Recurring Series: Clumsy Adventures by AM #1

As a child I was infamous for my clumsiness. I was one of those sweaty kids that ran everywhere without the dexterity and agility to avoid obstacles like furniture, puddles, gravel, or my little brother's large skull. I have more memories than I can count that begin with a routine action and end with my mother's fuzzy, frantic face leaning over my inert body.

There was the time in Italy when it rained and Sarah's bedroom flooded, and I ran to get a towel and ran back in with the towel onto the wet marble floor, and then I remember no more. Or the time when I was bouncing around in Jeff's crib with him, and wanted to grab the blue plastic cup that was sitting on the low table beside the crib, and I remember leaning and reaching down for it, and then I remember no more, other than the vague sounds of mother and sisters screaming. Then there was the time when Jeff had climbed up onto the kitchen counter, and I had the bright idea of catching him to help him get down. Jeff was 2 years younger but a sturdy lad with a sizable noggin, and I remember standing there with arms outstretched while he jumped, and then I remember no more.

The coup de gras of the Italy years may have been the time when Mom was late to go visiting teaching, and in my efforts to be helpful, bellowed: "I'll shut the van door, Mom!" and proceeded to do so while somehow leaving my left ring finger in the path of the closing door. I do remember how that one played out--the screams, the panic, the rush to the hospital, my own disgust over the next few weeks while watching my nail blacken and fall off.

I shall leave the England years, the woeful Bothell years of puberty, and the painful mission years of Brazilian cobblestones for another time. This is all meant to be background to what I know will be a recurring series on the blog: unaccountable, inexplicable acts of overt and embarrassing clumsiness by Ann Marie (Josh will not be contributing, as he is the coordinated part of this duo), this time without the excuse of being a toddler, child, or pubescent, when I was fairly new at operating a human body, or at figuring out what to do with extremely large feet.

No, I have definitely been an adult now for a good decade and a bit, and have no excuse for any of the events, present and future, that I will share with you.

The one I feel driven to share happened this past week in the breakroom at work. I had gone there with the intent of getting more ice for my water glass and topping off my water bottle, which was about 3/4 full. I stood up to the water machine, and instead of leaving the bottle upright and sticking it under the spout, I proceeded to (literally) upend the bottle, sending an Old-Testament-like gush upon the floor. The bizarre part of the event was that there was no clumsy fumbling; no losing my balance and letting go of the bottle or anything--no, like a strange, even-keeled robot, standing completely still, I tipped the mouth of the bottle down and poured it all out onto the floor. The really awkward part was that the guy who works down the hall in contracts was standing about 18 inches away, filling his coffee mug, and observed the whole thing. He watched me mop up the puddle I'd made, leaving me to say the thing I have found myself saying many times over the years, which still really doesn't do anything to make it all less awkward: "Well, at least it was just water, right?"

*****

JD here. I have nothing to add.

The Problem of Naming (Pilot Entry)

It was no small task deciding on name for this blog.  In fact, I think we almost gave up on the blog because we could not decide on a name for it.  The Herculean laboriousness of the experience caused me to reflect on the whole issue of naming and identity; how it is that we define ourselves and would like to see ourselves represented to others.

“The McDaltons” seemed too drab.  So I thought about symbols of our separate ethnic cultures—something like “Whisky and Soy” or “The Eastern Shamrock,” but those were rejected for obvious reasons.

Then Josh asked me if there was some quote from one of my favorite authors that would do, so I tried to think back on the graduate school days. All that came to mind was John Stuart Mill’s “stupidity is in the world all over”—hardly an encouraging title—and two winners from Thomas Hardy: “Intelligent Intercourse” and “Somnambulistic Hallucination,” two philosophical ideas which, when taken out of their 19th century context, could draw the wrong type of readership.

Then Josh suggested we follow the old fairy tale binary titling format after the manner of “Beauty and the Beast.”  The obvious choice for Josh was “rogue,” for various reasons (the X-Men connection not being one of them, although Jimmy’s suggestion of “Jubilee and Rogue” was appreciated).  We had a much harder time picking a word for me.  Here we ran up against the unfortunate sexism that is too-often implicit in language—there were numerous descriptors for the male that managed to be edgy and complimentary (rogue, rascal, swashbuckler, renegade, maverick).  All the lexically interesting descriptors for the female were, shall we say, reductive: jade, wench, trollop, hussy, slattern, etc.

We waded through some Greek goddesses and literary heroines, but those were quickly discarded as well.  Capricious, mostly one-dimensional, and kind of neurotic, we tossed out Athena, Daphne, Persephone, Cleopatra, Aphrodite, and Dido. 

We thought maybe a flower would work as my symbol, so I pulled out the old “Language of Flowers” book I got when I was 13 and interested in things like that.  It lists the name of a flower and its corresponding message in days of yore.  Unfortunately, all the traits I found flattering were attached to flower names that were hardly fitted for a blog title: “You are divine” = Cowslip; “Poetry” = Eglantine; “Strength of Character” = Gladiolus; “You Comfort Me” = Milk Vetch; “You are rich in attractions” = Ranunculus.

We thought about “The Lady and the Rogue,” but my sister Sarah wisely warned us that it might be a bit too “Quill and the Swordish” (for those that did not attend BYU or that choose not to remember, the Quill and the Sword was the name of the medieval club; if you saw anyone walking around in capes and chain mail on campus, you know what I mean).  Friend Mary Ann suggested “Rogue and Refined,” which we like well enough, but I felt like it was a bit limiting/untruthful on my side.  One cannot always be refined.

So then the other night Josh and my sister Michelle (aka Midge) and I were playing a typical came of Nertz.  By typical I mean it was marked by many verbal explosions from me and a few violent attempts on the person of my husband.  And thus was born the suggestion of “The Rogue and the Fury.”

Truth be told, “fury” is just as reductive as Jade, Refined, or Milk Vetch.  But I suppose it won out because (1) I tend to move at a rather furious pace most of the time; (2) Josh takes pleasure in purposefully inciting my wrath because he likes to tease (roguishly, of course) and therefore sees that side of me fairly often, but ultimately (3) because I liked the sound of it.

I think, sometimes, we like to present ourselves in a way that others may not see us—to defy expectations, or at least, to question them.  It’s boring to always do and say exactly what people think we will.  Maybe that’s why I prefer to tell the mission stories that sound more like war stories (i.e. those that involve damage inflicted on my person by disease, wildlife, and the elements), and why Josh likes to grow beards and mustaches and get perms (to be precise, that should read “get perm,” as he’s only had one).  Perhaps naming ourselves is not just about finding the trait or title that is most obvious, overtly symbolic, or precisely representative.  Perhaps it is just as much about searching out the lesser-known, imperfect, and idiosyncratic parts of our identities, and letting them speak.  So long as it has a nice ring, of course.

*****

JD here. So the christening of the blog was quite the ordeal -- as far as life ordeals go for me, I think I've ranked it somewhere between "Japanese people asking me if I was mentally retarded when I spoke Japanese" and "sitting through the third Twilight movie in the theater, where I could not make snarky comments out loud." There were points where it felt a little bit like Goldilocks and the Three Bears and nothing we brainstormed was 'just right.' It was all 'too' something or other: 'too forced,' 'too Greek,' or 'too lame' (sometimes the latter two are synonymous. Total burn on Hellenism!) It made me dread the Herculean task it will one day be to name our first child -- I mean, if we can't even name a digital medium like a blog, then how are we supposed to name a living, breathing human being? (While on the topic, my personal vote for our first boy is still for 'Scotch', but AM continues to dispute this with rhetoricals like, "Do you really want to name our child after an alcoholic beverage?", as if this would dissuade me. Silly girl.)

Regardless, I like the name we've settled on here, as it properly conveys the wrath that I incur every time I act roguish or make a snide comment. Just kidding. But not really.

Shameless plug for the entry: see the family's observations on The Lord of the Rings Trilogy.