice, even if JK Rowling is completely and utterly finished with the storyline.

Taking fifteen minutes, I will browse through the epilogue and see what really makes my teeth clench, starting now 1:43pm 6/7/10.

Leaving Harry married to Ginny, I question many issues:

1) They are dropping off their children, James and Albus, at the station to take the train to Hogwarts. Instead of having written the oldest child as a son (utterly predictable AND their daughter is named Lily too), wouldn’t it be more interesting to have their eldest a daughter named Tonks (a.k.a. Nymphodora)? After all, Tonks was a pivotal character when Harry, Ron and Hermione, as teenagers, were trying to decide how to take a stand against Voldemort! She was powerful and unique. In the end she charged into battle against Voldemort, knowing that she was risking death and re-creating Harry’s lifelong sorrow of being left alone. Her son Teddy would also have to live with the pain of having his mother die as a result of Voldemorts evilness. While Lily Potter’s death occurred defending her son, Tonks died defending humankind!! Owing any credibility to her sentimentality, what could be a more beautiful tribute to both mother’s love by the author than to name Harry’s daughter Nymphodora Lily Potter?

2) Much was made of the relationship between Sirius Black and Harry as they were Godfather/Godson. Harry is Teddy’s Godfather. In the epilogue we find out that Teddy has been raised by someone other than Harry and Ginny. We don’t even get to find out whom. This is so disingenuous to the original storyline. In fact, Lily suggests to her parents that Teddy comes to live with them and Harry rebuffs her with comments of having enough to worry about with his own children. Personally, I think it was Hagrid, he's always taking in strays.

3) Sure enough Ron and Hermione get married and have children predictably named Hugo and Rose! Sorry? Who are Hugo and Rose? I searched a website that lists every character in the Harry Potter Series and they aren’t named after anyone! Why not? A very strange dichotomy from the predictability of Harry and Ginny’s lives which should be anything but predictable.

4) The younger children are bickering over which House they’ll belong to at Hogwarts. Wouldn’t an epic battle against Voldemort unify the Houses? The argument ensues after the Potter and Weasley kids see Draco Malfoy’s son Scorpius. Why such a sinister name? Is he looking for another thrashing? Could Draco possibly be a pawn of Voldemort? Or even Lucius Malfoy?

5) All we read over and over is how intelligent Hermione is, but as the children board the train the Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione send their love to Professor Longbottom! Not in the entire epilogue do we find out what Harry, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Draco, or Luna evolve into being. Aurors? Professors? Employees of the Ministry of Magic? Quidditch Players? Magic Shop Owners? Journalists? Wandmakers? Where is Hagrid? The Dursleys? George Weasley?

6) The best character continuity is Ron Weasley who still uses magic to get his muggle driver’s license and humor to get himself through rough spots! Perhaps JK Rowling liked his character the best? Or was he the simplest to write?

I found this on Factmonster.com:
Surprising Secrets Finally Revealed
The most surprising—and welcome—element of the book is the way it enlightens readers on the personal history of two of the series' most pivotal characters: Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape. Through Rowling's portrayals of the two characters, we see that our assumptions, even if they are built upon six previous books, aren't always correct, and evil, as well as good, can be found inside just about every character. Deathly Hallows serves as a fitting end to one of the world's most popular literary series. Harry Potter is destined to join the ranks of the most beloved fictional characters of all time, and he will live on as future generations continue to discover the series and enjoy it as so many millions already have.

If the intention of the author was to have Harry Potter remain a loveable fictional character who forever lives in limbo at the age of twelve or even seventeen, she shouldn’t have written the epilogue! Epilogues are the future. My imagination wants and needs more.

Couldn’t the epilogue have Hermione as an Auror, her hair all wild and wacky, popping into the train station just after dropping off a criminal at Azkaban? Harry teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts and instructing students how to conjure a Patronus. I can imagine Ron the Proprietor of a Pub on Diagon Alley, having a Butter Beer with Fred. Ginny's character could have been left alone, to be much like her mother, the calm in the storm. Instead of Harry’s head being painfree, couldn’t he have a minor ache after many years of quiet? We don’t know where all the Death Eaters got to after all!

Okay, this did take me slightly longer than fifteen minutes. However, I think I have made a strong case on how poorly the epilogue was written. It isn’t that I want a “Happily Ever After.” I want JK Rowling to withdraw her epilogue, initiate a writing contest and allow someone who wasn’t mired down by outside forces to create an unexpected spin, give it the same breath of fresh air that Harry Potter and Sorcerer’s Stone blew into our lives.

A Total Change of Subject…How to leave comments: If you would like to leave a comment, you will need to create an account on Google or LiveJournal. They are both free and offer an e-mail account and alternative internet search engines. I would love comments, but if this hurts your brain, please feel free to share thoughts via e-mail!

Fact or Fiction

(Note: After positing the first chapter of Charlotte Restrained, I edited it an additional four times! How’s that for addiction?)

How a Character Develops, at least in my world!

After reading my first blog a friend said that she wanted to get to know me through my writing and hoped I would become more comfortable revealing myself. Thinking about this, I have returned to the place at which I started, I am like Shrek, I am an onion, with many layers, and I would imagine that every entry will reveal an aspect of me.

Interestingly enough it was through the exploration of my layers that I returned to my childhood love of writing. As I mentioned in my first entry, I have moved a lot and have met a lot of people. The constancy was my family and my imagination. I think reinventing yourself over and over requires imagination and fortitude. Moving repeatedly developed within me an innate desire to try and determine what made a person tick and then I would create futures for them. Most people would remain unfinished characters, I would never read the next chapter of their lives or know their “happily ever after”.

It will probably come as no surprise to find out that I love the Biography Channel. I love the promo, “Every life has a story.” Many who know me know that I often begin an explanation with, “Well, there’s a story there.” I cannot help it! I love the story, because the story reveals to us an emotion, and gives us the choice of reaction, action or no action.

Last week I saw a woman at a coffee shop and she kept shoving her hair out of her eyes. She was! She was shoving it! Not brushing, smoothing, tucking, or flicking. She was shoving her hair. It was hard not to notice. My initial thought was, “She needs a haircut.” I took my coffee, went about my business and finally later that afternoon I found my thoughts returning to her. Then I began to break things down:

She: Who is she? Why shoving instead of brushing, smoothing, tucking or flicking? Shoving can be an angry, impatient, or frustrated action. That helps me create an idea of who she is. She is an angry/impatient/frustrated woman in a coffee shop. Is she angry because she cannot find the time to get a haircut? Is she impatient because she is waiting for someone? Is she frustrated because she is growing her hair out?

Need: Does she need a haircut or is this an old habit that she still does when she is concentrating on something? What if she has a special event coming up and she needs her hair shorter or longer for the event and does not have the time or money to make it happen? What if all she really wants is a haircut and a dye job? Can she not afford it? Is she poor? Does she need help?

Haircut: I wonder what she’d look like with longer hair or longer hair with highlights. I wonder if she has long hair because her partner likes long hair and secretly she hates it and wants to cut it but doesn’t because she wants to make her partner happy. Will cutting off her hair be the signal to the end of the relationship? Or has she been growing her hair for a couple years and is excited about the length and tugging at it reminds her of its length? OR is it just hair?

I can create scenario after scenario. It entertains me, helps me to dig deeper into my own psyche, makes me wonder about myself, our culture, and other cultures. It gives me thoughts to ponder and wonder what I am teaching my children.

All this from one woman shoving her hair.

If you are wondering what the end result is that cannot happen because in writing there is no single solution. This is one of the stories that I invented for this woman:

She sits in the coffee shop excited. Just the action of being alone and anonymous in a coffee shop is pretty exciting. Being from a small town and wanting to blend in, one of the first things she observed when she entered was that most women wore their hair down. Not pulled back in a pony tail as she usually did. She tugged at her bangs, annoyed that she’d had to get them cut, but at the same time, she smiled inwardly at the memory of the cause. Her daughter had been giving her “a day of beauty” and the elastic hair band had become so twisted in her hair, there had been no choice but to cut it out.

Refocusing on the reason she was here, she pulled her resume out of her bag and placed it on the round table in front of her. Technically it wasn’t a briefcase, but to her it was better. It was a laptop bag, full of pockets, and secret compartments. Not only did it hold her treasured designs and photographs there were places to stick car keys, cell phones, hide a supply of snacks for her kids, and even a super secret pocket that held her stash of chocolate. The best part was that it was “her.” It had been a long time since she’d bought something that said, “This is who I am.” Having three young children had delayed those types of purchases.

So here she was, adding to the reinvention of herself. She’d been nervous, but her husband and friends had encouraged her to meet with the owner of a local landscape design firm. She hadn’t worked in years, but her fingers itched to hold a drafting pen and her brain whirred with ideas of what could be. Her only hope was that the person interviewing her would see the years she’d spent as a stay at home mom as an asset, that her projects from the past would dazzle him, and that she’d get that part of herself back.

Quickly she glanced around the room and saw a woman that looked a little bit like her. A woman with a bag that wasn’t a briefcase jammed with papers. The utilitarian bag had McTeachers Night written on it. The thought ran through her mind that the woman needed a haircut!

Just then a voice said, “Hello, are you Rebecca Forstner?”

She looked up to see a man dressed somewhat casually, holding a drafting tube. She quickly stood up, offered her hand, and said, “Yes, I am.”

A Glimpse into Charlottes Restrained

Many of you know that I am in the process of writing a book. The process goes something like this: write, write, write; then have people read, read, read. I receive their feedback and then I oscillate between read, edit, write, read, edit, write, write, write. You know the next part... people read, I edit and rewrite some more.

I've become convinced that you can become addicted to your book and want it to be absolutely and perfectly polished before submitting it to agents and publishing companies. So, I have taken another leap and have begun the search for the best agent for me and the book. (In order to address my addiction I have begun the process of writing a second book.)

I thought you might enjoy a glimpse into the book. Due to legal reasons I have had to remove a public individuals name. Please insert the name of your favorite leading man!

Thanks for reading!!

Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

“[Favorite leading man] lawyers are on the phone,” Taylor jumped backwards from the Caller ID display as if the lawyers on the other end could see her. “Don’t tell me you violated the restraining order again,” she whispered, apparently still worried someone might sense her. “I told you! I told you! I told you! We do not need this now! Not this week.” Taylor said while stabbing the air with her finger.

Whether to answer the call from Mead Jameson and Kelly or not was not the decision, there was only one thing to do, call [favorite leading man] and ask him what was happening. As I tapped my teeth with a freshly manicured finger tip, I pondered for the millionth time how he could have misunderstood me. I still felt really annoyed by his arrogant assumptions about me.

The continued ringing of the phone returned me to reality, where I promptly decided what to do. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“What? How can you go for a shower, shouldn’t you pack a suitcase and get out of here?” Taylor's voice now squawking.

“Listen, I’m going to take a shower, give [favorite leading man] a call, and everything will be fine! Liz promised.” I said, as if this would allay all her fear. Realizing now was not the time to fill her in on my plan I waved an arm and closed the bathroom door.

It was all simple enough, I thought, as I washed my hair. I had seen [favorite leading man] the previous day having lunch at The Volstead, a mid-town bar. As I was leaving, I had to walk past his table, so I said hello. We exchanged stilted pleasantries regarding our health and the weather. As we said our good-byes I told him I was sorry to hear that he and Jemima had split up. Then I left and came home.

Technically I did violate the restraining order by coming within 500 feet of him. Technically I did violate the restraining order by talking to him. But he didn’t seem frightened or perturbed.

Pulling back the shower curtain and reaching for a towel to wrap around my hair, I had the sudden realization that I had made a tactical error in not answering the phone.

I rushed through the routine of lotions, potions, spritzes and sprays! “Did they phone again?” I called to Taylor, while finishing up my routine.

“No, you still have a chance to get out of here before the police arrive!” She anxiously yelled from the living room.

I raced to my bedroom closet, “Come here and help me pick out something to wear,” I called back. My earlier bravado had been replaced by total confusion. I was suddenly unable to make any important decisions by myself.

While I was digging out underwear, Taylor entered the room emitting an aura of panic, a dark haze. “Listen Charlotte, come sit down beside me,” she said as she patted the bed. “We really need to talk about your situation with [favorite leading man].”

Anxious to calm both of us, I blew out a deep breath and said with more confidence than I felt, “Look, I know it’s bad timing and if your mother finds out I am completely screwed, but I am going to get to the bottom of all of this. I might be able to get my life back!”

She gazed at me, her blue eyes saying it all, “You poor deluded girl.”

Hairy Heroines

I was performing my morning ablutions recently, those that I have done for what seems my entire life, when I made the sudden decision, “I’m not shaving my legs! Nope, I-am-not!!” Why not? I have no real idea, but it did start me down the path of wondering when the concept of hairlessness became chic, sexy, and necessary.



Me being me, I went looking for insight into the mystery of shaving and hair removal. I was spurred on by the knowledge that never have I read an author who has written, “He gently held her face in his hands and delighted in feeling the prickle of chin hairs.”



I got a real giggle when I imagined Elizabeth Bennett, (the heroine in Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen), having really hairy legs under her chemise. The thought of silk stockings matting down hair made me wonder if conventions had allowed for it, whether Jane Austen might have written:

Whilst attempting to come to terms with the embarrassment and potential ridicule that her sister Lydia had brought upon her family by provoking Mr. Bingley to host a ball, Elizabeth assisted in the preparations of the depilatory supply for her family. Being of lean means, it had taken some time for their father to procure the necessary items, but now having done so, the Bennett women set about, with Hill’s assistance, the process of chopping smoked oak into white French wine, to be digested in a hot water or vapor bath for 24 hours. Though she was alone in her preference, Elizabeth preferred another recipe which called for distilled water and celandine roots, and walnut oil which was then applied to the hair directly. She could contrive no purpose or reasoning for wasting the perfectly palatable white wine.

It turns out that many websites are dedicated to the history of hair removal. Ancient Neanderthal man removed facial hair with tweezers made from clam shells, volcanic rock and flint stone. Ancient Greeks used fire to singe the hair off and during the Middle Ages women in Europe wore very large and outrageous headdresses, so they removed all hair from their heads including eyebrows and eyelashes in order to be chic.

To be honest I was hoping for a different history. I enjoyed the idea that hairlessness was a contemporary focus and that we had applied our ideals liberally. I liked thinking that Cleopatra actually had bushy armpits (Nope! Depilatory cream was made out of dung, arsenic, and olive oil), and that characters from pre nineteenth century literature were hairy beings which we had idealized into sleek and slippery creatures. I find it quite curious that humans instinctively sought to remove body hair and that we have now taken it to a level where we airbrush it off in photos. We no longer even have hair follicles.

Whether portrayed by Colin Firth or Matthew Macfadyen I go back to musing about Elizabeth Bennett and wonder what Mr. Darcy would say upon glimpsing her hairy legs for the first time, “Dearest loveliest Elizabeth, would you like me to get you a pumice stone?” (Oh yes they did.)

As for me, the last time I made a major hair statement was the year I was 23. I played hours and hours of Ultimate Frisbee and hung out with the disc throwing, tie dye wearing, and grunge music listening employees of Microsoft. Being sweaty, hairy and dejected held a certain lure for me. It was a new look; one that allowed me meld into my new boyfriends life.

I went one year without shaving my legs! One year! To cut the saga short, I decided that I was over having hairy legs, shaved one and then I remembered why I had quit shaving. I then kept one leg shaved and had one leg hairy for about six months. This received more notice than when I had two legs as hairy as Sasquatch. Finally I worked up the enthusiasm and shaved the other and have kept to the once a day habit until recently.

I wouldn’t mind losing the hair follicles!

My Very First Blog!

The concept of people reinventing themselves has long since been a fascination of mine. Why do some people change their lives on a regular basis and others fear any change at all? There are those who’ve had the same hair style since 1972 and then others who change person to person, group to group – chameleons.

I am an official military brat. I have a great deal of experience in reinventing myself; creating a new look, adapting my vocabulary to incorporate the ‘in’ slang words, or dabbling in different groups. I knew I would be moving anyway, so I could try being the perky cheerleader at one school, the gloomy rocker chick at another, or perhaps even the penny loafer wearing brainiac at the next. If it didn’t work, it didn’t matter, there would always be another opportunity.

During my first 13 years of public education I attended seven different schools, resided in ten different houses in three countries and five states. Over the next 13 years I attended two colleges, changed degrees six times, and resided in seven different houses.

When I was twelve years old my father was ordained in the Roman Catholic Church as a Deacon. The role of PK (Preachers Kid) was thrust upon me and gave me even greater opportunity to explore and observe the public versus private sides to people’s lives. It was through this avenue that I learned how much power I could have. If there was a dance at the high school on Friday night parents would call to see if my siblings and I were going; if the answer was yes, then they would let their kids attend, if we weren't then no. I was either profoundly popular or a dismal disappointment.

So where has all this taken me? Well, all over the place really. I’ve travelled extensively, had amazing opportunities just handed to me, held some interesting jobs (I never truly sought a career; born out of fear I might miss ‘a road less travelled’), and when I finally felt somewhat grown up at the age of 30, I married the love of my life.

Since then, we have lived in two countries, moved seven times, had two children, and have had two cats that we returned when we realized we weren’t pet people.

Recently I have shelved other passions to pursue writing novels. Not a path for the faint of heart. It never occurred to me that I couldn’t write the book; it was around page 213 that I realized I was going to have to try and publish this thing. I'm really excited about the book and the journey it has taken me on. I’ll let you know how the publishing process goes.

So, Woman Reinvents Self is a combination of the questions I find myself puzzling over and how they evolve into fictional characters… for example, why do some women still have bouffant hair do’s? Why do some women put their mascara on so thick that they have fuzzy clumping eyelashes? Why do some people rush to grow up and others never at all?

The polls will change week to week… I find the possibility of gaining insight into the world through your answers tremendously exciting.

Thanks for reading!