I wanna be a hockey player

Posted on June 7, 2011 by Marie Loughin
Vancouver Canucks

Image via Wikipedia

That seems like an odd desire, after watching the deconstruction of the Canucks last night.  (For those living on the other side of the moon, the Canuckleheads got their butts kicked 8-1 in the biggest display of testosterone-gone-wild that I’ve seen since the last time I tried to watch UFC.) After that petulant display of bad sportsmanship, you’d think I’d be tempted to give up watching hockey altogether.

But then I got to thinking . . . what would it be like to live like a hockey player all the time?

For example, I was driving around after the game last night. A giant pick-up truck zoomed up behind me and roared past, crossing double yellow lines to do it. I had a sudden urge to hip check him as he went by and flip him over my back.

Another example . . . ever try to walk through the halls between classes at a University?  Picture a wall-to-wall throng of students, 90% of them with heads down, thumbs hard at work on their cell phones.  A banana slug could move faster.  Now picture yourself carrying a hockey stick.  A less-than-gentle little cross check here and there ought to clear your path.  (Don’t worry, the refs won’t call it unless the student falls down screaming. Even then, they might call the student for diving, as long as you don’t draw blood.)

Or waiting in line at Universal Studio’s Islands of Adventure.  The crowd closes in around you and the tension builds. “That’s it!” you yell after some woman’s purse bumps your backside for the 37th time.  You throw down your camera and your backpack and start flailing away at her.  Some of your blows actually land.  The crowd screams encouragement and waves banners and towels to cheer you on.

Yeah. Yeah. I could be a hockey player.

—–

*This entry was inspired by Shannon Mayer’s blog.

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Ruminations on Monster Hunters Incorporated (or “I wanna be Pitt Zastava Owens”)

Posted on May 30, 2011 by Marie Loughin

I’ve been trying to get into shape for the last three years.  I started with boot camp, but had issues with snotty young instructors who have no respect for other people’s knees. So I moved on to a self-designed program at the local gym. It’s not particularly working.  But my efforts may at least be slowing my relentless downward spiral into couchpotatodom.

To be honest, I don’t particularly like running on an elliptical treadmill.  Or leg-wrestling a pilates ball. I especially dislike lifting a pathetically short stack of metal plates up and down; the pulley system ceased to amuse me ages ago.  The one (and perhaps only) thing that keeps me going with the self-torture is audible books.

But not just any audible books.  You don’t get into shape listening to Sense and Sensibility or Catcher in the Rye. You need something that gets the adrenaline pumping.  A blink-or-you-miss-something kind of book. Or a story so engaging that it takes you away from the stench of sweaty arm pits and gym socks.

So far, I’ve listened to Dean Koontz, Carl Hiaasen, Garth Nix, Suzanne Collins, Steig Larsson, Robert Rankin, and Terry Pratchett, to name a few.  I strained and plodded through all 34.5 relentless hours of Stephen King’s Under the Dome.  I even panted and grunted to the adventures of Hazel, Bigwig, and Fiver from Richard Adams’ Watership Down. (Yes, a book about bunnies.  Leave me alone.)

But the most fun I’ve had working out in the last three years is due to Larry Correia’s Monster Hunters International (MHI).

Picture a southern-fried version of Twilight, where Bella packs a submachine gun and would happily lop off Edward’s head while shouting, “It’s better if we’re not friends.”  She’d do the same to Jacob, too, for that matter.  With a rebel yell.

Okay, maybe it’s not so much like Twilight.

It’s closer to Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files.  Both Harry Dresden and MHI protagonist Owen Zastava Pitt are ridiculously shy with women, but fearless against nasty monsters that are nearly impossible to kill.  Both heroes get beat up at least once a chapter, and are somehow ready to do battle the next day (or hour). But where Dresden Files is sometimes over the top, MHI is always over the top.

People who know me and have read the MHI might be surprised that I liked it.  Monster Hunters International sometimes reads like a gun catalog.  I don’t like guns.  I think they’re hard and noisy and they hurt people. The people in MHI collect weapons like other people collect knick knacks. I suspect Owen Zastava Pitt whispers sweet nothings to them when no one is looking.

The thing is, the people at MHI need bad-ass weapons.  ’Cause the monsters are even bad-assier. And, to be honest, if vampires and wights and Cthulu monsters decide to take over the world, I hope someone is packing a little heat!

In case you haven’t figured it out by now, MHI is a bit corny.  If the movie is made, it will go straight to the drive-in theaters (though I do hope they make it in 3-D).   MHI is also cliché-ridden. Owen awoke with a start so many times, I started to wonder what a “start” is and why anyone would want to sleep with one.

But I liked the corniness. The clichés somehow added to the charm.  I like the larger than life hero.  I liked that he could kill a werewolf with his bare hands, but was bumbling and shy around Julie, the beautiful, gun-strappin’ monster huntin’ heroine. MHI wasn’t written to be great literature.  It was written to be fun.  And in that respect, it is a success.

Rating:  4 stars (for action-packed fun)*

*For parents, I give this book an R rating for all the chunks of meat and body parts that fly during the many battle scenes.  In all other respects, this book gets a G rating.

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Ruminations on Thor

Posted on May 19, 2011 by Marie Loughin

As I said in my last blog, I’ve found the “I wanna be…” theme to be too restrictive, so I am introducing a new feature called “Ruminations on…”.

Initially, I was going to call the feature “REVIEWS.” Catchy title, I know, but not quite right for my purposes.  The word “review” might raise your expectations too much, like I might actually know what I’m talking about.  Besides, I have plenty of uninformed opinions about things besides movies and books.  Dog-walkers, for example.  The space shuttle. And certain brands of chocolate.

Today, I’m going to talk about the movie Thor.  But before I begin, I must warn you:  I’m not a sophisticated movie-goer. If I’m going to lay down $17 to see a movie in a theater, I want special effects.  Action.  Maybe a few explosions.  Save the deeper commentary on the human condition for the small screen.  (Better yet, save it for someone else.  I’m just not that deep.)

With those criteria, I figured Thor would be the perfect movie for me.  But, since it cost $17 a ticket (plus $103 in snackies), I checked the reviews first.  Happily, Thor got 4 stars everywhere I looked and was compared to Iron Man.  Plus, Thor was directed by Kenneth Branagh.  That should mean something.  I bought the ticket.

(Disclaimer: It’s been a week since I’ve seen the movie, so forgive me if I get some details wrong.)

According to my admittedly faulty memory, the movie opens with scientist Jane Foster (Natalie Portman) investigating an astronomical phenomenon that is somehow affecting the earth.  The science behind this is muddled, but that’s okay because Jane and her team jump into their truck to chase a mysterious storm and science becomes moot.  During the high point of the chase, my thoughts go something like this:  “Why are they doing this? Are they nuts or just suicidal?”

The movie then segues to a flashback scene, where we meet Thor. We are introduced to three or four of Thor’s godly sidekicks. (I’m not sure exactly how many there were and, for some reason, don’t really care.)  If you’re paying attention, you might catch their names.  All except one:  a dark-haired somber-seeming fellow whom Thor only calls “brother.”

“Oh, that must be Loki,” I think.  And then I spend the next 30 seconds wondering why the screenwriters are avoiding identifying Loki, who is obviously the main villain.  (I’m not sure what I might have missed during this distraction, but I am sure you could zone out during any randomly selected 30 seconds of this movie and not miss anything important to the plot.)

Here’s a generalized summary of the rest of the movie. (Alert: I don’t think I spoil any specific moments or plot points, but I may influence your desire to see the movie.)  Much male posturing and cartoon violence ensues, followed by Thor’s deserved fall to earth and loss of god status (that part’s no secret). Thor is found by Jane Foster, and we are treated to Thor’s introduction to human society.

Meanwhile, inexplicable events occur back in Asgard, thus thickening the plot.  More posturing and cartoon violence ensues.  Doom threatens something (Thor? The Earth?  I’m a little foggy about that), and we reach the movie’s climactic battle scene.  By now, I am bored.  Yes, bored.  Our heroes are in danger, but the outcome is so relentlessly predictable that I’m tempted to pull out my iPhone and start playing HoldEm poker.

Okay, I guess I’m pickier than I thought.

So, what went wrong?

Possibly the contrived, telegraphed plot was to blame.  But there are plenty of examples of good movies with bad (or no) plot. No, in my opinion, the biggest flaw was character development.  As in, there wasn’t any.

Of all the movie’s characters, Thor is the most thoroughly developed.  At first, he is portrayed as an over-confident, brainless, admittedly studly hothead.  As the movie progresses, he develops into an over-confident, brainless, admittedly studly hothead with angst.

Jane Foster is portrayed as an astronomical meteorologist. Or something.  By mid-movie, she devolves into a brainless Thor-groupie, devoid of personality and purpose. At one point, Thor turns to her and says something like, “You are really a clever one.”   To which I want to yell, “Only compared to you.” But I restrain myself.  Barely.

Don’t get me started about the characterization of Loki.

All other characters were so poorly developed that the filmmakers might as well have saved themselves the actor’s salaries and used stop-action Claymation figures.

So why is Thor getting such great reviews…even from unpaid user reviewers at sites like IMDb?

Answer:  Chris Hemsworth.

I can’t comment on Hemsworth’s acting abilities.  I don’t recall that he even had much dialogue. But somehow he dominates any scene he’s in. I could try to explain it with a monologue about charisma and presence, but it boils down to this: Chris Hemsworth is hot.  He is so hot, that something weird happens to you when you watch him on the big screen. You find yourself wanting to like the movie.  You want to believe it was written well.  That the director knew what he was doing.  That the acting is good. You rush home and write the review while the movie is still fresh in your head.

It nearly happened to me. Thankfully, the spell wore off before I had a chance to commit to paper.  I wonder what the authors of those 4 and 5 star reviews really thought, once the magic dust faded from their eyes.

My rating:  3 stars.  (Excuse me, I think I have something in my eye.)

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I’m back!

Posted on May 17, 2011 by Marie Loughin

Sorry to be gone so long, but I’ve got an excuse.  It’s a good one.  Really!

Every spring term, I teach a university course on communication in statistics.  Well, “every” might be a little strong.  I co-taught the class in 2009 and taught it solo in 2010.  You’d think that would have been enough to convince me to stop, but I volunteered to teach it again in spring 2011. It’s an upper-level undergraduate course involving multiple drafts of multiple written projects.  I mark and comment heavily on every draft. For the last two years, all of my students have been ESL (link).

Student feedback says my course is too hard. I got news for them – it’s even harder to teach. From early January to mid April, all I think about is perfecting my lectures, providing more illuminating homework and reading material, doing anything I can to make my students better technical writers. . .or at least to make them care. Not the best brain-fodder for blog-writing.  True, there are some amusing moments in and around the classroom, but most of them involve students. I don’t feel quite right about posting such stories.  At least, not while class is still in session.

So my blog has languished, its abandonment adding one more* stratum to the mountain-sized guilt that built up over the term. But I did at least give the blog some thought.  I even started a few entries, though they fell on their noses and died premature deaths.  I simply didn’t have mental room to wanna be anything (except asleep or in Hawaii). Which made me realize. . .perhaps the whole “Wanna be” theme is a bit too restrictive. Maybe I should let it evolve.

Hmmm.  Think, think, think.

*Other strata include daily growling at the children (I think they nicknamed me Fifi, in keeping with my poodle-esque hair), feeding my family McDonalds at least twice a week (or worse – letting Tom cook things like sausage-pineapple-rutabaga-macaroni-blue cheese-and-sauerkraut casserole), not cleaning the master bathroom since Christmas (call it a cultural experiment), allowing refuse to pile up around me until my house looks like a hoarder’s dream castle, and doing no fiction writing whatsoever.

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Clarification

Posted on January 18, 2011 by Marie Loughin

I want to perfectly clear: I was not trying to imply that my beautiful daughter in any way looks anything like Gollum.  Here is the picture of Jules.

Jules after Bilge Rat ride

Here is a picture of Gollum:

Any resemblance is purely coincidental.

For the record, here is a photo of Jules in real life.

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I wanna be a 1950’s mom

Posted on January 16, 2011 by Marie Loughin

Truthfully, I don’t know what it was like to be a 1950’s mom.  My own mom was in high school then, so she’d have an idea.  But I don’t want to ask her.  It might burst my little fantasy of a slower paced, homier lifestyle.

To give you an idea of why I have this nostalgic longing, let me tell you something about my average weekday, these days.  Say Mondays, which are easier than some days but harder than Fridays.

6:40am:  Alarm goes off. That probably sounds late to many of you, but I can get away with it because I don’t care about things like hair all going in the right direction or covering up the signs of age that are taking over my face like a not-so-slow moving cancer.

Okay, I lie.  I care about those things, but I’m a realist and would rather sleep than fight the inevitable.

6:50am:  I head downstairs to make lunches for the girls. This activity gives me an opportunity to capture a 1950’s moment.  I could just toss a Luncheable™, box juice, and an icepack in each lunch box, like many parents do.  Or, heaven forbid, tell them to make their own lunches.  But this is one of the few moments in the day where I can really say “I love you” and try to take the edge off the guilty feeling that I’m not the supermom I want to be.

So I take the time to build deli-style sandwiches, with shaved meat, mayo (and mustard, depending on the meat), tomato, and lettuce on interesting bread.  By interesting, I mean bread that is soft and fluffy and does not contain any gritty or chewy signs of fiber, which would result in partially eaten sandwiches returning home after school, along with complaints of extreme hunger. I vary this routine by using flour tortillas or buns, or by including a thermos of hot soup or re-heated leftover stew or spaghetti.

(Note: Kids are on their own for breakfast – cold cereal, yogurt and fruit, or pbj. Hubby is on his own for food, period.)

(Another note: when I take my younger daughter grocery shopping, she lingers in the refrigerated aisle, staring wistfully at the assortment of Luncheables™ that her friends get to eat.)

7:20am:  I herd the girls into the car and drive them to school – 20 to 25 minutes, depending on traffic.  Then, if I’m especially organized, I head to the gym for a quick work-out.  About 20% of the time, I forget my towel or clean undies and head home instead.

9:00am: I join the stop-and-go traffic on Highway 1 for the 45-minute commute to the University, where I teach a technical writing class for the statistics department and work for statistical consulting services.

11:45am:  Work is broken up by a 15 minute lunch break, when I take a peek at Facebook for sound bites from my friends and I snarf leftovers.

4:00pm: I join the stop-and-go traffic on Highway 1 for the 45-minute trip to pick up the girls from school, where they have just finished orchestra practice.

5:30pm:  Arrive home. The evening is a jumble of homework, violin and voice practice (the girls, not me), scraping together some lame excuse for dinner (my ability to strive for 1950’s maternal perfection is exhausted for the day), and writing lecture notes and/or reports. Sometimes the dishes get done.

9:00pm:  I collapse in front of the tv, too tired to do any more work, too wound up to sleep yet.  Hubby heads for the man cave to work, do bills, and play computer games. I check Facebook for sound bites from my friends.

That routine probably sounds familiar to many of you. Compare this to my imagined 1950’s weekday.

6:40am: alarm goes off.  If they had alarm clocks back in those days.

6:50am:  Make hot oatmeal or eggs and toast for the kids and husband.

(Note:  when I take the kids to the grocery store, they stare longingly at the selection of cold cereals that their friends get to eat for breakfast.)

7:30am: Hubby heads for work. The kids walk to school.  I walk with them, if I’ve bothered to get out of my housecoat. I then clean up the kitchen, and do a few odd chores around the house.

10:00am: I meet the neighborhood ladies for coffee.  We gossip about the ladies who don’t show up.

12:00pm: Kids come home from school for lunch.  I indulge in convenience food:  Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.  (I’m innocently oblivious to worries about the numbers on the nutrition label. Assuming they had nutrition labels back in those days.) Grilled cheese, pbj, or bologna sandwiches and a glass of milk complete the menu.

12:30pm:  Kids walk back to school.  I clean up the lunch dishes, tidy the family room, and do some sewing or baking while I listen to the radio.

3:00pm: Bake cookies or make peanut butter celery sticks.

3:30pm: Kids come home from school and eat the above. I help them with their homework.

4:00pm: Kids head out the door to play with neighborhood kids.  I have no idea where they go and don’t care, as long as they’re home by 5:30.

4:05pm: I put roast or chicken in the oven and tidy some more. Then maybe read a romance novel and eat the leftover cookies.

5:30pm: Husband and kids come home from wherever.  I conscript the girls to help make side dishes for dinner because it’s important for them to learn these skills.

6:00pm:  We sit down as a family, facing each other across the table, say “please pass the peas”, use napkins in our laps, and hold our forks properly. Kids help with the dishes.

7:00pm: Kids finish homework, and we all sit around listening to the radio, reading books/newspapers, and doing handwork.  Or, if we’re more progressive, watch the 4” by 4” tv screen housed in a 450-pound console. I turn it off after half an hour so it won’t hurt the kids’ eyes.

8:00pm: kids go to bed. Hubby and I chat about the day.

9:00pm:  Hubby and I go to bed.

I have two distinct reactions to this imagined day. On the one hand, it sounds boring and inconvenient: I would miss my 52” LCD television (and Bones , Chuck, etc.) and DVR, modern washer and dryer, microwave oven, and high-capacity hot water heater. But, on the other hand, I could stand to be bored for at least a few weeks. I could also stand to avoid driving altogether. And I might enjoy seeing more of my family.

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I wanna be CEO of Universal Studios

Posted on January 9, 2011 by Marie Loughin

Sorry to be quiet for so long.  We took our annual vacation to visit grandparents in Florida and I elected to use the computer as little as possible to rest my beleaguered hands/arms.  Hence, no blogging.

In case you’re wondering, the weather was nice in Florida – highs in the low 70’s (oF) and partly cloudy for most of our visit.  We spent the bulk of our time lying around eating bonbons.  Seriously.  Occasionally we’d get up and go for a brief walk, often as far as the bathroom, and then settle back in.  It was a welcome break after a demanding semester.

After several days of this, we felt rested and recharged enough to indulge in another annual tradition:  the Florida theme park.  Over the years since Tom’s folks moved to Florida, we’ve been to Busch Gardens, Universal Studios, Sea World, Animal Kingdom, Epcot, and Magic Kingdom (twice).  In fact, we’ve been to all the major theme parks except MGM Studios and Universal Studio’s Islands of Adventure.  Given the launch of the new Wonderful World – oops – Wizarding World of Harry Potter, it seemed mandatory that we give Islands of Adventure a try. I will now give you an account of our adventures therein, complete with pictures.

The park opened at 9:30.  We got there a little after 10:00 on January 4, figuring the lines wouldn’t be too bad since the kids were supposed to be back at school the day before. We were a little naive. Here’s a picture of the excited, happy people waiting to get into the park.

It only took us about an hour to get into the park and I felt confident that we’d have time to go on all the rides we wanted. But just in case, we decided to visit the Harry Potter section, first.  Below is a picture of some of us with the castle in the background. Who knew there would be palm trees at Hogwarts!

It turned out that there was a line to get into Harry Potter World.  No, not just to get into any particular ride within Harry Potter World — a line to get into the village itself.  It took about five minutes to walk from the Potter World entrance to the end of the line to get in.  Hmm.  A park employee gave us a pass to come back at 12:30, sorta like a Disney fast pass, allowing us to bypass the big line. So, in the meantime, we went to the Lost Continent and got in line for the Poseidon’s Fury tour.

We waited for 10 minutes or so to get through the doors, after which we were funneled into the building. Where we joined  another line.  Another 15 minutes or so went by.  Finally we were passed through a doorway . . . to another line, where we waited a few more minutes.  By this time, I was stifling little bursts of hysterical laughter, wondering if the next line would lead us to an exit.

The tour itself was actually somewhat entertaining.  I would have happily waited in line ten, or even fifteen, minutes to see it.

After this experience, we decided it might be worthwhile to buy the Express Pass for an additional $40 per person.  Either that, or be satisfied with three rides on the day.  Passes in hand, we were off to the Wonderful Wizard of Potter World!

Marie, Hannah, and Jules about to enter Harry Potter World at last.

I have to say, the attention to detail given to Harry Potter World was exceptional. I’d describe it for you, but I think pictures will do a better job. Unfortunately, it was tough to get a clear shot of anything . . .

Delighted muggles experience Hogsmead

Muggles, Muggles everywhere -- where's a broomstick when you need one?

Our Express Pass was useful for getting us onto the Dragon Challenge ride. This was a twin roller coaster.  You stood in line and then picked one of two coasters to ride. The yellow coaster was called the Chinese Fireball and the red one called the Norwegian Horntail.  (I probably got that wrong — see Harry Potter IV for the correct dragon species.) These roller coasters crisscross and wind around each other, which is an interesting idea, except you’re really going too fast to notice. It is an economical use of space, though, fitting two rides into the footprint of one. I  had to admire the engineering.

We wanted to visit Honeydukes, Zonkos, Dervish and Banges, Olivanders, etc., but each store had a wait of 20 minutes or more to get inside. Yes, you had to wait in line to look at things you might want to buy, and then you had to wait in line to buy them.  Tom began to mutter words like “insane”, “appalling”, and “obscene” over and over under his breath and there was a wild, trapped-animal look around his eyes.  So we decided to bypass the stores and do the “Harry and the Forbidden Journey” ride, and then head to more mundane sections of the park.

The line for the Forbidden Journey wound around half the castle and doubled back almost to the ride’s entrance. Intimidating. Naturally, this was one of the few rides the Express Pass didn’t work for.  So Tom and Hannah got in line while Jules and I found a line for a food cart.  Twenty minutes later, snacks in hand, we rejoined Tom and Hannah. The line had actually progressed quite a bit.  By the time we’d finished eating, we were nearly up to the ride’s entrance. Maybe an hour’s wait, altogether, but at least we  made efficient use of the time.

The Forbidden Journey was obviously the “piece de resistance” of Harry Potter World.  Before you climb into the ride itself, you wind your way through a Hogwarts full of realistic artifacts and small special effects from the movie series.  Realistically done and quite wonderful.  The ride itself was a mix of movie and mechanical effects, again really well done and unique.  Not to mention, a little tough on those with weak stomachs.  It was actually worth the wait, in my opinion.

And that was all the line-standing we were willing to do. We headed to more sparsely populated parts of the park, like Toon Lagoon, where we rode Popeye & Bluto’s Bilge-Rat Barge — a pleasant river raft ride with no wait. Largely because the ride floats you beneath multiple waterfalls and leaves you utterly soaked, which is not nearly as pleasant as it sounds.

Jules doing her best impression of Gollum after  days of following Frodo’s kayak while making like driftwood. Wrong movie, Jules!

And finally, we fled to a place that would do us no wrong.

Seuss Landing, where everything rhymes and comes in pastel colors

It was a full day, with equal parts frustration and fun. My final assessment: Yes, the Wild World of Wizarding is worth visiting, though I highly recommend steering clear of holidays.  And maybe wait a couple of years.

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I wanna be Santa Claus . . .

Posted on December 25, 2010 by Marie Loughin

. . . because he’s jolly, well-liked, everyone EXPECTS him to be fat, and he only works one day of the year. Need I say anything more??

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Marie

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I wanna be five years old. . .

Posted on December 16, 2010 by Marie Loughin

. . . so that I can believe in Santa.

Do you remember being five years old?  I do, a little.  In particular, I remember that there is no better time to be five than on Christmas.  Well, except maybe Halloween.

At Christmas, when you’re five, everything is magical:  The lights on the trees and houses nestled in reflective beds of snow*, filling the night with color.  The ornaments on the tree—angels, Santas, snowflakes, and especially the heavy, lead-based tinsel that was so much fun to scatter over the branches by the handful.  (They don’t make tinsel like they used to.)

And there’s the food.  Stuff you don’t get to eat in normal life. When I was a kid we had delicate Scandinavian cookies that crumbled to powder in small, clumsy hands.  Peanut butter blossoms, sugar cookies, gingerbread men that you made yourself, with the yummy egg-white icing you’re afraid to make anymore because of salmonella.  (They don’t make eggs like they used to, either.) Eggnog, unnaturally thick and strange, but which I drank anyway because it was a Christmas “treat.“ Mom’s prime rib—the only beef I really liked at that age, mostly because of the Yorkshire pudding that came with it.

And the presents.  At our house, Santa brought the bulk of the presents overnight on Christmas Eve. Only presents bought by us kids for each other lived under the tree before that. We’d open them after our Christmas Eve prime rib dinner to play along with my parents’ delusional belief that this would take the edge off of our anticipation. We’d play with those dollar toys and eye the empty tree, thinking of the bigger things tomorrow would bring.

Before bed, I’d always take a last look at the tree, its colored lights and tinsel shining like a beacon to draw Santa to our house.  (We placed the tree in a corner, in the angle of perpendicular windows, with the theory that Santa could see it no matter which way he came down the street.)  And beneath the tree was a void, waiting to be filled. But Santa wouldn’t come if I was still awake.

I’d crawl under the covers and lay in the dark, wondering: will Santa actually visit our house this year?  And how come he always brings the presents from Mom and Dad, too?  Do they special order them from the North Pole? And if so, how come the writing on the labels looks like Mom’s? Does she moonlight as an elf, or something?  And if so, how does she make the commute?

Restless, I’d lift the window shade, chip off a patch of ice from the glass, and peer into the sky for a glimpse of a red glow that wasn’t a star. Nothing. Will this be the year Santa runs out of time and skips our house?

Christmas morning came earlier than any other morning of the year, though the night seemed eons long.  Sometime before 7:00am—not usually before 6:00—one of us kids would wake up and steal into our siblings’ room.  Those still a-slumber would wake instantly, one thought in all of our minds: The stockings!

First, a quick look at the tree.  Fully loaded! Hallelujah! Santa came!  But the presents were as yet untouchable. So we’d sneak downstairs, where our stockings waited on the floor before the fireplace, too heavy to hang from the hooks drilled into the mantel.

Hand-knit by Grandma and big enough for both of my five-year-old legs to fit comfortably, the stockings would be stuffed with goodies. Small toys and books and personal grooming items.  Giant oranges and bananas.  (One year, a pomegranate—exotic in those days.  I had to ask Mom what it was, later. It kept me busy for hours, which was probably the idea.) There were nuts in the shell that we pulverized with a hammer on the tile floor (or sent shooting, unscathed, under my brother’s bed if our aim wasn’t quite on). Foil-wrapped chocolate Santas and chocolate balls. Colorful, spice-flavored hard candy covered with lint from the inside of the stocking. (For some reason, my own kids don’t like this special treat.) Those nummy, chewy peppermints, now hard to find. Giant candy canes that would be left partly eaten on a nightstand, damp and sticky and sucked to a deadly point.

Enough loot to keep us quiet until at least 8:00.

And then breakfast, which seemed to take forever to make and eat.  (I love your pancakes, Mom, but really. Today?)

And finally, the presents, which we’d open in turns with ritualistic slowness and exclamation. The books, sweaters, and underwear. The stocking cap with the googly-eyed pom pom that showed up in unexpected places, year after year. And the toys, oh the toys, toys, toys, toys. The doll with the long, pretty black hair. The Strawberry Patch doll that smelled like real artificial strawberries. The stuffed Snoopy that I still keep in a place of honor on my nightstand. (One year, much later, a 20 lb lead brick with a check taped to it to pay for a new car stereo.  My parents have a thing for lead, I guess.)

And then it’s over. The Christmas room is a litter of rumpled Christmas paper and foam peanuts, the opened gifts in neat little piles, looking smaller than they ever looked under the tree in their pretty boxes.  Dad would sigh with relief and head downstairs to catch whatever bowl game was on.  Mom would get to work on the breakfast dishes. My brothers would hole up in their room to play with their new erector set or bundle up for a little sub-zero ice-skating on the pond next-door.  And I would grab my giant candy cane and a book and head for my room, feeling a little empty, a little sad, and a little scared of the long, colorless winter ahead.

*I grew up in Minnesota.

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I wanna be Ivan Coyote

Posted on December 1, 2010 by Marie Loughin

To become a published novelist, there are certain things you should do. One of those things is to attend writers’ conferences and workshops.

Oh, I’m sure there are plenty of examples of published authors who didn’t attend some sort of writers’ conference or course before publishing a novel, just like there have been a few professional football players who never played college football, and groundbreaking scientists who never went to college. I’m not that brilliant. So when I found out how close I live to the Surrey International Writers’ Conference (SiWC), I had no choice but to attend. I found it to be productive and informative. I also found it to be depressing.

I hear you asking, “Why would you find such a well-run, well-attended writers’ conference to be depressing?”

Precisely because it was so bloody well-attended. There were over 500 attendees and it seemed like every one of them had written a novel. Some had written more than one. And everyone I met was there for one reason – to get published.

As a statistician, I must confess that this result was not obtained through a random sampling of all attendees. I spent much of my time standing in line to sign up for pitch sessions. No one is going to stand in one of those anxiety-ridden lines unless he/she wants to pitch a book. So my sample of new friends was possibly a little biased.

I knew this, but I still felt like the smallest of 500 nestling chicks with one mother and a worm shortage. You can see where that could be depressing.

So it was with a sense of cynicism that I showed up to a conference luncheon to listen to Ivan Coyote, yet another keynote speaker hired to tell us how he became a published writer and to give us struggling newbs a pep talk.

I had never heard of Ivan Coyote before, so I listened with interest as the MC introduced him by explaining that he was an oral story teller. What? No one calls themselves an oral story teller, any more. That’s sort of a lost tradition, isn’t it?

I put my deductive powers to work:  Ivan is a Slavic name, but with a last name like Coyote, I thought maybe he was at least partially of First Nations descent. That could explain it. Feeling clever, I glanced around the room as the MC continued her introduction and tried to spot an old guy with long, graying braids and a Russian accent.

But then the MC said, “. . . over the last thirteen years she has become an audience favorite at music, poetry, spoken word and writer’s festivals from Anchorage to Amsterdam.”

She?  Did she say she? Had the MC misread the cue card?

The MC continued, saying she had spoken to “her” earlier in the conference. Huh. Ivan must be a she. Unusual name for a girl. Come to think of it, I had seen an older lady in traditional First Nations garb in the hotel lobby right before the luncheon. That could explain it. Feeling smug, I rearranged my expectations and waited for the speaker to appear.

Then a youngish man with an above-the-ear haircut stepped up to the podium and started messing with the microphone. What’s this?  More introduction? A fellow newb suggested maybe he was a techy fiddling with the sound system. I frowned doubtfully. The sound had been working perfectly well, moments before. But that could explain it. Feeling confused, I waited for something to happen.

Then the man spoke and my brain flipped in its pan. This was Ivan Coyote, and he was a woman.

As open-minded as I try to be, I had fallen into the trap of stereotype and expectation. I don’t think I’m the only one. We rely on generalizations, repeating patterns, and predictable colorations to help us process the world around us. Without these short cuts, we’d be staggering around in confusion and bumping into walls. The key to open-mindedness is how we react when someone throws a wrench into our coping mechanisms.

As surprised as I was, I might have exchanged raised eyebrows with my lunch partners or let my mind wander into speculation. But that’s just not possible when Ivan Coyote speaks. Ivan dresses like a truck driver. She moves like a weight lifter. She has the timing and wit of a comedian. And she has the charisma of a preacher (and I don’t mean the kind that lets you catch some extra Sunday morning Z’s). It’s impossible to not watch her when she moves and it’s impossible to not hear her when she speaks. As someone who is relentlessly ignored in large groups and has a tendency to freeze under the pressure of too many eyes, I couldn’t help but envy Ivan Coyote’s natural stage presence. I wished I had her ability to capture and hold her audience’s attention.

Ivan spoke of how, as a young person, she never imagined she might do all the things she has done. She shared something of how she attained her success, and assured us that it didn’t matter if we were too old or too young, whether we were male or female, or what the nature of our ethnic background was. Success could happen to anyone. She stood there as living proof.

I’m sorry that I can’t share the specifics of her speech—too many weeks have gone by. But one line stood out more than the rest. (I’m going to butcher it, so if anyone out there is able to correct me, please do.)  She said, “If the gay daughter of a welder from Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory can stand here [she points down at the podium], then so can you.”

It was a helluva pep talk. As her speech ended, the audience erupted in the most sincere, spontaneous, energetic, and universal standing ovation I’ve ever witnessed. And, cynic though I am, I stood too.

Posted in Authors, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments