The Beast in the Jungle

This is not a normal blog post for me. I'm not going to attempt to be funny or wrestle my demons or complain about my kids. My husband took our kids on a trip this weekend to give me space and time alone. You'd think I'd be sitting in front of the television snarfing ice cream, but my brain decided it won't allow me to rest until I do this. The only thing I can think about is my favorite book of all time, "The Beast in the Jungle". The sentences run on forever. Sometimes, the story feels like it’s going nowhere. Like any relationship, you can’t see the truth of it until the end. 

I’ve had lots of people tell me they started to read it due to my love for it, but then for some reason or the other didn’t finish it. So today I’m going to summarize it in quotes from the book itself (with an occasional parenthetical explanation.) It will be longer than my usual blog post. But this isn’t a post. It’s a book I dearly love and I hope I don't do it a grave injustice. My apologies to Henry James, who would probably roll over in his grave and shoot me for this. But every quote, every word, says something to me that both tells the story and stands on its own.

The Beast in the Jungle

by Henry James

*** (It begins upon their meeting for the second time)

He (John Marcher) really didn’t remember the least thing about her. They looked at each other with the feeling of an occasion missed.

“You know you told me something I’ve never forgotten and that again and again has made me think of you since.” (May Bartram) “You had the sense of being kept for something rare and strange, possibly prodigious and terrible, that was sooner or later to happen to you, that you had in your bones the foreboding and the conviction of, and that would perhaps overwhelm you.”

 (This is the crux of the story. He feels he is meant for some undefinable life experience and is waiting for it. He confided this secret in her once long ago.)

She was the only other person in the world then who would have it, and she had had it all these years, while the fact of his having breathed his secret had unaccountably faded from him. He had thought of himself so long as abominably alone, and lo he wasn’t alone a bit.

“Isn’t what you describe perhaps but the expectation – or at any rate the send of danger, familiar to so many people – of falling in love?” (May)

“Of course, what’s in store for me may be no more than that.” (John)

“You’ve been in love and it hasn’t meant such a cataclysm, hasn’t proved the great affair?”

“Here I am, you see. It hasn’t been overwhelming.”

“Then it hasn’t been love.”

For a minute, their lightness gave way to their gravity; it was as if the long look they exchanged held them together. They were literally afloat together. That the right person should know tempered the asperity of his secret more even than his shyness had permitted him to imagine. He had thought himself, so long as nobody knew, the most disinterested person in the world.

*** (They spend time, years, as friends)

All this naturally was a sign of how much he took the intercourse itself for granted. The thing be, with the one person who knew, was easy and natural – to make the reference rather than be seeming to avoid it. He knew there was no moment at which it was traceable that she had, as he might say, got inside his idea, or exchanged the attitude of beautifully indulging for that of still more beautifully believing him. He had a screw loose for her but she liked him in spite of it. Above all she was in the secret of the difference between the forms he went through – and the detachment that reigned beneath them.

There was but one account of her that would have been true all the while and that she could give straight to nobody, least of all to John Marcher.

They had from an early hour made up their mind that society was, luckily, unintelligent. “What saves us is that we answer so completely to so usual an appearance: that of the man and woman whose friendship has become such a daily habit – or almost – as to be at last indispensable. I’m your dull woman, a part of the daily breads for which  you pray at church.”

“Only doesn’t it sometimes come to you as time goes on that your curiosity (in waiting for his life experience with him) isn’t being particularly repaid?” (John)

“I’m more sure than ever my curiosity, as you call it, will be but too well repaid.” (May) “Living with it so long and so closely, you’ve lost your sense of it.”

“You know something I don’t.” Then his voice, for that of a man of courage, trembled a little. “You know what’s to happen.  It’s so bad that you’re afraid I’ll find out. What is it that saves you?”

“You’ll never find out. If you’ve had your woman, I’ve had my man. I don’t pretend it exactly shows that I’m not living for you.”

“How shall I ever repay you?”

“By going on as you are.”

She had all the while not appeared to feel the need of rebutting his charge of an idea within her that she didn’t dare to express. She knew something and that what she knew was bad – too bad to tell him.

***(May falls ill)

He felt in these days what, oddly enough, he had never felt before, the growth of a dread of losing her by some catastrophe. What if she should have to die before knowing, before seeing-? Her original adoption of his own curiosity had quite become the basis of her life.

If she was old, or almost, John Marcher assuredly was, and yet it was her showing of the lesson, not his own, that brought the truth home to him. That she, at all events, might be recorded as having waited in vain – this affected him sharply, and all the more because of his at first having done little more than amuse himself with the idea. What did everything mean – what, that is, did she mean, she and her vain waiting and her probably death and the soundless admonition of it all – unless that, at this time of day, it was simply, it was overwhelmingly too late? It was a failure not to be anything. As he waked up to the sense of no longer being young… The sense of being stale…. The sense of being weak… The possibilities themselves had accordingly turned stale. Her work was over and it made him feel strangely abandoned.

There was something, it seemed to him, that the wrong word would bring down on his head. "I appear to myself to have spent most of my life in thinking of nothing but dreadful things. A great many of them I’ve at different times named to you, but there were others I couldn’t name. We had looked most things in the face."

“Including each other?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You can’t hide it. You’ve done. You’ve had your experience. You leave me to my fate.”

“It would be the worst,” she finally let herself say. “I mean, the thing I’ve never said.”

“You abandon me.”

“No, no!” she repeated. “I’m with you – don’t you see? – still. I haven’t forsaken you.”

“Then tell me if I shall consciously suffer.”

She promptly shook her head. “Never.”

“It isn’t that its all a mistake?
“A mistake?” she pityingly echoed. That possibility, for her, he saw, would be monstrous.

“The door isn’t shut. The door’s open,” said May Bartram. “It’s never too late.”

She only kept him waiting, however; that is he only waited. It had become suddenly, from her movement and attitude, beautiful and vivid to him that she had something more to give him.

“Do you know now?”

“I know nothing. What has happened?”

“What was to,” she said.

She was dying and his life would end.

“I’m not sure you understood.  You’ve nothing to wait for more. It has come. Your not being aware of it is the strangeness in the strangeness. So utterly without you knowing it. It’s enough if I know it.”

“I can’t begin to pretend I understand. Nothing, for me, is past; nothing will pass until I pass myself.”

“You take your ‘feelings’ for granted. You were to suffer your fate. That was not necessarily to know it. I would live for you still – if I could. But I can’t.”

*** (May dies)

The things he saw couldn’t help being common when he had become common to look at them. They indeed had been wondrous for others while he was but wondrous for himself. It was because he had been separated so long from the part of himself that alone he now valued. This garden of death gave him the few square feet of earth on which he could still most live. He once had lived. As one of the cemetery walks passed near him, he caught the shock of the face. What had the man had, to make him by the loss of it so bleed and yet live?

Something that he, John Marcher, hadn’t. She was what he had missed. The escape would have been to love her; then, then he would have lived. He had never though of her but in the chill of his egotism and the light of her use. This horror of waking – this was knowledge.

Our Confuse and Heckle Parenting Approach - the forefront of parenting innovation

Three kids and eleven years into this child-rearing hell, we finally came to the conclusion that logic doesn’t work with children. We’re slow learners. It took us a while to shed our book-parenting philosophies. We tried sticker charts and incentive programs. We implemented natural consequences and practice proportional discipline. Our kids still annoy the shit out of us.

About half-way through our 7-hour car drive to my parents’ house, clinging to the end of our sanity, our new parenting philosophy was born. When the kids complain too much, screw trying to logic with them and forget the child psychology crap – confuse and heckle them instead.

When 8 asked what time it was, my husband laughed and responded, “10 minutes before the next time you ask.” Then to confuse our son further, he added, “How many seconds are in a day?”

8 sat quietly, then finally responded, “24 times 60 times 60.”

Meanwhile, the eleven-year old fired up her phone to Google it. I know which kid is going places and which is going to end up on twitter.

The method is simple. Every time your child asks an inane question or complains, give them useless advice or ask a question that has no relevance to their original statement and entertain yourself instead.

Three days into this endeavor, it seems to be working. Last night, the kids were fighting over Lego's. When 8 came to the kitchen to tattle, we attacked.

“Aren’t you a conflict resolution manager at school?” I asked. “Use your training.”

“Synergize,” my husband chimed in.

“Get back down there and find a win-win,” I choked, crying because I was laughing so hard.

8 left the kitchen disappointed and trudged back down to be assaulted by his sisters, which made us laugh even harder.

My parents looked at us in awe. My dad explained that the only conflict resolution they needed was a paddle. He doesn’t understand that the kids’ bathroom walls everywhere from school to the library are papered with “Do your parents hit you at home? Call this number” fliers. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t support child abuse – but there are more than a few kids I know who could use a good smack. Most of them are probably entitled enough to pull out the iPhone their parents pay for and use it to report them.

We had to explain that the kids know what we’re talking about. Their school adopted Stephen Covey’s The Leader in Me and trains them in this bullshit. At ages 8 and 11, they’ve spent years attending morning meetings. They have personal mission statements. They’re fully prepared for careers as frustrated middle managers.

11's summary of the program: “If everyone is a leader, then no one is. They don’t want us to think. They want us to be sheep. Baaaa.” Her criticism of The Leader In Me makes me more proud than her Presidential Academic Excellence Award, although it does worry me that she'll see through our confuse and heckle parenting approach.

Regardless, instead of being parenting sheep, we’re going to be on the forefront of parenting innovation. If our confusion method works well, maybe I’ll survive my remaining years without AA. If not, it’ll give our kids plenty to rebel against later. Either way, they’ll want to get out of our house, and that, folks, is a win-win.

My Least Favorite Things

Today I was thinking about my Grandma. Which made me think of the Sound of Music. Which made me think of this song (because I'm kind of like that mouse in the Give a Mouse a Cookie book). It has no relevance to anything except it made me laugh. And I'm sure my Grandmother would consider it blasphemy, which is as good a reason as any to post it on the internet.

So without further ado, My Least Favorite Things - to be sung to the tune of My Favorite Things from The Sound of Music.

Raindrops while running and whiskers on women

Forgotten backpacks and one lost school mitten

Brown paper packages that aren’t for me

These are a few of my least favorite things

Cream colored carpet all covered in streudels

Alarm clocks and texting and kids demanding noodles

Wild geese that crap on my car as they sing

These are a few of my least favorite things

The cart at the Wal-Mart determined to crash us

My son when he’s constantly covered in rashes

School cancellations that last into spring

These are a few of my least favorite things

When the guinea pig bites

When the kid screams

When I’m feeling sad

I simply remember my in-laws aren’t here

And then I don’t feel so bad

Sometimes I don’t want to talk. It’s just that simple.

Sometimes I don’t want to talk. It’s just that simple.

It isn't personal or directed at you. I’m not mad. I’m not ignoring you. I’m not plotting your death or some type of revenge. I’m not stewing over the way you put the dishes in the dishwasher wrong every freaking time (okay, well, maybe occasionally that one - you know who you are).

I’m quiet. It might be because I’m

hungry

or tired

or compulsive

or frustrated

or sad

or happy

or contemplative

 or processing information

or analyzing my options.

Sometimes I don’t want to interrupt you.

Sometimes I’m in a hurry.

Sometimes I don’t have anything to say.

Sometimes I’m focused and don’t want to lose my concentration.

Sometimes I’m wrapped up in my own thoughts and actually don’t notice you.

When I’m forced to talk, I feel trapped. But it is always about me. It isn't about you, nor is it a judgment of you. So when you take it personally and assume I’m removed or distant or arrogant, try to remember I don’t process the outside world the same way you do. I'm still interested in your opinions and what you have to say. The world over stimulates me. I gather my strength from the quiet.

Yes, I keep people at a distance, but those I let in, I love fiercely. But as much as I love them, and love new experiences and new people, I revere silence. If my silence offends you, we probably won’t be friends. I have to allow enough space in my life for me, and sometimes that means not responding in the manner or time frame you’d prefer. I won’t respond to every text, Facebook request, Twitter message, voice mail, or phone call. My real friends know this. And they know I love them anyway. 

I scrawled this entire post on a scrap of paper as I drove down the interstate this afternoon in silence. No radio. No phone. Me. My thoughts. This is my happiness.

Rhonda Lee Carver: Everyone deserves romance—one page at a time…

This morning I'm interviewing Rhonda Lee Carver, the first author I ever met in person. She mentioned she was an author as we watched our daughters' gymnastics meet, and I kept thinking, "But she seems so normal. She's an author?" Rhonda was the first person who made me think maybe, one day, I'd be capable of writing something too.

Click to Connect with Rhonda:
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Suffering from years of hopeless romantic notions with sexy, sassy heroines and bad-ass heroes taking residence in her mind, Rhonda decided to write, bringing the stories alive. She has published an array of spicy love stories. Her specialty is men who love to get their hands dirty.

When Rhonda isn't crafting edge-of-your-seat, sizzling novels, you will find her with her children, watching soccer, watching a breathtaking movie, traveling to exotic places, doing (or trying) yoga, and finding new ways to keep life interesting.

Rhonda thrives on making her readers happy. She believes life can be a challenge, but reading is a place where fantasy comes to life. Everyone deserves romance—one page at a time…

Check out her newest release: Sin Win Cuffs. Because you'll probably enjoy Rhonda's guys more than an evening with your husband.

Click for Sin With Cuffs on Amazon

When Holly comes back to her hometown, the last thing she wants is to connect with her old flame, Liam, who is now Chief of Police. When soneone in town wants Holly gone, Liam vows to protect her. One thing leads to another, and soon Holly finds herself full of craving for a man in uniform. Resisting the burning desire becomes torture, and neither is strong enough to deny the temptation. Wrapped in a cloak of heat and passion, things begin to unfold.

Holly has a reputation for being a "bad girl." is it all in rumor, or does it hold a sliver of truth? Liam swears he'll never forgive her for breaking his heart years ago,  yet he'll do anything to keep her safe. Soon he finds something far more dangerous than murder and suspense...he realizes he is still in love with Holly. Can he trust her?

Holly can have it all - delicious man, lovely home, and a stable future for only a small price...she must let go of the past. Is loving Liam enough?

Interested yet? She's beautiful, smart, and, for a short time, you have a chance of getting her for free. Not like that, doofus. Get your mind out of the gutter. 

Rhonda has agreed to give away one signed copy of Sin With Cuffs or an ebook version, depending on your preference. Simply comment on my blog at the bottom and a winner will be selected at random on Tuesday, June 11th.

And now, because I've probably embarrassed her enough, Rhonda speaks for herself: 

Do you recall how your interest in writing originated? 

When I was thirteen, I read a Harlequin romance and I was hooked. I began writing short stories, mainly small-time thrillers, but my writing morphed into steamy novels.

Your men are strong, sexy, enigmatic characters. Do you base them on people you know, and if not, how do you come up with inspiration for them? Are they the type of man you’re attracted to?

I've never based my characters specifically on one person, although, I can’t deny that some character qualities are adapted from something someone (real) has said or done. I have an image of my hero, or heroine, before I begin the first sentence. I would have to say that I do find the men I write attractive, but not necessarily any man I've dated. To write a true-as-possible character we must have an attraction for them, male or female. Many of my male characters have physical and emotional flaws, and some of my heroines do too. I think dysfunction is juicy. But what makes it even juicier is when the sassy heroine comes along and stands up to the hero, helping him face his demons.

What are the challenges in bringing multiple places and people to life and giving them a distinct flavor or personality? 

A majority of the places I write are “fake.” I also like writing about the common man, or men who like to get their hands dirty, and naturally that places my story line right smack dab in the country setting. Horses don’t belong on Fifth Avenue. Firefighters aren't usually found in an Armani suit. And a uniform belongs on a down-to-earth hero.

You've written numerous novels at this point. What do you wish you’d known when you started?

I wish I’d had more confidence. And marketing skills, of course. A writer can never, ever, have too many skills at promoting their work. I wish I’d been more savvy in that area from the start.

If you could go back and change anything in any of your books, would you? If so, what? 

Yes, I guess. I have a list of things I’d like to change from each book I've written, but I won’t bore you. After all, it’s too late to change anything. I guess my theory on this is…Mistakes are made so we can become better. However, I will name one thing…I wish I’d made Friends With Benefits longer, at least by ten-thousand words.

Is there a message throughout your novels that you want readers to grasp? 

Beauty is in the heart, not in the skin. And second chances are opportunities.

If you had to pick a favorite of all your books, which would you pick and why? 

Second Ride Cowboy, which will be released soon. I absolutely love the ending, and I think readers will also. A few years ago, I wrote Second Chance Cowboy, and Duke and Lila, secondary characters, needed their time in the spotlight, inspiring my second cowboy story, Second Ride Cowboy. As I wrote this story, another pair of secondary characters blossomed and I’m beginning my third cowboy story in the series.

Do you believe ex’s can be friends? 

I do. But you have to work at it. I also believe in second chances. My own love story involves a second round with one love.

What’s your favorite time of day? 

Whatever time it is that I’m writing.

If someone knocks on your window at 2 am, who do you want it to be? 

A fairy godmother who has come to tell me that I have three wishes she will grant.

What are you listening to right now? 

My wee one playing with her kitten. She is giggling and running through the house squealing. I ask myself how it’s possible I can concentrate. It must be love.

Do you prefer a night in or a night out? 

Night in. I’m a homebody. Aren't most writers loners?

What is the first thing you notice about people? 

Their eyes. After all, they are the windows into the soul.

What was the last thing someone bought for you? 

An iced coffee.

What’s your favorite smell? 

My man when he gets out of the shower. Masculinity, musk and promise.

What are you reading right now? 

My friend Tracey Jackson’s book, Bound by Blood.

Do you have a special talent? 

I’d love to say writing, but honestly, there are so many better and talented writers than I am. I’m actually envious. So, I guess my special talent is honesty.

Do you believe in the happy endings that you write? 

Yes, I do. I don’t paint happy portraits for readers because my belief is that life ISN'T all summed up in a pleasure bubble. Life and love is challenging. We don’t pick who we “fit” with, instead, we “fit” with the one made for us.

Rhonda Lee Carver...Be Naughty and Nice: Welcome Guest Stella Maddox

Rhonda Lee Carver...Be Naughty and Nice: Welcome Guest Stella Maddox: I'm thrilled to have lovely Stella Maddox visiting. Thank you for dropping by. Stella is giving away A Thousand Tiny Cracks . One l...

Sorry Dr. Laura. I didn't know I didn't want to raise them until after I had them.

If I have to choose between parenting my children and driving them to an activity, I’ll pick the activity every time.  Before I had multiple children, I judged parents who over schedule their spawn. Of course, I also bought into Dr. Laura’s “Don’t have them if you don’t want to raise them” slogan. Sadly, I didn't know I didn't want to raise them until after I had them.

Children fight. This isn't shocking. Thanks to my brother, I still hold a grudge over my nickname, Chewbacca, not to mention I’m slightly obsessive about shaving. So instead of allowing my children to damage each other, we separate them as much as possible by enlisting them in every activity they show marginal interest in. This philosophy has served us well. At school, our kids are viewed as well-rounded leaders. During the few hours the kids are home, they’re too tired to argue.

Which leads to my current problem – summer. Everyone loves summer. Everyone except me. You’ll never hear me complain about winter or cold. (Although I might have a full-on coronary when school is cancelled for snow.) Summer combines everything I hate most: a lack of routine, a house full of bored kids, and heat.

As of next Thursday, I am taking over for my kids’ teachers and coaches. As a stay-at-home mom, summer is my busiest season.  It’s the time I have to train them for everything they’re missing in their life curriculum plus reinforce school topics that either require extra assistance or are lacking altogether.  That sentence sounds great in theory, doesn't it? Like something from a parenting magazine. But the truth is that it’s freaking hard work and I don’t mean for them – it’s hard for me.

I’ll supervise and instruct our kids as they complete assigned tasks at home. These tasks take 10x longer and don’t meet my expectations when my children help, so I will bite my lip and attempt to be positive (and if you know me at all, you know that’s a lot of work in itself).

 I will tutor them with supplementary schoolwork. For the past few years, I've assigned a math sheet every day and one book report a week. It takes me longer to prep and check the work than it does for the kids to do it, but they don’t backslide during the summer months.

Don’t get me wrong – we don’t run our house like a boot camp – but we crave routine. We’ll swim every day and play tennis, but I’ll set aside an hour for school work and an hour for chores so that the kids will appreciate their free time. Sometimes I wish my kids were content sitting in front of a television, but then I remember that I’m not either. So if the choice is to schedule them or listen to them fight, I’ll still pick the activity every time – even when I have to do all the work and teach them myself. But I'm counting the minutes until the teachers take them again.