Light Refreshments Served

Tawnya writes a thoughtful and thought-provoking blog full of opinions (but NOT to a fault) and ideas about writing, music, fashion and politics (and adorable pics of her adorable little one). We’re pleased to share her with you this windy, busy Friday.

More about Tawnya in her own words:

I am a freelance writer from Utah. Well, from, by way of New Mexico, Idaho, Oregon and California. Wife of one (Isaac, an eye doctor), mother of an only (Sammy, 2), I am the rarest of rare in the Church: raising an only child and a registered Democrat and opinionated to a fault. I have a B.A. in Journalism and Public Relations and a Master’s in PoliSci is the most recent goal to shoot towards. I’m not crafty or clever, but I am a mean bargain shopper! Reading, TV, and Pringles usually round out my day.

A Reel Life

When I was little, it wasn’t so much about influence as entertainment.  I watched Condorman and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes in the theater, but I certainly didn’t come away with any lasting life changes from the viewings.  Well, except a litany of family jokes, but that’s not the point.  Other movies may be in the recesses of my mind, but none particularly stick out.  A lot of standard Disney fare for a child of the 70’s and 80’s, but nothing influential.

As I grew, I moved toward romantic media.  I was a complete romantic at age 14.  Since movies were a rare treat in my adolescence, I read everything I could get my hands on and had an overactive imagination.  I wanted Sidney Carton to come and profess undying love to me.  I watched romance unfold and somehow that made me feel better about being bookish and unpopular and helped fritter away the time until college.

Once I got to college I started taking movies more seriously.  Dates, outings to get my mind off school as well as social commentary; movies started taking on more meaning for me.  It still can’t watch Strictly Ballroom without thinking of my sophomore year.  Or 8 Seconds without thinking of the boys I hung around.  I remember watching The Three Musketeers with my roommates and friends one afternoon and feeling decadent that I was splurging on a dollar movie.  I have only ever walked out on one movie in my life and that was at the same theater later that same year.

I’m not sure why, but certain movies speak to me and help me, as a writer, be creative in ways I couldn’t get anywhere else.  Sometimes a film sparks me to writing immediately.  Other times it stays with me and the feelings I had while watching cause scenes from my stories to play out over months or years until I can commit it to paper in just the right way.  I watch Possession and immediately feel the need to research more into the life of Henry VIII and work it into a modern short story.  I watch Under the Tuscan Sun and the slow build of personal narratives haunt my brain for months.  Sticky notes of ideas follow from watching Reality Bites, The Whole Wide World, The Philadelphia Story, The Truman Show and Sliding Doors.

However, in my life, movies aren’t always about the creative process.  Sometimes memories will attach themselves to films, for better or worse.

Our first date (was it our first?  I can’t remember…) was amazing.  He made me crepes and we watched The Odd Couple.  We had a love of old movies and spent a good portion of the next three years held up somewhere watching old movies.  Every weekend we would rent a stack, grab a container of Chips Ahoy and love the days spent without a care in the world.  I fully developed my love of Myrna Loy and William Powell during those years.  Since the divorce, however, I have a hard time watching the movies we both loved.  A few have escaped and are still on neutral territory, but anytime I see a clip or sound bite from The Odd Couple, I can’t help but think of our first date, how he called me Felix from then on and how that night we were standing on the precipice of great happiness.  Viewing certain films from that time in my life, now, brings great heartache.  Not creativity.

Luckily, for every movie that attaches to a less than thrilling memory, I have spades more that are attached to good.  Watching Gattaca with my now husband on our first date.  Sitting in the theater for the third viewing of City of Angels and feeling great hope that I would find love again.  Movies in the middle of the afternoon while we lived in Portland just because we could.  Matinees with my girlfriends who are now far away.  Horton Hears a Who; my son’s first movie in a theater.

Media is all around me and will always be a big part of my life.  For some reason it binds with my memories and is how I categorize eras of my life.  Good, bad, creative or not.

Thank you for your kindness and prayers concerning my sister and brother in-law, Stephanie and Christian. My sister in-law, Cjane, who acts as the family historian, and brother in-law, Jesse, had a great idea to choose some of our favorite blog entries of Stephanie and share them.  I don’t know about you, but I could use a little laugh, and this post is one of my favorites.

PAT

There is a hardy amount of legitimate reasons why I hate girl’s camp. The whole crazy idea that it turns everyone into drama mode for a whole week…you got it folks, a whole week. And all of that “girls camp in Utah is different that everywhere else” business, is a bunch of monkey baloney, if you are a girl and are required to wear a bandana and carry a camp book of songs, then its all the same (and I am sure the craft tent in New Jersey produces the same ‘families can be together forever’ puff paint portrait as in Utah too.)
Anyway, having gone to camp a few years, I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth. So for you future mothers or mothers with girls coming on camp age I have some helpful strategies to follow so that your little beehive will have a good time:
1. Don’t cut their hair shorter than the deacons.
And that is all I could come up with.
Twice I visited girl’s camp and both times I was mistaken for a boy. Now if you are wondering why I was determined to have and keep short hair all of my childhood, if I was commonly mistaken for a boy. Well, for one reason I seriously thought that Demi Moore copied my haircut for the movie ‘Ghost’, and then it just confirmed to me that the haircut was awesome (well, it was for a 20 year old, not a 9 year old).
Story #1
I was loading the bus and noticed the bus driver staring at me sharply; I was timid and rushed to the back of the bus and sat down by my cousin. I looked up and saw his piercing eyes glaring at me in the long rectangle mirror near the windshield. In my mind I kept thinking, “why is he staring at me? What’s the deal?” Then it happened. He could see that I was looking at him in that long rectangle mirror too, and he lifted his hand up and motioned me with his pointer finger. I ignored it, looked out the window. Then he yelled:
“HEY”
I ignored it again. What did I do wrong? Why does he want me? Then in the corner of my eye I watched him pick up the dispatcher device and instantly the bus with 50 loud young girls screaming and yapping with excitement became quiet and still.
“Hey, you in the back of the bus” the driver began, “No boys aloud at camp, is this a joke? Who are you here with?”
My heart was breaking with every word and I knew he was talking to me. All at once, all the girls stood up to see who’s brother was being devious and snuck on the bus without anyone knowing. Sounds like a harmless practical joke and this time the girls began laughing all at once, and my cousin looked at me and said
“Steph, I think he is looking at you.”
Tears began swelling as I crept down further in my seat.
“Hey get off the bus before I notify someone to help you off”
He was cruel, and fat. I kept thinking to myself, well at least I’m not fat you big fat loser! Finally he stood up and walked to the back where I was. Each footstep shook the bus. The bus was quiet with a few whispers here and there. My heart was racing now. What would I tell him, how could I possibly PROVE to this fat man that I was indeed a girl.
Finally he reached my seat and put his hand on my shoulder,
“young man, no boys are allowed at camp”
I looked up with him as a sizzling tear dripped down my cheek.

“B-but I’m a girl,” I said nervously.
He looked at me with an unexpected stare and looked at my cousin who nodded quietly.
“ummm”
Then he walked away and off the bus. I looked up through my tear-glazed eyes and the girls looked at me with pity and embarrassment. Slowly they turned around in their seats and began the whispering tittle-tattle.
The fat bus driver began conversing with my leader outside and then nodded. He walked back on the bus and sat down glancing in the back through the mirror with awkwardness.
I had short, short hair and looked no more than like a girl than Michael Jackson looks black.
Story #2
My first year at girls camp I was able to go with my mother who happened to be a leader in the stake. We decided at free time to take a walk on one of the beautiful paths. Soon enough we came upon “Papa Joe” as they all called him. He was the caretaker of the land. He was pilling wood on his quad. We nodded and said hello, except he didn’t say hello back, instead he said:
“Ahhh, Excuse me sister” he spoke to my mother then he looked at me with that familiar glare.

“No boys allowed at camp- period. No matter the age, that is a strict rule we have to abide by”
My mother glared at him and I looked away,
“This is my DAUGHTER.”
Then we walked away leaving Papa Joe looking more like ‘Sloppy Joe.’
“Oh, sorry about that.”
He said as he began rattling off a bunch of reasons why he was excused for his endearing remark. (And this is what everyone says)
1. Its dark out here, and the light is bad.
2. My glasses are not on
3. I am old
We left him in his tracks explaining these reasons, and I said to my mother
“Maybe this summer I should grow my hair out?”
“Oh, that would look really good on you darling” my mother agreed.
Then it happened, just like a character in one of Judy Blume’s books. One morning I woke up and looked in the mirror. I was changed. I had female parts…overnight. After that, I was no longer mistaken for a young man.

POSTED BY NIENIE

THE NIENIE DIALOGUES

STEPHANIE AURORA CLARK NIELSON

MESA, ARIZONA

If you want to hear more fan favorites, go here.

This is going to be really long, because I have a lot to say about The Police concert last Saturday night.  I hope you’ll hang in with me as I try to explain why I bought a $40 concert t-shirt and got so emotional when Sting sang “King of Pain” right TO ME.

When I was 17 (yeah, we’re going way back, so go get something to drink), I went to one of the best concerts ever:  Firehose at the Ranch Bowl in Omaha.  It was a small, intimate venue and the music was unreal.  It was a memorable evening, ending in Mike Watt trading his flannel shirt (yeah, it was the 90’s–I knew the word “flannel” would give it away) with my friend and calling me “sister.”  That was pretty cool.  To that incredible concert, and after much begging (and I think a bribe) I took my nerdy little brother who was then twelve.  I reluctantly agreed to let him and his best friend tag along, but boy am I glad I did (and feel free, parents out there, to use this object lesson to teach your children the value of being nice to each other) because it paid off this last Saturday night when my little brother, James, got me and my siblings some great seats to The Police concert.

I have to explain why this is such a big deal for me, so I won’t seem like a total brat for having such great seats and using my brother shamelessly:  I have everything The Police ever recorded.  They play the soundtrack of my life.  Most of my major life events from jr. high to high school, to college, to a couple of weeks ago, has a memory attached to a song or lyric.  

Also, I never thought I would ever see The Police in my life.  I never really thought they would have a reunion tour.  I had the opportunity to go see Sting years ago, but I had just delivered a baby 2 weeks prior and couldn’t go.  I had the opportunity to go see them when they first reunited in Florida when my brother’s band opened for them (what?!), but I had used my “fly to Florida on a moment’s notice, book a hotel, rent a car, find a babysitter” money in the budget that month, and I had an chance to see them in Vegas a few months back but, again, “having a baby” (a different one, of course.)  I was devastated each time, but in the back of my mind thought that maybe it was for the better.  Maybe they could never live up to the expectation I had in my mind of how they should BE:  look, act, sound, all of it.  And then, this time, when it didn’t look like we’d get the tickets, I pretended I didn’t care that much, you know, just to prepare myself.  But then we got the tickets.  I had. . .a ticket.

Knowing this, maybe you won’t think I was so crazy when I got a little emotional when I saw Sting come out on stage and play the first few notes with Andy and Stewart.  It was amazing.  I got that feeling of nervous excitement and anticipation that I get before I go onstage to perform improv.  It was a literal childhood dream coming true.  I know that sounds so dramatic, but it really was!  I was in the 6th row directly in front of Sting and it felt like he was looking right at me the whole time.  I mean, I realize he wasn’t looking at me the entire time, but he must have looked at me once or twice, you know, statistically.  

I’d like to think that I was the model audience member–that I was working for an A+ in audience participation.  That was my gift to Sting.  Every time he asked the audience to clap, I would do it, and I didn’t give up even though my flabby mom arm’s got tired and everyone around me stopped.  I knew and sang every word to every song.  I stood up the entire time.  I yelled when he asked me if we were having a good time (WE WERE!) and if we thought the sky was beautiful (IT WAS!).  I didn’t cross the line like a dumb groupie and cry or yell “I love you!” or anything so predictable or trite. After all, Sting and I share a deep respect for each other and he deserves more than that from me.  If he can work out and sculpt his arms so they cradle his mesh shirt just so and mist his vocal chords with some magical spray during the concert, and make cute-goofy faces when he “messes up” on stage, then the least I can do is follow his lead when he changes up the tempo and sing harmony.  

What was so fun (another layer to the story!) about the concert is that I went with my brother, Chris, and my sister, Gina (who gave birth the next day), and Chris took his oldest daughter, and I took my oldest son, and so we shared yet another little family moment/memory.  Chris, after all, introduced me to The Police, and bought me their box set in high school.  (See, I really wasn’t kidding around.  Being nice to your siblings really pays off.)  So when they played “So Lonely,” one of my favorites (which is like picking your favorite child, but whatever), and I looked at the big moon along with the perfect concert weather with a gentle breeze, and I looked at my brother, and we turned and looked at our oldest kids yelling and laughing “So lonely! So lonely!” we shared a little moment.  I felt this swell of emotion at how fast time goes by and how much music–this music–connects memories, like a cool, punk time machine that takes you back to your best moments.  And Sting must live in that time machine because he has the body of a 20 year-old swimmer.