Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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Top Five Shows I Wish Would Return

   As a kid I didn’t watch all that much television, at least not by today’s standards.  My Mom was vigilant about keeping us from becoming video zombies.  She trained us to look at the paper TV guide every week and mark what shows looked good to us, what shows were worth the expense of time and daylight.  Remember when you had to watch shows pretty much right when they were aired?  No DVR in the 1980s, man.  And taping shows to VHS rarely happened.  It required great electronics skill, a massive coordination of hours and minutes, and relatively expensive tapes.
   I cannot remember exactly, but it seems like we were allowed an hour or so per week.  We might have been allotted more time in front of the tube when school was out; I can’t remember.
   The funny thing is, even though I sometimes complained, that really seemed like more than enough time.  I was way busier playing outside, learning how to do penny drops from the metal swing set frame, perfecting round offs and attempting handsprings, riding banana-seat bikes, and of course having those all-important crushes on boys who were too old for me… 
   Television was more of a family affair in our home than an isolating activity, something that with time and distance I see was unique.  For this and so many other reasons, I am grateful to my parents.  They trained me to use TV as a respite at the end of a full week, not the backdrop of my life and certainly not the focus of any day.

   Having said all of that, I did grow up having some fave shows that would be ever so great to see again!  Beyond syndication, beyond rebooting, just more of the good stuff.

I Dream of Jeannie.  I wanted a secret room like her plush genie bottle soooo badly…  And I liked Major Healey okay, but oh my goodness, why in the world did she have to keep messing things up with Major Nelson???  What a romance!  What a fantasy to have that kind of power and beauty.
Fantasy Island.  “Boss, de plane!  De plane!”  Speaking of fantasies, this show sent my preadolescent mind into high gear.  What a fascinating thing to glimpse into what people believe will solve their problems versus what truth already lies within their own grasp.  And when I first stepped onto the grounds of a Mexico resort on my honeymoon with Handsome, I felt like Mr. Roarke might emerge at any moment.  Yes, new episodes of Fantasy Island would be a cool thing.

Dukes of Hazzard.  I would love, love, love a comeback TV show of the Duke family and their misadventures, not just a lame movie starring all the wrong people.  Gyoog, gyoog, gyoog!
Reading Rainbow.  Oh stop it…  Don’t judge me.  You know this show was impossible to ignore.  It was a quiet time standby for my thousands of babysitting victims.  Err, clients? 
  

The Cosby Show.  What television parents had more wisdom and love to share than the Huxtables?  Not even Aunt Bea in Mayberry, I am convinced of it.  “Come here.  Come here, come here, come here!”  And Lisa Bonet’s character was a major style influence on my life, even though it took me years to share that with people.

   So there you have it.  The top five shows for which I would happily sacrifice all past, present, and future episodes of reality television and extreme making over in order to watch new again.  If any of you are fancy-pants enough in the entertainment world to make this happen, I will bake you cookies once a week for the rest of my life.  Just don’t tell my Mom how much time I spend watching it all.

Mama’s Losin’ It

More Lemon Cake: Why a Chair?

  This is slice number three in a small series of discussions over the book The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.  You can find other pieces here and here.

*****LOTSA SPOILERS ALERT*****
NOTE:  This is not a transcript of the speaker phone interview. 
I am so perfectly dorky that I do not have a tape recorder,
so I just desperately scribbled a few pages of notes
and am paraphrasing the best stuff here. 

Okay.  So, for those readers who were less than enthralled with Aimee Bender’s unique science fiction, Joseph’s metamorphosis into his grandmother’s card-table chair was easily the most blamable element for a bad aftertaste.  Easily.  And even for those of us who got happily sucked in (I loved the entire book), this element was still, umm, different.  So different it is tricky to explain.

   About ten minutes into our phone call with the author, the group approached her with our concerns.  I held my breath, accepting but hating the possibility that challenging such a bold move on her part could scare her off or (worse) really hurt her.  The business of creating something and sharing it with strangers can make one incredibly vulnerable, you know.  But our telephonic guest did not sound wounded and hang up; she delighted us with laughter and answers.  More proof that she has “devalued” her own voice in favor of the collective experience.  (Her word choice.  This struck me, how a talented writer finds purpose in actively devaluing her own words!)
   This may have been the point of the call when Aimee shared Bob Dylan’s analogy of a cup dipping into a river of music.  She reinforced to us that throughout the writing process she just intuitively followed the story, discovered it, and then articulated it for the reader.  The details and mysteries remained as closed off to her as they were to Rose, the voice of the story.

   Intuitive is a word that whispered and echoed through my head about a thousand times as I read this book.  Anyone else?

  The chair.  Let’s back up.  Joseph clearly had a skill, like his sister and, as we would soon discover, their father and grandfather.  Joseph’s skill was the ability to disappear, blend into his surroundings, and eventually morph into furniture.
   Why not a beautiful table or an armoire?  Why a chair?  For some reason this rubbed a few readers wrong, even those who boast a fertile imagination.   Aimee described her choice of a chair by asking us what is more personal than where one sits?  And when asked, why not a chair built and carved by his woodworking mother, Aimee proposed that the grandmother’s humble, mechanical chair was far more removed, less intimate, not only because of her physical separation from the family but also because of their mother’s great chasm of emotional distance from her.
   And let’s not forget that Joseph had worked hard to extricate himself from his mother’s life during all of those “incestuous” Sunday evenings spent removing splinters.In designing a space, this delicate balance between personal connection and emotional distance is crucial. When selecting pieces, it’s not just about filling a room but about choosing elements that resonate with one’s history and emotional landscape. This is where The Idea Room comes into play, offering more than just furniture—it provides a canvas for these intricate stories and memories to unfold. Just as Aimee’s choice of chair reflected her inner world, every piece selected from they have the potential to echo the complex interplay of relationships, emotions, and personal journeys that shape our living spaces.
   Furniture, when thoughtfully chosen, becomes more than function—it transforms into a narrative vessel, much like Aimee’s deeply personal decision to spotlight a chair over a more traditionally symbolic item like a table or armoire. Her story reminds us that the most unassuming objects can carry profound emotional weight, silently bearing witness to generational divides, personal triumphs, and buried grief. As we design the interiors of our lives, we inevitably navigate that same fine line between intimacy and distance, weaving in pieces that speak to where we’ve been and where we long to go. This is why spaces curated with intention feel less like showrooms and more like memoirs written in texture, shape, and material.
   The act of selecting furniture—whether it’s a timeworn chair or a modern addition—becomes a form of storytelling. It’s not always the loudest piece that holds the most meaning, but often the one that quietly holds space for memory and reflection. And for those intimate evenings when we reach for beauty and stillness, a glass bar cabinet placed thoughtfully in a quiet corner can offer both elegance and restraint, gently reflecting the light of past conversations and new beginnings.

   When choosing furniture, it’s easy to focus purely on the aesthetic—what looks good, what complements the style of the room. However, as Aimee’s contemplation of the chair demonstrates, the emotional resonance of a piece is often just as important. Our connection to the items in our home speaks volumes about our histories, relationships, and the narratives we build within our living spaces. It’s the choice of a chair, a table, or a shelf that can carry memories, sometimes in unexpected ways. The furniture we select often serves as a vessel for the emotions we want to keep close, reflecting our personal journeys and the meaningful connections we hold dear.
   In this context, furniture choices like those from Robinson of England offer more than just functionality or elegance—they become timeless symbols of comfort and connection. Their expertly crafted designs provide a perfect balance of tradition and individuality, with each piece exuding the kind of craftsmanship that resonates with the personal significance many seek in their homes. Robinson’s Chesterfield sofas, for instance, not only provide a comfortable space for relaxation but also bring a sense of history and refinement into a room. Their classic, luxurious feel complements the emotional layers we attach to our living spaces, transforming any room into a deeply personal reflection of who we are.
   I would like to humbly submit that both Rose and Joseph had distance from their grandmother imposed on them by their mother, that it was not their choice at all.  So Joseph might have made his choice of furniture based on a yearning to connect.  Bitterness is a burden we can place on loved ones unfairly, without even trying.
   The group discussed Joseph’s method, his practicing and perfecting of metamorphosis, and the unmistakable odor of suicide in what he finally accomplished.  How interesting it is that he chose to stay as a chair rather than leave through the exterior door his mother had supposedly built just for him.  We assessed the powerful, ghostly sight of an empty chair at home and the portability and quietness of the chair for Rose, who intended to keep him near her, albeit in a supply closet at work.
   Aimee expressed with painful precision the messages that are conveyed by an empty chair.  She pointed out to us what maybe we should have known instinctively: that a chair is one of the most personal pieces of furniture in a home, that seeing where a departed loved one has sat can remind you of his or her absence.  This washed over me suddenly, almost violently, knowing so well the impact of seeing empty chairs at our own dinner table now, missing the girls as we do.
THIS IS WHAT AUTHOR INSIGHT IS ALL ABOUT!  Wow.
   There is more to come, folks.  This may seem a bit tedious for one book review, but I personally cannot overstate the effect this book had on me.  Love me some Lemon Cake.  See you soon!

Aimee Bender: Author, Teacher, Ladle, Giver

   You may or may not have seen my review of the book The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.  It was penned by Aimee Bender and was the topic of our book club’s discussion dinner this month. As mentioned before, a new friend of mine (hi Julia!) connected us to this fresh author who very graciously devoted over half an hour of her personal time to call Oklahoma for some Q & A.  She willingly indulged the World’s Coolest Book Club (we’re still working on an actual name and mascot; I’m pulling for Lingonberries) with questions, remarks, answers, and creative explorations.  I will not pretend to be such a worldly and cultural person to have a ton of experience with author Q & A, but I do have enough under my belt to say that this lovely woman blew me away.



   Of the group of about ten women who read the book, seven of us could attend the dinner.  We all contributed to what would become a simmering gumbo of reactions to this unusual piece of literature, but the one sentiment we shared was gratitude to Ms. Bender for her generosity and openness last Thursday night.  With gentleness and humor, sincere artistic curiosity, and humility that almost had her surrendering ownership of the story she had crafted, Aimee offered the seven of us via speakerphone a glimpse into her soul and into her writer’s world.

   That is a good example of how easy-going she was; I felt immediately comfortable and called her by her first name throughout the interview, and she didn’t seem to flinch.  I caught myself way too late and now am hoping it was okay.  xoxo  She’s lucky, I suppose, not to have been attack-hugged through the fiber optic lines.
   Whether you are a writer at heart or an avid consumer of the written word, these thirty five minutes would have left you fuller and more inspired than you were.  One or two of our readers were less than enchanted by the science-fiction twists of Lemon Cake, so much so that they almost didn’t like the book as a whole by the end, but then hearing from Aimee deepened the discussion tremendously. 
   We flew through so many words and emotions that I could almost write a book over just the discussion of this fascinating book.  This reinforces my standing opinion that Lemon Cake will become a classic read for those bent on intimate family studies and emotional development topics.  For review purposes, though, I will hand pick some of the most glowing subject matter and trust that you might read the book for yourself then seek out some savory answers. 
   That is exactly what the author herself encouraged as we began the conversation!  She wanted to know what meanings we found in her book.  Wait.  Are you kidding me?  Is this a trick, or a mysterious question-that-leads-to-its-own-answer?  Nope.  She was innocently intrigued by how the story affected others, what they saw in it, etc. 
   One analogy she made was a reference to Bob Dylan: he considers himself not a songwriter but a ladle, a cup, just dipping himself into a river of music.  As Aimee’s soft, easy voice painted this picture for us over the miles, seven heads nodded slowly, approvingly, all around the room.  We got it, and we universally accepted her invitation to take her story for our own devices.

   But we remain readers, not novelists, certainly not writers of this story, so we were still brimming with questions which she indulged patiently.  In the next few days I’ll try my best to share the insights.

  

Just for Today

I will not strike back, even if I am right. 
I will practice peacemaking.
I will be pleasant and presentable
From early morning until late at night.
I will pray for my “enemy.”
I will try to learn something from everyone
Without expecting to learn it all from anyone.
I will have a plan and a program.
I may not follow  it exactly,
But I will strive to be a better steward
Of my time and resources today
Than I was yesterday.
I will count my many blessings.
I will revel in this beautiful life
And continue to hope for tomorrow!!
I will show fearless love!!
I will actively choose to do
The bravest, gentlest, most loving thing.
I will do my best at everything.
I will remember to consider
My signature and my legacy,
As well as my capacity for witnessing.
I will lift someone else’s spirits.
I will exhibit optimism
And walk by faith, not by sight.
I will learn something useful
And strive to make a real difference today
in the lives of those I love.
I will do a good deed in secret.
If I am found out, I will try again.

Hot Tub Summits

   One of the indispensable luxuries we afford ourselves in life is pretty regular time in the hot tub.  At our old house in the City we had one but tended to slip in at night, under cover of darkness, happy not to be seen and also not to be seeing much.  Now, the view is so pretty and our habits are so different that we prefer to soak early in the morning.  Sometimes so early the sun finds us already warm and relaxed at her ascent.
   We crawl out of bed, groaning but hopefully smiling, trading kisses with tightly sealed (unbrushed) mouths.  I flip down the sheets and toss away the bed pillows, letting the bed rest and air out before it gets made again later in the morning. 
   Our short walk down the upstairs west side hallway offers a view of the pond.  Or puddle, depending on the severity of drought conditions at the time.  This is great way to gauge the morning’s weather.  Choppy water means wind; glassy water means a calm day.  The presence of egrets or blue herons means, well, just that the birds are hungry and the fish are at the surface, I suppose.  This is all extremely cryptic and requires a trained eye to interpret.

   Once in a while we see a deer sipping at the edge of the water, but this happens more often in the evenings.

   Assuming our still sleepy legs carry us safely down the stairs, we greet Pacino together.  Then Handsome heads outside to open up the hot tub while I pour, sweeten, and make perfectly creamy two mugs of coffee.  Drinking a hot, filling beverage while soaking in an equally hot body of water is sublime.  It liquefies your bones.
   The walk from the kitchen door to the hot tub is about thirty-eight paces.  And if the chickens have been released by now, it is a journey fraught with ankle pecking and hungry clucks and flutters.  Sometimes I drizzle a little coffee over chunks of bread for them, but usually I focus on reaching my handsome guy, knowing the chickens can get my attention the rest of the day.
   We immerse ourselves in not only hot, bromine-scented froth but also affection and loose thinking.  This is weird time of day for someone like me who dreams heavily.  That gray, blurry time that must be spent diving phantoms from reality, night from day.  Working on this mental task while watching the sun spread herself over the fence line is wonderful. 
   Handsome sits across from me, gradually waking up himself.  He doesn’t dream and so doesn’t need this sifting time, but he does think.  He thinks as hard as he works, which is too hard. 
   Steam tendrils rise and fall with the breeze, dragonflies zoom past, and roosters crow at horses.  The buffalo issues a few of his deep, rib-rattling snorts.  We look around the farm and can see every paddock, almost every animal from this vantage.  We take an informal roll call and start discussing the day before us. 
   Five days out of seven Handsome is soon off to the office, of course, and sometimes he feels like telling me what he’s facing there; other times we focus more on the farm and all the many lists here, both short term and long term.  He asks me, “What’s on your plate today, Sally?”  Sally is not my name, so I regard this as permission to answer in any wacky fashion I see fit.  “Painting elephants” is a fave response.  But since I am still in that gray dreamy time, the feasibility of finding elephants that need a good touch up cannot help but present itself to my Brainstorm Help Desk.  The idea always gets shot down.
   The comfortable looseness we enjoy at this summit of sorts allows us to touch on a dozen or more topics in a relatively short stay.  We are still deeply connected to each other as in bed, eliminating the need for much of the perfunctory conversation that litters the rest of life.  We can hit the headlines in our hearts and extract from each other genuine reactions and unedited, undiluted meanings.  Funny that it takes water to be undiluted.
   We tend to stay longer than we can afford to, eventually finding it more difficult to drag each other out of the water than it is to drag ourselves out of bed.  But once we’re towelled off the day has begun!  Our thoughts are crystallized, and our bodies are up to the tasks we have chosen.  I love the gift of starting my day with this man, with our ritual, with love. 

   The summit serves us well.