The Cusp of a Miracle

My son, Owen, is right on the cusp of learning how to read. He knows all of his letter sounds, and is starting to blend together sounds and context clues. As I watch him, piecing together language like a weaver selects her fibers, it's hard for me to contain my excitement.

I know what it all means. I know that his world is about to become much grander. Soon, very soon, he will walk into the pages of a book. If he is lucky, and it is the right book, he will walk out changed.

It's a miracle.

***
I just finished Freedom by Jonathan Franzen. My friend had recommend the book, saying that when she read the final lines, she sat there, feeling such gratitude for this author, such incredible thankfulness that he brought this world to her fingertips.

I immediately put the book on hold at the library. And indeed, when I read it, the book changed me. It made me want to be a better person. It want to smell my sons' hair, and take walks with my husband.

After reading this book, I put the reusable bags by my front seat, so I would use them when I shopped---no more excuses! I bought a thermos so I would stop wasting so many paper cups at Starbucks. I ate carrots at lunch instead of leftover Mac and Cheese.

Dudes--this book made me consider birdwatching.

If that is not a miracle, I don't know what is.

***
I dream of reading books with my boys someday. They are different than the books I imagined reading with my fictional daughters. I don't expect my sons to get all that excited about Anne of Green Gables.

But I do expect that they will be moved by the gorgeous fatherhood of Atticus Finch. I know they will grow up with Harry Potter. I hope they also love The Westing Game, and laugh with the Wimpy Kid.

I'll even tolerate Tolkien if gets them to worship the holy alchemy of paper and thought.

I hope that someday, when they are mired in adolescence, and I am hopelessly uncool, that we can still talk about books. I hope that the words of authors can still bridge those gaps, and momentarily, at least, make us both human.

***
We aren't there yet, but we will be soon. Today, I sat with my son and turned the pages, encouraging him to sight-read a few words from one of those "my first" books.

As I watched Owen sound out "Ha-p-py" and then cry out, "HAPPY!" joyous in his discovery, I want to yell it right back.

"He is READING! And I. AM. HAPPY!"

After all, how often do you discover the entire world?

Rich White Girl Problems

On Friday afternoon, I was on the computer, doing what I do--dipping into your stories, commenting, mulling over my own daily overshare. The normal stuff.

And then. rather suddenly,  I lost my "w." It plumb popped off my keyboard, and despite my best efforts, the key was worthless.

I soldiered on, figuring that there were plenty of synonyms out there. I could substitute. I could be creative. It was just a mental challenge, courtesy of Dell and The Universe. No biggie.

Five minutes in, I realized that I use the word "awesome" a lot. Like, all the time. I also say "wonderful" with surprising frequency. I was lost without my "w," a consonant I had never before considered important. More important than "x" perhaps, but certainly not the game-changer of letters.

I hit my Waterloo when Salt asked a general question about our Blog Titles/Names. I simply could not discuss the meaning behind "Away We Go," because I couldn't write it. HORRORS! (By the way, it's a statement on how life goes in random directions. You can either fight the tide or just smile, release, and say, "Away We Go!"

So, yes, this was quite the serious problem. I told Paul we needed a new computer immediately---we could always harvest from our Money Shrubbery, after all. 

He gently suggested an alternative. Ten dollars later, we have this workable, if not elegant solution:

In other Rich White Girl Problems, I was standing in my bathroom yesterday, and found myself thinking, "If I just lost a little more weight, the bones in my chest would stick out."

What's that all about?

I know this isn't attractive. This is too thin and it is sickly and dangerous. I know the pernicious nature of eating disorders.

And yet, the thought was there. It came from somewhere.

I thought about it again after reading Frank Bruni's Born Round, an engaging memoir about his rocky relationship with food. He commented he and his sister struggled with weight much more than his two brothers. He suggested that this preoccupation might have been connected to the fact that he and his sister are both attracted to men.

I thought that was really interesting. I wonder if lesbian women have less body issues? Does it go away because the male ideal is out of the picture?

Is our society still that patriarchal? Or do women do this to each other?

Or is this just one guy's opinion?

For my final rich white girl problem, let me share this: my red highlights are fading way too fast because I've been swimming in my friend's swimming pools.

Life is a struggle, indeed.

Freakin' Fabulous

 I recently acquired this bitchy little book from the public library:

It taught me quite a bit. Mainly, that I am not fabulous. Not even a little bit. 

Some selected quotes:

"From the ankles up, you could be dressed like Coco Chanel, but with any of these [unsuitable pictured shoes] on your feet, your style quotient will never be higher than that of the guy who runs the Tilt-A-Whirl...comfort doesn't matter." 

My non-fabulous response:

"Plopping a bunch of disparately designed products on your countertops is like wearing those free T-shirts companies give away when launching new motor oil." 

WHUT? 

"I believe refrigerators are for keeping Sauvignon Blanc chilled to 38 degrees, not for displaying children's art. Put a corkboard up in Johnny's room and pin his works where he can enjoy them." 

So...no homemade, indoor windsock then?

"And toys. How many parents have their fabulousness quotient disastrously diminished due to their entire dwelling being under Barbie siege?" 

 Oh, dear. We certainly aren't very fabulous. 

I don't even want to know what he thinks of our paper blinds:

Before I drink away my sorrows with a decidedly non-fabulous Subtle Melon Electrolyte Drink, let me point out this one detail:

Because I checked this book out of the library, Clinton Kelly didn't get a single red cent from me, 

That, my friends, is fabulous indeed.

Uncharted Waters

Joel is a bit under the weather. A mother waiting with me at preschool said, "He's not his normal self," meaning that he was not attempting to topple the life-size statue of Mary or tear apart the "Choose Life" poster by the front door.

These antics, as far as I know, do not reflect my son's views about  abortion. We're tabling those discussions until he's at least---at least---eighteen months old. You know, when he's old enough to understand nuance. We also plan to bring up the concept of transubstantiation, discuss health care reform, and form opinions about stem cell research. After all, that's what babies like---food, toys, soiling themselves, and intense intellectual debate about touchy political topics. Am I right?

Anyway. Joel was under the weather and we were all Old Mother Hubbard after five days away from home. I decided to forgo storytime with Joel and instead took him grocery shopping. And, while it pains me deeply to say it, I must.... both of us had so much more fun. We laughed, explored, laughed some more, and didn't miss the reading of Goodnight Moon or the rousing rendition of "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" one bit.

Joel is a man of action. He doesn't like to read. 

Writing these words is a bit like boiling my eyes in battery acid.

I'm a reader. My mom and dad  read. My extended family reads. My brother reads. My in-laws read. My brother and sister in-law read. My nephew reads. Paul reads. And Owen, bless his heart. loves to read. LOVES IT.

As I write this, Owen is upstairs with his Richard Scarrey books, and he's reading to himself: "Oh, Able Baker Charlie is putting yeast in the dough! Too much yeast! Look at the big bread! It's so big, Able Baker Charlie! Yum, Yum, Yum! Eat it all up!"

The other night, before I kissed him goodnight, he said, "I want my teacher to show me how to read the crickets." By "crickets,"he meant words. He calls them crickets because he always wants to watch the credits of his Curious George cartoons. Hence: "I'll turn it off after the crickets."

Owen and I return home from our weekly library visits and tear the new books open like Christmas presents. We can sit next to each other on the couch, both lost in the pages.

Now, Joel...not so much. He never really loved books. He likes them more now that he has his glasses, but they are still low on his priority list. Give him a chair to climb or toilet paper to unroll anyday.

We try. Believe me, we try. He'll hand us a book and our hearts will soar. But, half a page in, he's already moved on to the next thing.

"He's just a baby," people say. 'What do you expect?"

Owen and I would read for forty minute stretches when he was Joel's age. That's what I expect.

I fear that this comes across like Owen is great and Joel is not. That's not my intent. I can just as easily say that I love Joel's fearlessness. My Owen would NEVER go down a slide, face first when he was Joel's age. Owen was shyer, more subdued, a different kind of charmer. My Joel---though---nothing will hold him back. He's the dancer, the flirt, the devil-may-care playboy. He's Tony Hawk mixed with Lance Armstrong---tough as nails, reckless and beautiful.

I will continue to take him to the library, even though we had a lot of fun at the store, because storytime is a good thing, and I want him to have educational opportunities.

And yet---if it doesn't work, I'll try something else. I'm learning, in my own bone-headed way that children really are, duh, in fact different.

Joel, in many regards, is uncharted waters. I'll need to throw away my old map, and chart the new worlds discovered with him.

Our Foot's in the Door

We have a tree in our front side yard. More accurately, we used to have a tree in that front yard, until Paul paid one of the neighbor kids to chop it down. So really, we now have a stump.

This stump has succumbed to nature's chilly hand and has become overrun with mushrooms. It's feral, it's relentless, and it chills me to the core.

Whenever I look at it, I recall the lines of Sylvia Plath. I'm an English major, so I'm occasionally allowed to do such things. She writes in the voice of mushrooms,

"Nudgers and shovers/ In spite of ourselves/Our kind multiplies:/ We shall by morning/ Inherit the earth./ Our foot's in the door."

In other words: I need to watch my back, because someday, somehow, this stump will kill me in my sleep.

Occasionally, I will venture over and gingerly kick the mushrooms. They, devoted to cause, do not budge. Then, of course, I think about how my shoe is now infected with the mushrooms'...venom.  A picture pops in my mind of dear little Joely, who loves more than almost anything...to eat shoes. I retreat from the mushrooms with a small yelp, and boil my shoes, giving them the full Silkwood-style scrubbing. Such is the power of fungus.


Owen and I go on mushroom hunts in the back yard. I don't let him touch the mushrooms with his hands, but he is allowed to poke them with sticks, and stomp them to small bits (I later boil his shoes). I tell Owen that mushrooms are nature's acne, and they must be stopped. "Okay, Mommy," he responds, as his eyes scan the yard for more mushrooms to poke and obliterate.

My friend and I were discussing the book/film Into the Wild a few months back. My friend described it like this, "This rich kid from Bethesda had parents that fought a lot and got divorced. Boo-hoo. Rather than suck it up like the rest of us, he burnt his money and eventually lived in a bus in the middle of Alaska. What a dumbass." My friend comes from the "tough-love" school of thought.

Anyway, the guy in the movie/book managed to survive Arctic chill, grizzly bears, and all sorts of other things only to be killed by...wait for it...poisonous mushrooms. Bastards! Mushrooms are not, contrary to the cheesy joke, "fun-guys." Mushrooms are the street kids of the natural world. They'll cut a bitch and laugh while doing it.

You can imagine the confusion in Owen's world when we place nature's acne on our pizza or eat them in our salad. I'm cool with those mushrooms.

But, make no mistake. I'm cool with nature as long as it isn't creepy and unspeakably evil. Mushrooms are both.  I would tell the stump that its days are numbered, but I'm too terrified to touch it, and Paul, of course, thinks this is all totally hysterical.

In the meantime, the stump and its mushroom minions sits. Plotting. Preparing. Waiting for the perfect moment. Their foot is in the door. 

***
And, oh, if this isn't disturbing enough, check out this video from my friend Josh. It further displays the evils of fungus.

Book Nests

My mother loves digging out this old chestnut: "When you were a little girl, you would ask me: 'How many book trip is this?' when we would run errands."

Mom tells this story because it confirms that I am a genius. That is, the kind of genius that took geometry several times and failed her learner's permit test. That kind.

I know I'm not a genius, but my mom's memory is true: I devoured books as a child. I would bring a stack of books when we would run errands, and happily read the tedium away. I always begged my mother to let me sit in the car while she made her purchases, but she never allowed it. For some reason, she didn't want to be the mother that cooked her daughter in the Safeway parking lot. With the Arizona summer temperatures soaring around 110 most days, this was a very real possibility.

I don't remember much about my early toddler years, but I do remember the moment when the letters became words and meaning. It was as if I had finally untangled a stubborn knot. While my mother was driving on the freeway, I loved to read the exit stops: "Greenway, Deer Valley Road, Thunderbird." My parents would clap and smile, and I felt so very capable and big.

One errand that I never resented was the weekly trip to the library. My mom, brother, and I would come in with our tote bags and library cards, and escape into the welcoming hug of the library. We would wander without any time restraint or purpose, selecting new friends and taking them home for the week. I remember loving the "Mr." books--as in Mr. Tickle, Mr. Happy, Mr. Silly. Something about those simple cartoons and stories made me smile.

My brother loved Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. He read it so often, in a variety of locations, that it became as tattered and worn as a beloved security blanket. My mother asked the librarian if she could buy a new one, and the librarian smiled and said, "A book this loved deserves to stay with Tommy. Take it." I can't imagine, in a world of computer cataloging, that such kindness could happen today.

The librarians knew us as "Nancy" and "Tommy," and we knew their names as well. We carried our bulging bags to check-out, said our goodbyes, and left the library like you leave the home of a relative--with no great sadness, because we knew that we would be back, and we would always be welcome.

This is why it brings me so much joy to take Owen and Joel to our library. Owen is like Norm from Cheers. Everybody, indeed, knows his name. We'll walk up to the counter, and Miss Barbara will ask me when I'm headed back to story time, while Miss Cynthia tickles Joel under the chin. Another librarian, Miss Wears Gloves All the Time, cried out today, "Is that OWEN?" the way others would cry out, "Is that Elvis?" She immediately showered him with stickers and bookmarks, while Owen took it all in stride. After all, this happens every week.

I'll make my selections, and then we'll get to press the magic buttons and ascend the magic elevator to the magic children's section on the second floor. There, I'll release both of the boys to the toddler section, complete with the life-sized sailboat and the the magic cube of wonder and awesomeness. Did I mention that magic is involved?

Today, Joel was not having the best of days. He was reacting to his vaccinations on Tuesday, and was clingy and whiny. I have bones that are more flexible than this child. He grumped his way through the morning with nary a smile or giggle. That is, until we got to the library. Then, all bets were off.

He ran, in his drunken-toddler fashion to the cube, and tackled it with alarming gusto. He laughed out loud and attempted to remove the hair from an unsuspecting toddler. He spun in circles until he collapsed into a heap. Vaccinations? What vaccinations?

Owen, meanwhile, was amassing all of the bean bags and soft pillows to make a nest by a glass wall, where he read books to himself. As the boys did their thing, I browsed the books, looking for new treasures to share with them, when we made our own book nests at home, later in the day.

Like National Parks, libraries are such giving institutions. You get knowledge, pleasure, relaxation, friendship, and community all under one roof. Your only expectation is to be kind to the books, leaving only footprints, and taking only pictures.

I choose to believe that all of my tax dollars fund National Parks, libraries, and medical research. After all, I'm a genius; I'm always right.

Dear Friends

The BBC came out with a list of 100 book titles and presumptively suggested that most of the great unwashed have only read SIX of these 100 titles. Becuz were so stupidz.

Well, BBC, I read 42 titles. Take that. Yes, I just zig-zag snapped in your face. Umm-hmmm.

I'm now inspired to share with you a few of the titles that made me smile. Captivating books that I absorbed, loved, and almost regretted finishing, because it was so hard to say goodbye to these dear friends.

Catch 22 - Joseph Heller - Never before did I have to work so hard to understand a book. I think this book, along with the writings of Chaucer and Shakespeare, built my sense of self-efficacy. I realized that I could read challenging things.


The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini - Yes, it has moments that are melodramatic. Yes, it was book-clubbed nearly to death. Yet, it is worthy. When writers write, they do more than express themselves. Hopefully, they turn stereotypes into breathing, living people. People that you care about. The world needs all sorts of shades---especially more shades of gray. So, thank you, Khaled Hosseini.


Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden -I remember reading this book on my honeymoon. (Yes, I know. I shouldn't have brought books to my honeymoon, but we drove from AZ to Northern California. It was necessary.)

We were zipping down the Pacific Coast Highway, and while the book was good, the view was better. I put the book down and saw a black, shiny...something. We pulled over to see an elephant seal emerge from the salty spray and flop itself onto shore. It was gorgeous in its lumpy awkwardness. We walked closer, and along the way met a marine biologist, who took the time to lead us to another cove. There, we saw a gathering of elephant seals, probably fifty or more of them. They trumpeted, waddled, and sparred just inches from our delighted faces.

Memoirs of a Geisha was a good book---I finished it later. But what makes it a dear friend is that I was reading it at the start of a new marriage, in a beautiful place, where serendipity lurked everywhere.


The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightime - Mark Haddon -I remember this book being very British, with references to Wellies and The Tube and, even, I think Robbie Williams. (I may be confusing the British stuff with another excellent author, Nick Hornsby. If I am--apologies.) The narrator was a young boy with some kind of Autism-Related Spectrum issue (It's never named or officially diagnosed). I imagine it was a challenge to write respectfully and authentically from this perspective (the author does not have autism), and I marvel at Haddon's sensitivity and craft.

And finally, A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole.--I loaned this book to a Spanish teacher friend of mine several years back. In retrospect, I'm not sure what a highly conservative Mormon woman made of Ignatius Reilly, the book's perverse, pompous and slothful anti-hero. Set in New Orleans, this book is brilliant. Go buy a copy. And then loan it to me. You see, the Spanish teacher never returned the book, but instead gave me a Book of Mormon.

Not a fair trade.

If you're interested in seeing the BBC's entire list, drop me a line. We'll do a book-off. It's like a walk-off or a dance-off, except much, much less exciting.

Dream Houses

Hi, I'm Nancy.

(Or at least a gummy-smiled, bright-flashed version of myself). You're probably wondering what I'm so happy about. Keep reading.

My day has not gone like I expected. I planned to go to the gym and get a run in.
(See? The infamous running/stripper skirt.) Due to Joel's extra-long nap, that didn't happen. Instead, I was climbing the walls with this guy:



He was bored, and wanted to veg, veg, veg in front of the idiot box. For awhile, I let him, especially when my friend came over with Starbucks. (You see, I had left my purse at her house last night when I was over for Easter Dinner). After awhile, though, I could not let such sloth continue.

So, this happened:

Let me explain. I have been reading a series of books about Frank Lloyd Wright. The first is by T.C. Boyle, and it's called, The Women. It discusses all four of the famous architect's wives/mistresses. I learned that Mr. Wright had a taste for crazy, and he also had some terrible things happen to him. (A murder spree at Taliesin? I had no idea. Tragic.) I'm now reading another book called, Loving Frank, which focuses on just Mamah Borthwick, Wright's mistress/second "wife." Again, interesting stuff.

My point? I've been thinking about architecture, which made me think of three things:
1) My desire to see the prairie houses of Chicago's Oak Park neighborhood next time I'm there seeing my assorted family members.
2) My desire to see Taliesin the next time we're traveling through Madison, Wisconsin to
visit Paul's assorted relatives.
3) And finally, the Coolest Math Assignment Ever.

When I taught in AZ, my friend the math teacher, and my other friend (Hi Brian!) the gifted consultant teamed up to teach area and other mathematical concepts through a "dream house" unit. The students used math to create their future dream houses out of found materials. This being Tucson, many of the houses were Southwestern in decor, had flat roofs and were almost always one story.

Anyway, Owen was bored and I was going to make him have healthy, non-electronic fun, dammit. I got the recyclables out of the laundry room and told him that he and I were going to build a dream house. (See how this is all coming together? Reading about Frank Lloyd Wright+ Memories of Dream Houses+ Desperation=Forced Fun for Owen!)

Behold, Owen's castle/machine. The baby food containers suck the water into the house. The water bottle facing out sideways is the drain. The yogurt containers are the chimney. The milk container is to scare away the giants, naturally. And the wine bottle? That's "for Mommy and Daddy."

I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with Owen's comfort with wine. That might be another meeting, I mean, posting.
It looks like Owen enjoyed this little activity. I mean, look at that bright-flashed, slightly gummy smile!

Perhaps I have a future Frank Lloyd Wright on my hands. Or a plumber.

Literary Autobiography, Part I

People who know me know that I am a reader. I'll read almost anything---cookbooks, "chick-lit," classics, memoir, non-fiction. A lot of what I read goes in one ear and out the other. It's like eating a salad for lunch---good at the time, but I'm hungry two hours later.

Luckily, there have been books that satisfy, that sate the appetite like a four-course meal. These are the books I push on others with an urgency..."You must read this book." I think these books were placed in my hands at just the right time for just the right reasons. A literary perfect storm, if you will (not to mix my metaphors or anything...)

Anne of Green Gables, hit my world in seventh grade. I can't imagine why an awkward, bookish, smart heroine would appeal to me! Anne Shirley was my "kindred spirit" when I was twelve and I felt like a stranger in my own skin. Someday, I'll travel to Prince Edward Island and fight all the Japanese tourists to see the land described so beautifully in the books.

Oh, and the name "Nancy" is a derivative of "Anne." See, I knew we were kindred spirits!

To Kill A Mockingbird, thankfully, was a book that I discovered on my own, instead of in the classroom. I read it the summer of my junior year. I was never forced to deconstruct it or analyze the characters. I could just sink into the world of Atticus, Boo Radley, Scout, and Dill on my own terms. The last line of the book, "[Atticus] would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning” is hopeful to me. Although the world is spinning and nothing is as safe and easy as it once was, Jem could depend on his father to be there, to be present. Likewise, this book reaffirmed the power of my own dad to be there, to be present---right when I needed it the most, that is, right before I began the process of applying to colleges.

Paul said, "No son of ours will be named Atticus." So, I declare it here that the next Campbell dog will be Atticus.

A Prayer for Owen Meany was a book selected by a teacher-friend of mine for a student book club. This book is one of the few that makes me cry. Although John Irving wastes a lot of print rambling on about the Iran-Contra Affair, the rest of the book is transcendent. I was floating around with my faith at this point in my life, and this book reminded me that God has a plan, and it unravels in ways we could never suspect.

Yes, Owen Campbell is named after Owen Meany.

Romeo and Juliet humbles me. I was lucky enough to teach this play to seventh graders for several years. The story can be silly, but the poetry is sublime. The sonnet between Romeo and Juliet when they meet and kiss for the first time gives me chills. Just listen to this:

If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do
They pray — grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.

In one beautiful sonnet, Shakespeare shows how smart Juliet can be---she basically manipulates Romeo into kissing her. She's so clever---and the fact that Shakespeare wrote such compelling female characters in the Elizabethan era is astonishing. This is the same time that people were dealing with the plague. The plague, people! I mean, really.

If Owen was a girl, we would have named him Julia (because Juliet is a bit much to carry around every day). See a trend here?

One more, and then I'll pick up this idea another day:

Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott (another Anne!) is a book about writing. I encountered it when I did the Southern Arizona Writing Project (a graduate class on writing and the teaching of writing) in 2000. She tells a story about her younger brother, who was struggling to write a report about birds. He was getting wound up about the enormity of the project. She describes how her father sat down next to her brother and said, "Just do it bird by bird, buddy." Eventually, he got it done.

This has stayed with me. When I get too caught up in my lists and to-dos, I find myself thinking, "Just do it bird by bird. It will get done." I can't say that this magically calms me down, but it's a good mantra to repeat. Someday it might stick.

And no, nobody in our household will be named "Bird." That is, unless we get a bird. Which isn't going to happen.

To be continued another time...

Puritanical Perfection

Christmas has come early for me, thanks to a trip to the library. I special ordered a book by Sarah Vowell called The Wordy Shipmates. It is, to quote the jacket, an "exploration of the Puritans and their journey to America to become the people of John Winthrop's 'city upon a hill.'"

Yes, this is what gets my pulse racing.

I wish I was kidding, but I did a little squeal in the library when I saw the book, and snuck peaks at it at every red light between Prince Frederick and home. I love the feeling of having a book that you know will be good right there in your hands. The bad part about having such a good book is that you resent all the people and responsibilities in your life that keep you from your book. Owen's desire to "drive" a packing box around the kitchen, Joel's desire to be fed and changed, Paul's desire to talk to his wife....it's just so inconsiderate. All I want to do is Sit. On. The. Couch. And. Read. And maybe drink a soda.

Now, in my defense, Sarah Vowell is a pretty cool writer---this isn't just dry history. It's a unique mixture of history and social commentary. And....Sarah Vowell was the voice of Violet in The Incredibles. That's pretty cool.

So, enough foreplay. It's time to stop writing so I can crack the book open, and let the world disappear for awhile.