My Take on New Moon

I’m fresh in the door, back from the celebration of the perfect male form that is New Moon (hey, I’m not complaining, just calling it what it is. I do adore the movie 300 you know). I’m not going to bother doing a full-fledged “review” of the movie, because I don’t really think it’s worth it, but I will indulge in a few thoughts.

First, I want to make a general disclaimer that I believe all of the Twilight Saga movies to be movies made for the entertainment of the fans, plain and simple. I don’t understand why people who have not read the books would even bother seeing the movies. I can imagine they would be very bored and maybe even a little confused. I get annoyed when I hear the movies criticized on the level of other movies because yeah, they do suck, but who cares? We, as fans, just want to see Edward and Bella on the big screen.

That being said, this movie did not suck! The first movie sucked. Big time. I was so angry this time last year, as I left the theater after having seen Twilight. Not only were great liberties taken in regard to plot, but the movie itself was just horrible. I haven’t read up much on it at all, so perhaps I am stating the obvious, but it was like some kind of horrible low-budget film made in somebody’s basement and backyard. Needless to say, I was so relieved to learn that a new director had been found for New Moon. It actually felt like a real movie! I can’t really articulate what I mean by that, just that it wasn’t weird and choppy and cheap.

When it’s all said and done, though, I fail to see the point of movie version of the Twilight series. Yes, as I said above, we fans do enjoy seeing the books played out onscreen, but for me it’s never completely fulfilling. What keeps me, as a woman, coming back to Twilight is Edward and the inexplicable connection Bella has to him. Edward is the man we all want, and he treats Bella the way we all want to be treated: worshipping the ground she walks on while trying with all his might to resist the urge to eat her. That’s what I call love. Anyway, Robert and Kristen, God love ‘em, just don’t do it for me. I like Rob as Edward…a lot, but I hate Kristen Stewart’s guts. She can’t act and no matter what movie she is in, she plays the same character, which I assume is herself, not Bella Swan or anybody else. Beyond that, that Edward + Bella chemistry just can’t be felt onscreen. Maybe it could by somebody, but just not these two. I didn’t really feel it in the first film, and I wasn’t feeling it in this one either. There is one scene near the very beginning of New Moon when Edward and Bella start kissing in the school parking lot and they regretfully decide they had better get their butts to class that sorta kinda had this electric chemistry vibe going on, but it was quite shortlived and never really surfaced again. If these two really have an off-screen romance then it sure does not show on-screen for me.

Best thing about New Moon? Taylor Lautner, for sure. He can act, doesn’t make awkward faces, and actually made me kind of fall in love with Jacob a little. While reading the books, I was Team Edward all the way, but Taylor’s superb performance made me rethink that a little today. Yup, his acting is what convinced me. I swear.

Hot Dead Guys: Franklin Pierce

It’s time I gave “Hail to the Chief” a hot, dead spin! Of course the natural choice for a hot, dead president would be JFK, but I’m not into that clean-cut Catholic boy look. Nah, gimme Franklin Pierce any day. This guy is hot! Let me explain.

First of all, he’s the only president from New Hampshire, so I have to give him points for that. I imagine men from New Hampshire to be rugged and manly. But I’m a Southerner at heart, so Pierce’s being labeled as a “doughface” (a Northerner with Southern sympathies) truly appeals to me. Pierce was a man of many firsts while in office: the first president to affirm the oath, rather than swear by it, placing his hand on a law book instead of the Bible (love it!), and also the first president to recite his inaugural address from memory. Pierce selected men of all different backgrounds and opinions for his cabinet, despite much criticism, yet they were able to work together. That’s my man!

One story about Franklin Pierce particularly revs me up, though. Pierce was not a fan of Abraham Lincoln, and during the Civil War he openly attacked Lincoln for suspending habeas corpus. Pierce stated that even during a time of war a country should not abandon its protection of civil liberties (I concur!).  So, on April 16, 1865, when the news of Lincoln’s assassination spread, an angry mob gathered outside of Pierce’s house demanding to know why his house was not dressed with black bunting and American flags. Pierce came outside to calm the crowd. He explained that he was saddened by Lincoln’s death. A voice then cried out, “Where is your flag?” Pierce became angry and told of his family’s long devotion to America, including his and his father’s military service. He stated that he needed no flag to show loyalty to his country. Is it getting hot in here or what? I love a man who stands up for what he believes in.

Other hot facts about Pierce include his being nicknamed “Baby” Pierce (love a man with a nickname), he was inoffensive and made friends easily, and he was an alcoholic (I like a man who will buy me a drink, but death by cirrhosis is not so hot). Philip and Peter Kunhardt wrote in The American President that Pierce was “a good man who didn’t understand his own shortcomings. He was genuinely religious, loved his wife and reshaped himself so that he could adapt to her ways and show her true affection. He was one of the most popular men in New Hampshire, polite and thoughtful, easy and good at the political game, charming and fine and handsome. However, he has been criticized as timid and unable to cope with a changing America.”

Basically, he is my husband Ryan in an earlier form. Seriously. Except the alcoholism.

If I have not yet convinced you to fall in love with Franklin Pierce, would you just look at that hair? It’s a beautiful, wavy beast of a thing.

Book Review: The Help

I feel like it’s been forever since I did a book review here at mere musings, but you can chalk that up to a busy, busy life and not having as much time to read for pleasure as I did this summer. Plus, I’ve sort of been having a difficult time figuring out what books to read. Kathryn Stockett’s The Help is one of those books I kept seeing and hearing about, but was consciously avoiding because it just did not sound interesting to me. Finally, after hearing a good review of it by a friend, I decided to pick it up. It’s a truly amazing book, and I am so glad I took the time to read it!

It is sort of a difficult book to quickly summarize, but I will do my best. In The Help, Stockett transports her reader back in time to Jackson, Mississippi during the Civil Rights Movement. The novel centers around several maids (“the help”) and the rich, upper-class women for whom they work. The narration shifts back and forth between three narrators: Aibileen – an older maid working for a the epitome of a rich, racist Southern family, Minnie – a younger maid who has a reputation for having a mouth on her and has just begun a new job working for a clueless woman who at least treats her with respect, and Miss Skeeter – a member of Jackson’s high society who has just completed college and wants to be a successful writer but is not quite sure how to make a name for herself. These three women’s lives intersect when Skeeter gets an idea to write a book about life as a maid in Jackson and begins interviewing as many black women as will go along with it – a potentially deadly move on their part. Skeeter’s life drastically changes throughout this venture, and it costs her much, but in the end Stockett’s novel is a brilliant fusion of Skeeter’s novel and Stockett’s own novel…if that makes sense.

I believe that I personally found this novel as engrossing as I did because this is simply an aspect of American life I had never pondered at all. Obviously I’m well aware that blacks worked as slaves in America for hundreds of years, but honestly I never gave a thought to people still being enslaved, in some form, as late as the 1960’s. And obviously I am familiar with the Civil Rights movement in the South, but reading this book and its personal take on the events left me with a startlingly different impression and a greater respect for people like Rosa Parks and the Freedom Riders. More than anything, The Help often left me sick and ill at ease, being blatantly confronted with the racism that was so prevalent as little as 40 years ago, and that, lest we kid ourselves, is still very prevalent today, particularly in areas in the U.S. like the one in which I reside.

At first the revolving narration threw me out of the book, but eventually I came to appreciate that it is what makes the novel so unique. By spending time with each narrator, I grew to love them each for their own particular differences, and appreciate the differences and similarities in their situations, even if there were varying factors like age and race.

I really feel like any review I attempt to write of this novel will not do it justice, so I really would urge you to go read this book for yourself! It’s a gentle yet poignant reminder of how far we have come in a short amount of time, but how far we have yet to go in terms of racism in our country. And, beyond that, it’s simply a well-written story of love and friendship, in many different forms. By the way, this is Stockett’s first novel, and that completely blows my mind! I can’t wait to see what else she has in her head ready to be put down on paper because The Help is such a jewel.

The Story of My Life

For whatever reason, I’ve never been one to have a favorite Bible verse. I’ve always been drawn to Psalm 46:10 “Be still and know that I am God,” but that’s more because it’s a constant reminder that I need moreso than that I just love it so much. However, I think that is rapidly changing. I’m about to become a favorite-verse type of person, and that verse is going to be Psalm 51:16 -17 from The Message translation:

Going through the motions doesn’t please you,

a flawless performance is nothing to you.

I learned God-worship

when my pride was shattered.

Heart-shattered lives ready for love

don’t for a moment escape God’s notice.

I am utterly in love with this verse and the way Eugene Peterson chose to write it because it literally is the story of my life and my salvation. I spent most of my high school years putting on a flawless performance of the perfect Christian student, only to have my pride shattered – and shattered is the perfect word – shortly after graduation. I spent the next year with a shattered heart, daily feeling the pain caused by those broken shards. I wrestled with God on more than one ocassion, begging and pleading to have my pride back and my heart mended like new. Eventually I came to realize that I could have all those things and so much more with God. I had never escaped His notice.

That’s the short version.

I read a Psalm a day to my students as we begin class, and yesterday Psalm 51 came up in the rotation, so I was again reminded of this verse. During 1st Period, I was reading through the chapter and these two verses sneaked up on me, taking me by surprise. It was all I could do to hold back the tears that were on the brink of flowing. I was simply overcome. As I looked beyond my Bible into the faces of those precious students in front of me, I wanted so badly to be able to communicate to them what I have learned the hard way, and what those verses mean to me.

It’s been a rough week at our school. Several students have been expelled, and several of them have been students that we were all shocked and surprised to learn had been engaging in the behavior which resulted in expulsion. It’s my hope and prayer that their pride has been shattered. The flawless performance had some flaws after all, but that’s not a reason to remain prideful, nor a reason to give up. It’s a reason to turn to the God I pray we were able to teach them about and surrender it all. Allow the shards of shattered pride to lie on the ground in a beautiful mess. And then be still and know that God will pick them up, mend the pride, and give a new life, where flawless performances are neither the norm nor are they expected. A heart-shattered life is all He needs to make us new again.

Pumpkin Cookies

I’m on a personal quest to eat as much pumpkin as I can until November 27 when I enter into full-fledged Christmas mode, so tonight I made some pumpkin cookies to satisfy my pumpkin gluttony. They were so tasty I thought I had better share the recipe. Not sure where this recipe originally came from – I received it from my Grandma.

Pumpkin Cookies

1/2 c. butter
1 c. sugar
1 c. pumpkin
1 egg
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 tsp. salt
2 c. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. cinnnamon
1 tsp. soda
1/2 c. nuts (optional)

Cream the butter and sugar together. Add pumpkin, egg, and vanilla. Sift all dry ingredients together. Add to first mixture and beat well. Add nuts, if desired. Drop by spoonful on a greased cookie sheet. Bake at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes.

I like to add a glaze to mine by mixing powdered sugar and milk until desired consistency is reached.

Enjoy!

This is Currently My New Favorite Thing

If you didn’t already know, I am a 24-year old young woman, who tries to maintain a mature, respectable persona, but yes, I am a Twilight fanatic. I am counting down the days until New Moon comes out on the big screen (twelve!) and holding my breath until I can buy my tickets. So when I saw this SNL spoof last night I was a little worried it was going to make me mad. Instead, it made me laugh, and laugh, and laugh. I can’t get enough of it!

If the YouTube won’t work, try this link http://www.slashfilm.com/2009/11/07/votd-firelight-snl-digital-short-parodies-twilight/

Dapper Is as Dapper Does

On our school’s campus we are blessed to have a thrift store where, as faculty and staff, we can get clothes for ourselves and our family for free. Ryan and I were perusing the racks and shelves the other day when he picked up a plaid scarf. He tried it on, and asked me if it looked good; I quickly eyed it and told him yes. That was that. Ryan immediately began wearing this scarf everywhere. While it did look good, it also looked a little weird. See, my dear and wonderful husband is…well…a bit of a slob (and I love him for it! most days…). He’ll pick up the first thing he can find and put it on in the morning, regardless of whether or not it needs ironing or has an inkstain. He’ll walk out the door without so much as a glance in the mirror. But in this scarf, he’s transformed. He looks quite dapper, if I do say so myself. There seems to be an extra bounce in his step, and I’ve even caught him looking in the mirror.

But wait, it gets even better. He was examining the tag on the inside of the scarf the other day and was asking me if it was any kind of name brand. I looked at it and was quite surprised to learn that it was, in fact, a name brand, and a pretty darn good one at that! The label read “Christian Dior.” Whoa. My sloppy husband is now wearing a Christian Dior scarf? It’s kind of more than I can process. I’m starting to feel like I’m sleeping with a stranger. But it’s a rather classy stranger, so I suppose I’ll take it.

Awesome, the Christian and Christian Dior

Damn they don’t make ‘em like this anymore

Hot Dead Guys: Jack Kerouac

Jack Kerouac is best known as the father of the Beat movement, and while being the founder of a ground-breaking movement gets you major hotness points in my book, he’s got more going for him than just notoriety and rugged good looks. To me, he’s kind of got that bad boy thing going on, and speaking as a good girl myself, we all secretly want the bad boy.

I was pretty much sold on the bad boy thing already, but a quick glance at his Wikipedia page gave me even more to swoon about. Kerouac often gave conflicting stories about where he came from. Hot. He was bi-lingual. Double hot. He was honorably discharged from the Navy during World War II on psychiatric grounds, being diagnosed with “schizoid personality.” Hot. He was a witness to a murder his friend committed and helped dispose of evidence. So hot.

Even if you’re not into the whole bad boy thing, he’s still totally hot. I mean, look at the fact that he wrote constantly, taking his notebook everywhere. That really revs up this English teacher, I assure you. Or take into consideration the fact that he had an influence on numerous great authors, like Hunter S. Thompson and was friends with Allen Ginsberg.

I figure Kerouac is kind of the Justin-Bobby of Lowell, Massachusetts. And if you get that reference then congrats, we can be best friends for life.

I’d go on a road trip with you, Jack. All you have to do is ask, which I suppose will be difficult from six feet under…

How I Basically Fail at Everything I Try to Do

I’m not quite sure what came over me, but about a month ago I decided I would do the 30-Day Husband Encouragement Challenge. I’ll be honest: most days I would rate myself a good wife, definitely not great, and there is most certainly room for improvement, so why not give this challenge a go? It seemed pretty seamless to me. I would receive a daily email giving me that day’s challenge, I would do it, and Ryan would think he was the luckiest man alive. I was to not say anything negative about my husband, either to him or to someone else, and I was to say something I admire about my husband, either to him and/or someone else, for 30-days. Easy enough. The best part would be that Ryan would just think I had transformed into this angelic being overnight – he would never know it was an email prompting me the entire time.

So Day One’s email arrived in my Inbox. My challenge was to thank my husband for choosing me above all other women. That sounded nice, easy, and very true. I mean I am very thankful that Ryan chose me, so why not tell him? I went for it. We were sitting on the couch one evening, both on our laptops, when out of the blue I said something along the lines of, “I just want to thank you for choosing me as your wife. It means a lot when you could have chosen anyone else, or no one at all.” We had a nice moment, and that was that.

Day Two. The challenge was to thank Ryan for some way that he serves our family. Okay…I decided to say thanks for all the things he does that I have no clue how to do, such as take care of the Jeep, change light bulbs, and empty trash (okay I can do those last two but I so totally do not). So I thanked him, he told, “You’re welcome,” and on we went…but I think he was starting to get suspicious.

I must interrupt this story to let you know that I find it seemingly impossible to keep a secret. If I know something that someone else does not, I just have to tell them or I feel like I am going to explode. So by the time Day Three’s challenge arrived in my Inbox, I had already spilled the beans to Ryan. I let the cat out of the bag and told him about the challenge. He replied, “Oh, I wondered why you were being so nice.” Strike one. I continued doing what the emails told me to do, but naturally Ryan was becoming suspicious. Every nice thing I said or did – whether the email told me to do it or not – was being scrutinized. I got a lot of, “Oh, did your email tell you to say that?” A valid question I suppose.

Strike two followed swiftly behind. Ryan and I have a way of relating to one another that is very much based on mutual teasing and harassment. It’s just what we do. But of course part of my 30-Day Husband Encouragement Challenge was to only say positive, uplifting things to my husband. So by the time Day Four rolled around and I had been making “your mom” jokes to Ryan, calling him a loserface, and threatening to kill him with a knife, I realized my ship was sinking fast. Strike two.

Strike Three came around the second week of the challenge (yes, I said second week), when I began opening the emails, skimming them, thinking about how that was a nice idea, and then swiftly deleting them without a second thought. Basically I was done. This challenge had beaten me and I was more than ready to wave my white flag and surrender.

And that is why I am a horrible wife.

But as of Saturday, Ryan has H1N1, so now is my moment to shine. I’m a regular Clara Barton these days, nursing the sick and ailing up in our guest room, bringing him everything he needs and being super nice and sweet. Take that you 30-Day Husband Encouragement Challenge. Just because I deleted your emails and verbally abused my husband doesn’t mean I am a bad wife. In the words of Kelly Clarkson, some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this.

Happy Black Poetry Day!

October 17 is Black Poetry Day, which I think is awesome. So, in celebration, I thought I would post some of my favorite poems by Black poets. The English major in me found it hard to just choose a few!

We Wear the Mask – Paul Laurence Dunbar

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

~~~

I, Too, Sing America – Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I’ll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody’ll dare

Say to me,

“Eat in the kitchen,”

Then.

Besides,

They’ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed –

I, too, am America.

~~~

Facing It – Yusef Komunyakaa

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn’t,
dammit: No tears.
I’m stone. I’m flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way–the stone lets me go.
I turn that way–I’m inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap’s white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman’s blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird’s
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet’s image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I’m a window.
He’s lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she’s brushing a boy’s hair.

~~~

The 1st – Lucille Clifton

What I remember about that day
is boxes stacked across the walk
and couch springs curling through the air
and drawers and tables balanced on the curb
and us, hollering,
leaping up and around
happy to have playground;

nothing about the emptied rooms
nothing about the emptied family