A Story Of My Life

Until I was nearly eleven, I was sent to St. John's Lutheran church and school in Denver. The sanctuary had a high vaulted ceiling speckled with lights like stars which I would lay back and count during sermons. The narthex included a living-room sized coat closet, and I recall hiding among the coats, the furs soft against my face, and quiet, and whispering Narnia. Secret doors opened to a hidden passageway, stone-walled and spiraled, exactly like in a castle. There was a basement full of costumes and props, old Renaissance gowns and fake swords, and in the balcony was a marvelous pipe organ, hundreds of pipes arranged descending by height, all glittering and imposing and pleasing to my young eye, which liked order and magic and shine.

My classmates and I often passed between the school and the church, which were connected by a corridor. On the wall of the hallway we traveled was a sculpture, which was mysterious and frightening and commanded my attention every time I passed it. It was a simple wooden cross, with hundreds of nails pounded in to different degrees, so that the surface was not smooth but jagged. It looked like by running your hand across it, you could catch your skin and bleed.

The most arresting feature, however, was the at the top. Around the place where the head should have been, silver iron contorted into the shape of a headscarf. The scarf enshrouded not a face, but a pool of black. Many years later, when I would see the Lord of The Rings movie, the ring wraiths would look startlingly familiar to me and it would take me a moment to figure out why: their voided faces looked almost exactly like the sculpture.

Not long ago, my dad told me that this particular sculpture was the focus of some controversy among the church members. An unintended result, I'm sure, but for years, this strange black void with the hood obscuring its face was what I pictured when people said the word God.

Image by Joseph Easterbrook.

*****

I am writing at home today. I drove to Starbucks, but my unwanted companion was there. I know his car, noted it so I could avoid going in when he's there. He is there almost every day. He sits alone for hours and watches people, occasionally attempting to strike up conversation. He doesn't read. He sets a large digital clock on the table, it has the temperature displayed on it, and he watches that. He is a misfit. I know this sad. Sometimes I feel I ought to indulge him, make conversation back. Occasionally I have. I feel I should develop compassion for this man. The sight of his car makes me angry. He makes me feel self-conscious, noted. When the morning rush clears, he and I are there alone. I prefer anonymity. I wish to be unknown.

He makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes I feel him watching me.

*****

I collect images of the Virgin of Guadalupe. I have her on rings, necklaces, pink candles from Wal-Mart. I love the looks of her. Her brown face, her blue or green robe with all its glittering stars. For me she represents not a human woman, but a female face of divinity. I love that she is likely an incarnation of the Corn Mother, or the Aztec Tonantzin, which speaks to the fact that across the ages, nearly every culture has recognized a divine presence and has bestowed upon one thing many names. As I got older, I chose to stop believing some of the things I'd been taught and one of the things I abandoned was the idea of an exclusively male god. I choose to believe in feminine images of the divine, and I love seeing her as depicted in the images of Guadalupe: infinitely loving, deeply compassionate, present in the earth and stars, maternal and divine.

**I was inspired this week by this post by Elizabeth at the lovely a moon, worn as if it had been a shell, on Our Lady of the Dry Tree**

We Are The Weirdos

As a teenager, I spent most of my time driving all over Denver with my three best friends, in one old Honda or another, seeing movies and eating Italian food and daring each other to do things like go through the drive-thru backwards or take the forbidden bus exit off the highway, the one that goes underground and says BUSES ONLY(scandalous, I know). We called ourselves The Blood Sisters, and liked to pretend we were the girls from that 90's girl power gem, The Craft. We each had a direction. I was West (I lobbied hard for West) and when we needed a little magic, to make doors swing open at school or to become impervious to unrequited love and popular-girl disdain, we would chant "North, South, East, West, Craft, Craft, Craft!!"

So as you can see, we weren't going on a lot of dates. My friends did occasionally, but never me. I can say this now because of years of therapy high self-confidence. When we weren't out, awkwardly trying to make some coffee shop "our" place (like on 'Friends')by over-staying our welcome and over-tipping, or "crusing", in the technically illegal sense, around the Arvada mall or sitting in King Soopers eating Ben & Jerry's and browsing Teen Beat for pictures of boy bands, I was content to be at home with my family.

My family isn't exactly normal either. We sing in restaurants and talk to each other in accents and the first time I brought my now-husband home to meet them, we all thought it would be funny to pretend my parents were alcoholics and scare him. It made more sense at the time. But before that, back in high school, if I wasn't out dabbling in witch craft I was at home, where every Saturday smelled of barbecue and the soundtrack to every evening was Garrison Keillor. I was content at home, penning damply emotional poetry, or gleaning a rich sexual education from novels, or spending my requisite hours on the phone. My sister's room was right next to mine. "I can hear everything you're saying," she would taunt me. We got along, mostly, in high school, and if we weren't driving around together listening to Save Ferris and Aqua, my sister would sit in her room and make things. The first thing she made me was an Altoids tin covered in pictures of moons and stars that she'd gleaned mainly from the Delia's catalog. She didn't have modge-podge then, so she'd stuck the pictures to the tin with clear glittery nail polish and presented it to me. It was lovely. It was so me, back then. I still have it.

Now my sister has refined her artistic talent and uses it to run a small business and throw incredible parties. On Sunday she threw a Red Riding Hood themed party for her daughter Violet's very first birthday. Violet has red hair, and I am sick with envy. I wanted a little ginger kid, someone to smell like sunscreen and stay inside with me year 'round, in the dark, where it's safe. There, there now. Safe little ginger. Mommy's got you.

Anyway, my blonde sister got the red-headed child who earned the nickname (what else?) Little Red. And the red-headed child turned one. Below are the results.




Ayla, Cousin Eisley, and Owl Indy


Who doesn't love a craft? (Besides me.)



I make funny expressions when I talk to people:




Me with my lovely sis and the birthday girl, Viv. (Short for Violet).


(My style secrets, you ask? I have two hippie tunics and one hip-modest cardigan and I wear them to every single holiday, party, and wedding. Done.)


My mom, my grandma, my daughter


My mom and dad



Red Scares The Wolf



Look, I might spread Nutella on a Wal-Mart croissant and call it a work of art, but my sister is the real deal. You can visit her blog here, where I'm sure she'll have a party post up soon, with lovelier pictures. (Vintage photos are probably out now. I'll be the last to know it). Or you can visit her craft blog, Lark & Lola, where she does amazing things like turn tea towels into pillows I covet, and is kind enough to tell you how.

Now hipsters, please excuse me. I have to go pen some damp emotional poetry and steer backwards through the Wendy's drive-thru window.

XOXO
-V

A Tale of Two Believers

There are two blogs I read, uh, faithfully. If you will.

One is by a woman who is devout and identifies strongly with her religion.

The other is by a woman who has left that same religion.

The Faithful Among Us says a lot of things I believe myself. Her writing resounds with me, and often I feel I learn from her. About the importance of choosing happiness, of introspection, of listening to the voice within your soul. Basically, she says "Heavenly Father" and I say "Hermione" but everyone knows we are talking about the same divine soul-vegetable.

The Dissident Daughter was raised in the same faith and has now abandoned it entirely. Occasionally she writes about the sexism, the guilt-mongering, the hypocrisy, the judgmental nature she sees within the church she left behind.

I relate to both of these women strongly. In one, I relate to the irreverence. In the other, I relate to the spirituality. One has great humor and perspective, the other brings the soul. If you put them together it might look like Tina Fey singing "Midnight Train to Georgia".

Oh, jeez. Let's pretend I never said that.

I keep thinking about these two women because together they illustrate how two different people can have two entirely different experiences within basically the same upbringing. Within the exact same religion. You can't just blame The Dissident Daughter's parents either, because she has siblings who are still devout believers. It's just that Dissident was born Dissident, and Faithful was born Faithful, and maybe there isn't much anyone could have done to change that.

I don't try to reconcile the two of these in me. I don't like hierarchies. Two of my favorite phrases are "too soon to tell" and "both are true".

Most things aren't one, or another. I think a lot of pain is caused from this belief.

I don't have to be just the good daughter, or just the wayward daughter, or just the prodigal daughter.

There is room for all of them in me.

I am Vesuvius and I think we all know I am the cocktail daughter.

Saturday: A Tragedy

It had been a quiet week in Longmont, warm and sunny, when the family V got into the mini-van, and drove to Ft. Collins, where it was cold and cloudy.

V Baby One had always mistaken the words "Old Town" for "Apple Town", and her parents didn't correct it because they knew it was a sign of their daughter's above average intelligence and what had V earned an English degree for if not to raise children who were awkward and poetic? In Apple Town, the streets were swarming with beautiful families and bike-to-work types and wholesome college kids with dogs, all wearing what V considered a vulgar amount of green for almost a full week before St. Patrick's day. There had been a parade, they hadn't known. The other children, well groomed if somewhat mundane, carried balloons and clutched bags full of candy, proffering them forth like war spoils. No matter, they said. The Mini-V's were begging for whole-wheat pizza and educational video games at Coopersmith's. Because of the crowd, and the accompanying suspicious number of cars for all the people wearing green bike helmets, they parked four blocks away instead of their usual across the street. Walked shivering in the unexpected cold. It didn't matter, they were of good Viking stock, they were Coloradoans who wore sundresses on Christmas eve and Crocs in blizzards. But their restaurant, their own private, safe place where everybody knew their name, was filled to the brim with the green crowds, their shelter-rescued dogs, and their children whom, the family V saw now, were not only plain-looking but frighteningly misbehaved.

They waited for an hour, V and Mr. V. Debated back and forth between the packed seat yourself bar and the waiting-listed restaurant.

They grew snippy with one another.

Mr. V said "Do you want to split a burger?". V snapped "Fine". It was not what she wanted, but would she say this? No. Fine, Fine, everything was Fine. She drank her children's root beer floats when they weren't looking and sent mutinous glares at her unsuspecting husband, ignorantly playing tic-tac-toe with Mini V One.

The waitress, a fresh-faced, smiling college student who was studying non-profit management, worked with local troubled youth, and who would swear mightily when she later saw what kind of tip she'd been left by the family V, brought the wrong beer.

Don't worry, it was fine.

After lunch it was time to sell clothes at Plato's Closet, the local consignment store for hip teens and college kids who thrift-shopped because it was trendy. V had three bags full of old clothes she planned to rid herself of because it made her feel virtuous. She didn't want the kids coming in, knew no one wanted to buy clothes from a mother emerging from a mini-van that had stick figures drawn into the dirt on the back. She grew restless waiting at the store. The kids grew restless in the car and left for gas. At the hip consignment store, V waited one hour to sell six dollars and fifty cents worth of clothes. She resisted the urge to swear mightily at the 8-year-old working the counter who cheerily told her what they were really looking for was boyfriend t's. Does anyone know what a boyfriend t is, she wanted to scream. But she didn't, she was a woman now, a full-grown woman with kids and a mini-van and a well-meaning, clueless husband to prove it. She didn't swear at 8-year-olds in public, she only wrote about them on her blog.

The family V had not returned; she waited for them outside in the cold, jacket off for spite. Everyone staring at her with her two shameful Trader Joe's bags full of what she saw now were, unmistakeably, Mom Clothes. No self respecting "young adult" would touch a maroon Anne Taylor blazer with a ten foot pole.

Mr. V arrived at last with a minivan full of fancy coffee. She was mad, yet how could she be mad? Mr. V had brought her a latte, something she always wished he'd do. He'd saved it for now, he'd done it on purpose, knowing this was a time when she wanted to be angry, deserved to be angry. He'd brought the latte just to spite her. Usually Mr. V snapped back when she was like this but now he didn't. "I thought you were tired. So I got a grande. I thought it would be better," he said quietly. The nerve of him. He was the most decent husband on earth, to question the fact that he'd driven off and left her to wait ashamed in the cold for 30 minutes could not be brought up by any woman but the greatest harpy.

"It is better," she admitted grudgingly. How had he known to do this? Had they taught the men to diffuse wifely anger with passive-agressive treat-buying and consideration at that non-denominational Christian church he'd been raised in? Would this have happened if he'd been confirmed by Pastor Ingqvist?

In the car back to Longmont, the sun returned. Garrison Keillor came on the radio. She turned it up. Even now, after all this time, she liked her weekend evenings with the Prairie Home Companion. Mr. Keillor sang, his voice comforting like an old hymn, honey could we ask for more? Guy Noir asked a man if he was depressed.

"Well I'm Catholic," said the man. "So how would I know?"

"Speaking of Catholic," said V. "Did you read my blog?"

"Yes," said Mr. V. "It was a little aggressive."

Oops, she thought. She'd been going for Woebegon.

But, thought Mr. V. I like her best that way.


I am Vesuvius and I am strong, Mr.V is good looking, and all our children are above average.

Flash Week starts tomorrow, as it turns out.

Vesuvius Gets Toasted

Oh boy. Now are you expecting salacious revelations and catty remarks?

Listen, if we're going to talk about getting toasted, the truth is this: I wish I could but I can't anymore because it makes me feel so awful that I'm sure I've committed blasphemy and all seven of the deadly sins in the throes of it.

(Also that unfortunate crank call to the children's librarian.)(Who didn't think me inviting her to a private audience in MY night kitchen was very funny).

I wish I had gotten toasted more when I was young and capable of bouncing back. Seriously, the time for getting toasted is college, no matter what they teach you in your freshman Women's Christian Health class about saving Getting Toasted for marriage. (It is possible I dozed off that day). I regret not living it up more while I still could. Now I have a quarter glass of wine and pass out snoring on the couch. With a grumbly tummy in the morning.

Sorry, German ancestors. Though my ghostly stoic Swedes approve.

(Is this making any sense? I swear to god I am not toasted.)

Before it's too late, before you leave me--PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME--here's the announcement: I am a muse.

A roasty, curvacious, full-of-spitfire-and-vim muse to the gods of revelry and beer. That's right: I am pleased to announce that on February 22nd, Oskar Blues is tapping Vesuvius Imperial Ale.

Here are the stats on this hot little number: Weighing in at 10% alcoholbyvolume (boy howdy but she packs a punch!) and served in a sweet little 10 ounce glassy, Vesuvius Imperial Ale is an Imperial Brown brewed with toasted marshmallows.

I like to believe she is the perfect balance of sweet and bitter*. Dash of spice. Also, the marshmallows were my idea.

Care to join us?



We are Vesuvius and We are more than a little pleased that the first beer named after Us is an Imperial.

*Inside joke to Mr.V. Next time we go to Paris, make it the real one and make it snappy. Kisses!

Post-Edit: Just so we're clear. Vesuvius Imperial Brown is a Pilot beer (finally I get a Pilot!) brewed by the small batch at Oskar Blues Brewery by mine own husband, Mr.V, who brews there professionally. It is exclusive to the tap room, which usually runs out of it on tapping night, and not for distribution. See you there!

We Were On Something

Our camera committed suicide like it does every year around Christmas.

RIP cheap canon deal that never took pictures as well as I hoped you would. Did you leap from Noah's fingers into that fountain just to spite me? Never mind. I don't want to know.

Listen: I liked Tori Amos in high school but then I went to a concert of hers in 2007 and had a divine encounter and now there are days when Tori is everything and all that I need, and there are wounds which nothing but Tori's religious irreverence and insight and her combination of spiritual harlotry and wisdom can sooth. That being said, there are only so many times one can rock out to that driving drum stampede that leads up to 'so sure we were on something' from the live version of Space Dog in one morning of shelving books and saving lives. And 'This American Life' is only out once a week.

So I invested in some new musics. Which I now list before you for your perusal or disdain.

Lissie. She is awesome and I loves her. Danger will follow me now everywhere I go is my new motto.

(Have I mentioned I am a desperate working housewife with a flair for drama ?)

Mumford and Sons. Also these ones I love. I was worried I got tricked into buying a Christian cd in disguise until I heard that one track in which every other word is the Frak word. Turns out they are just referencing Shakespeare.

Florence and the Machine: Not feeling it so far but I'm giving her another chance.

Old Crow Medicine Show: the only disappointment. Turns out there is only one song like "Wagon Wheel". No need to own the other 11.

Now if my friends Kiah and Donovan will just come out with albums, or an album, I will be pleased as a pig on rollerskates.

Do you think I could get them to stand in my living room and sing while I wash dishes? No? I could feed them string cheese and beer. . .?


****

Today my children watched tv from 4:30 to 6:00 straight and then I moved them into their room where they are watching tv again. I don't know why but I'm addicted to saying things like this here on my blog. It must be awful for you, and I'm sorry. It's probably like showing up to a soiree to meet someone you really admire and it turns out all Maya Angelou can talk about is how dapper your husband looks in his dockers. Not that I mean you admire me but the point is it must make you really uncomfortable. This is not what you came for, I know.

I guess I say it because I want you to know that if you have ever checked out for an entire afternoon and let your kids go glassy before the flickering cosmic demi-god, you are not alone.

I am here with you.

Look, this is going downhill fast.


*****
I am Vesuvius and I just explained to Danger basic bathroom etiquette.

****


Lissie - Cuckoo (Official Video) found on Pop



-

Blog Fail

Dear Readers,

I am sorry.

I had a massive writer failure. I was aiming for a tone of 'too much to do!' and 'need a breather!'. And instead, as it turns out, what I actually hit was 'I am being forced against my will to watch Sex and the City 2 and the man behind me is loudly consuming snacks!' and gave you all flashbacks to that time in high school when one of your friends got dumped and started talking about how she just wanted to 'end it all' and you all had to (got to?) act really concerned and overly dramatic about it for awhile. And maybe you all went and talked to an approachable teacher or coach about it and then they had to be really concerned and be all, 'this is a very serious matter' about it and then they separated the boys and the girls and gave you some sort of talk that ended with a prayer and donuts.

I was going for 'tired!' but what I said was, "MY PSYCHE IS BEING MAULED BY A BEAR MADE OF EMOTION AND I AM FEELING MOROSE ABOUT IT!!!!"

Throw in a picture that is, in retrospect, rather dismal, and title it after a Neko Case song that apparently no one else has listened to and you've got a recipe for disaster.

I didn't realize until I got a call from my mother asking me "are you ok?" in that way only mothers do. And then people started offering to bring me dinner and slipping me websites and phone numbers of 'people who can help' and a stranger at Wal-Mart actually offered me valium to make the pain go away, but I don't think she had read my blog. I think that was just a coincidence.

Anyway I think I'm more depressed now than I was when I wrote Cold and Shivers because of my own massive writerly failure and now I'm pulling all my hair out and haven't brushed my teeth in three days and I keep pounding things out angrily on a typewriter only to yank them from the reel and stuff them into my mouth and swallow both because my writing is so ghastly awful and because I will never be appreciated for the genius I am. **

I don't often feel as dark in my soul as I made you all believe I was feeling. And if I do, I don't blog because that's just ugly. I wait for it to pass and then I blog about the aftermath. Which may still be ugly but is generally less disturbing for readers.

So I thank you for your kindnesses and concern, and I'm sorry I scared you. Please don't leave me. You wouldn't want that emotion bear to start ripping out my innards with his claws of self-loathing and his sweet breath of long-expected failure, do you?


I am Vesuvius and the bear lines are funnier if you imagine Will Ferrell saying them.

**Just kidding!

Also I Enjoy The Kit-Kats

Vesuvius is looking forward to Sunday night, about 10 pm, when I can pry the goblin's Halloween buckets from their exhausted sticky clutches and steal all the Twix. And the Snickers.

And the Milky Ways.

We will be going to the Dia De Los Muertos festivities at the Longmont Museum and Cultural center. Then my children's training up as pagans will finally be complete.

(Indy: Mom, god wears make up and makes me feel cozy. Mom: No honey, that's your Aunt Sophie)

Indy also thinks God needs to get some more Halloween decorations.

(Please resist your temptation to comment on how the leaves are God's decorations and all that jazz. We are not writing for the Christian Jack Handy here.)

Lastly, today I got to blog for MOPS International. I remember my mom taking me to MOPS meetings. Those were the ones where they fed us those cheap fake Oreos and grape kool-aid. Or maybe the ones in that smoky restaurant with the basement, where our parents gave us money for Pac-Man and then we could never find them again for three hours.

Wait, what?

Check it out here.

Have a Happy Halloween and remember: If your kid doesn't like Crunch bars or Junior Mints, I do.



I am Vesuvius and my favorite Halloween candy is wine.