Where we come from

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

I think that people generally have two feelings about the place they grew up.

That place can become the most wonderful, idyllic place to have grown up. It is a source of perfect childhood memories. No place will ever be able to compare. People who feel this way want nothing more than to get back to where they grew up.

The other option is that the place becomes something to escape from.

For a long time, Utah has been that second type of place for me.

I moved to Utah from California when I was 10. My dad had been serving in the Navy and we had lived some amazing places. I loved my time in the high Sierras. My time in Southern California by the beach.

I resented the move to Utah. And even since then, California took on that idyllic image in my mind. I would tell everyone I was from California. I always planned on moving back there.

Even as I grew, and Utah became where I was "from" and everyone I knew was here, I still, tucked away in my mind, wanted to get away.

Hubster has had the same feelings. He spent his high school years in small-town western Montana. Utah always felt like more of the same.

We have talked for years about how nice it would be to leave, to start over, to get away.

It's funny that it takes the getting away becoming a reality for the place I grew up in to take on that childhood beauty.

I never once appreciated the mountains until I realized I would be leaving them.

The Handmaid's Tale

Monday, April 27, 2009

I guess it's time for another confession.

I love me a good dystopian novel. Being a rather optimistic and cheerful person, this usually surprises people.

Maybe they cater to my sarcastic side. Maybe they are a way to cope with all the gloom-and-doom-end-of-the-earth possibilities my dad fretted over at the dinner table. After all, at least nothing could be as bad as what happened in the books I was reading, so what did I have to worry about?

1984, Brave New World, The Giver, Fahrenheit 451 (to name a few) are among some of my favorite books.

A surprising number of dystopian novels are assigned reading during high school. Maybe this is where I get my love of them. They felt like some of the first grown-up books I read.

So, after reading the back of The Handmaid's Tale, I was surprised that 1) I hadn't read it earlier and 2) I hadn't even heard of it during high school (which, it turns out is a good thing. This is NOT a book a high schooler should crack open.)


After reading this book, I feel like it is a book I'm expected to hate. With all its descriptive language, demoralizing situations, and almost dismissal of the concept of ingrained humanity and dignity, I feel that few people I know would enjoy the book. Most would probably not even finish it.

So, even though I "should" hate it, I don't.

Margaret Atwood's sparse and austere story follows a woman through the overthrow of the United States and the implementation of a militant theocracy.

It is a time where the oceans and air are toxic from pollution, nuclear energy has gone awry, women are over-zealous on birth-control and abortion. All these factors have lead to a precipitous drop in the birth rate. Healthy infants become the most prized commodity.

The main character, found to be one of the few women healthy and uncontaminated enough to still bare children, is stripped of her relationships, her dreams, her right to read, even her name, to be farmed out to high-ranking families, in hopes that she will conceive and bare that family a baby.

Marginalized, but highly valued, the Handmaids only role in society is to be shipped from infertile couple to infertile couple in order to "replenish the earth."

The new government spends a lot of time talking about how modern society had taken away everything of value to women. They no longer felt child-bearing was important. They no longer viewed their bodies as sacred, subjecting them to surgery and vulgar fashions. Relationships no longer had any meaning, as both men and women jumped from relationship to relationship.

But, like all great dystopian novels, that is where the great irony lays. Through helping women "fulfill their greatest potential," the women are stripped of identity and worth. Sex loses all of its intimacy and meaning, and becomes purely a commodity, a business transaction.

Although this is the prevelant theme throughout Atwood's book, I was just as intrigued by her commentary about other social issues. Accused on only being "man-hating propaganda" I felt that the arguments were infinitely beyond the supression of women.

The new government touts itself as a more holy, pure religion. This new belief system is forced upon each individual. Conform, or die. It is the eptimoe of religion without spirituality. Prayers are called in, not said, not felt.

What matters more? Freedom to, or freedom from. The argument in the novel is that in order to guarentee freedome from, any freedom to must be restricted or eliminated.

The nameless main character glides through all these morality issues, nearly too numb from her own losses to react. Mostly, she can only observe.

I desperately wanted her to find her happy ending. To find her daughter that had been stripped from her. To once again feel a connection to another person.

But, once again, like all great dystopian novels, the Handmaid's Tale givens no answers.

Another Playoff, Another Headache

Thursday, April 23, 2009

So, you may or may not know (and based on who is most likely to be reading this, I'm going with not knowing) that the NBA playoffs are going on right now. (As in basketball, for those who are already lost.)

Years ago, I probably would have been in a similar state of oblivion. Sports were just not part of my life until I met Hubster.

Actually, let me revise that. Sports were not part of my life until I married Hubster.

Because for the couple years we dated, we never watched sports together. We did go to one basketball game with my dad and brothers, but that was it. Never once watched a single game on television, never talked about draft possibilities, never talked trades.

I knew that Hubster loved sports. But I didn't quite understand until we got married. And football season came.

There were moments when I thought, who is this crazy, screaming, foul-mouthed, couch-slapping, jumping fanatic I've married? Sports turn my normally mild-mannered, soft-spoken, laid-back Dr. Jekyll into a screaming, name-calling Mr. Hyde.

Our living room, no, the whole house, is filled with "Worthless!!" "Overpaid slackers!!!" "Suck wads." "Sorry excuse of a point guard!" (Oh, I failed to mention that most appearances of maturity go out the window as well.)

And playoffs are the worst.

Because everyone gets their hopes up, even though they know that their team has no hope of getting beyond the first round. But playing a team much better than yours is apparently no excuse for losing.

Hubster's NBA team is the Jazz. For obvious geographical reasons. And in this season's playoffs, the Jazz are playing the LA Lakers. And one thing that you should know about Jazz fans. They hate the Lakers.


Don't get me wrong. I love the NBA playoffs. I love that the Jazz are in the playoffs so that I can cheer them on, and hope for the upset. Although I do it without the screaming, couch-hitting, name-calling, and jumping.

I've gotten used to Hubster's game-day rants. In fact, I've come to find it somewhat enduring. That he actually has a venue to act like that is wonderful. (Unlike me, who thinks pretty much occasion is okay to act in an overly emotional way.) And I don't take it personally anymore.

And although I hope the Jazz do well, I really just appreciate it when it's all over.

Not in my job description

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Last week, I wrote that Hubster and I did everything equally. That we shared all tasks, and willingly made up the slack when the other was stressed out of their mind and unable to function (which we take turns at about every other week.)

Well, I lied.

There are things that I simply will NOT do.

And I'm not talking about cleaning up puke, defusing exploding diapers, or cleaning up "what on EARTH is that?!!" stuff on the floor.

We both do that.

What I'm talking about it much worse.

I DO NOT smell suspicious food in the refrigerator.

Is that milk still good? I don't know, you smell it.

How long has this casserole been in here? I don't know, you take the lid off the tubberware container and look at the stuff.

Do we have any tomatoes? I don't know, you go digging around in the back of the produce drawer and tell me if everything is still recognizable.

I just can't bring myself to do it. I have puked into the kitchen sink after opening a three-day-old bottle. I'm pretty sure that smelling a may-or-may-not-be-expired gallon of milk, and then tasting it just to be sure, and having either one of those prove that, yes, indeed, the milk is bad, would ruin my ability to cook for at least a week.

And that would be bad. Because cooking is the one thing that Hubster does NOT do.

(Oh, and I don't kill spiders.)

Because it's Monday

Monday, April 20, 2009

Or it was.

And Monday is as good as anytime to start something new.

I was going to post this earlier. But a incredibly grumpy pair of boys and an incredibly invigorating round of Wii Fit have delayed me until right now.

I've been thinking about how to incorporate quotes into my blog. Because I love them. I avidly collect them. Anytime I come across on that I love, I must write it down. Books I'm reading, billboards, plaques at museums, commercials, the internet. The source doesn't matter. I scribble them down either in the notebook I always carry around with me. Or an scraps of paper in my purse. On on the back of envelopes on my desk. They are tacked up in random spots around my house.

So, if I haven't made it clear...I LOVE quotes.

I thought about doing something on my sidebar, but when I would change the quote, the previous would just get lost in the internet void.

So, I've done some posts with quotes in them (Which also allowed me to give my opinion about the quote and the person who said it. Because I do like to give my opinion.) But those posts just get lost in the archives, so really, it was no better. And there are so many other things that I would rather write about than quotes. I just really want to share my favorite ones with you.

So, I'm going to do a weekly quote. On my sidebar. (First, because daily is too frequently, and monthly is way too spread out, and secondly, because it is just easier there.)

So, tell me what you think of my weekly quotes. Sometimes silly, sometimes serious, sometimes famous, sometimes obscure.

And if you know any good ones, send them my direction. I'm sure I can find a blank piece of wall to hang them up on.

Wuthering Heights

Sunday, April 19, 2009

I'm sure that most people read this book sooner in their lives than I did. But the occasion just never came up. Unlike most of Austen's books, I wasn't surrounded by people who had read and loved this novel.

The only person who has told me anything about the book was my mom. And she HATED it! Which didn't motivate me to run out and read it.

But after some thought, I decided I really should. After all, it is a classic. And can I really call myself of lover of classical British literature without reading Wuthering Heights?


My first thought about the book was the odd voice that the story is told through. Not first person, not third person. It is not told by one of the main characters. But rather it is told as a story, the housekeeper/nanny related the going-ons of Wuthering Heights to an individual who is new to the area. The entire story is slanted by the housekeepers personal feelings towards the characters, and thus it was difficult to develop my own opinions of the different people.

Heathcliff should be the villan that all villans are compared to. He is the standard of all villans. Bitter because of his childhood friend, Catherine, bestowed her love on someone else, he sets out to destroy the happiness of everyone related to her and her new family. He sets out by financially ruining Catherine's brother, but does not stop there. He manipulates everyone until he has complete physical and emotional control over everyone around him.

The dispair that he brings with him is tangible in every page of Emily Bronte's story. The oppressive presence of Heathcliff is unsurpassed by any book I have ever read.

Nearly done with the book, I felt that there was no way for the story to end happily. Nearly everyone had died, many purely because of the lack of a nurturing hand and the hope of joy. The "heroine" had also come under Heathcliff's powers and slowly I watched her change into a bitter, detached individual instead of the vivrant, caring girl she was.

But happiness came, just as it always should. It came for the heroine and her love. But it never comes for Heathcliff, despite his desperation for it. He never feels the peace and serentiy that love can brings. Even to the end, everything was extreme, desperate, and wild for Heathcliff.

Most literary villans have their redeeming quality. But Heathcliff had none. He could have used his love of Catherine as a redeeming quality. But he never did. He treated his own feeling of love as a weakness, as a reason for revenge.

For the other characters, it was their love that became their redeeming quality. How they used it to be long-suffering, self-less, forgiving, and sacrificing. And in the end, peace came to them.

In the end, it is not what we have, but what we do with it that determines what we are. And no where is there a more powerful allegory of this than Wuthering Heights.

About Time

Saturday, April 18, 2009

After a few more snow storms, I'm beginning to think that finally, finally, spring is on its way.

I spent the day strolling through gardens with my family.

Enjoy some glimpses of spring.