Amanda Hill - Journal

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

NPR Catnip

I’m not sure what application process is required to work as an on-air announcer for NPR, but I’m sure it involves a focus group and a bunch of pillows. The first announcer to successfully woo the group into a hypnotic trance gets the job and if there’s any spontaneous sleeping there’s a hefty signing bonus. I swear it’s like catnip. The other day on the way home from work, I was totally absorbed in a story about how an artist up east carves chairs out of burled wood and charges some crazy price like $25,000 a chair. I could have instead been listening to talk radio about actual issues that were occurring in the political landscape of our country, but instead I just sighed and kept listening to Mr. Weird Wood Artist talk about his chairs. The announcer, in her syrupy and thick raspy voice, calmly explained that “it was an art form” and that “the legs of the chair were organic, growing up tall and strong to equal the stability of the seat” or some other ridiculousness. While that should have clued me in to change the channel and quit polluting my mind with junk, I found myself nodding and smiling dumbly, as if I had no control over myself. Do you think these NPR people have some special talent to speak in subliminal messaging, explaining calmly to your subconscious that what they are saying is not utterly stupid and that it’s in fact worth listening to? Why else would I choose to listen to a story about $25,000 burled wood chairs with organic legs? It doesn’t make any sense. Until I uncover the mysteries of these announcers, however, speaking in their fancy calming language, I’ve decided to just go with it. Is it that horrendous to hear about the plight of the dolphins or the sustainable farm in Nebraska or that quirky independent filmmaker in South Africa? It’s not particularly relevant to my life, but can’t there be worse habits in the world? It’s certainly better than road rage and much cheaper than therapy. So the next time you see me, dumbly smiling and staring in front of me in traffic with both hands suspiciously on the wheel, know that the government experiment to take over our minds is working and in full force. I’m addicted to those sing-songy NPR voices and I’m not going to stop now. I might just buy one of those chairs after all.

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 21:31:56 | 0 comments

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Leaves and Purple Markers

Sometimes I just laugh spontaneously at the things that come out of my daughter’s mouth. The other day, due to my repeated pleas to incorporate more veggies into her diet, our previous nanny tried to sneak in some spinach leaves into her dinner. My outspoken two-year-old responded with a scowl and a statement that – duh – “babies don’t eat leaves.” When our nanny indicated that she did, in fact, eat spinach leaves, all Miriam could say was, complete with dramatic pauses, “That. . . Is. . . Naaaasty.” And a few nights later, as I was curling up with her before bed reading a book, I got frustrated that she was turning the pages of the same book over and over again, so I tried to pry it out of her little hands and move onto the next story. She got so exasperated at me that she threw me a little attitude. “It’s mine,” she said. “Don’t grabbit, mommy.” Her little furled brow was so serious that I cracked up with laughter. And I try so hard to increase her vocabulary, paranoid that her little spongy brain won’t soak up what it needs to and she’ll go through life always saying her day was simply fine and that the weather was good and she thought the lady was awfully nice. The other day I had the brainy idea to post six new words on our pantry every Monday and try and incorporate them into our daily speech. Not to stop there, I encouraged the day care teacher to follow suit, which was likely met with that “I hate these nerdy and overbearing moms” eye roll and unconvincing nod. Undeterred, I tried to vary my conversations with my daughter each evening to incorporate a variety of words. But honestly I don’t know who I’m kidding. Sometimes the sentences sound so contrived she just looks at me in disbelief. It’s one thing to ask if her afternoon was pleasant or if the teachers were friendly or whether she played inside the building or out, but I tend to carry a good thing a bit too far. Last week, she had taken the liberty of drawing on her left arm with a purple marker, qualifying it by stating it was actually “sun lotion,” as if that gave her the liberty to draw on herself. Trying to think of a new way to say “good grief let’s wash that crap off before it stains your skin purple,” I sat on the living room floor thinking. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I asked her if she wanted to “create a void where the marker was” or something so outlandish she just stared at me. “I want strawberry (pronouncedstwa-beh-wee) yogurt,” she stated in a very flat affect, as if to say “I’m not dignifying your stupid statement with a response, so how about we forget it all and have a snack.” It serves me right, asking about buildings and voided marker stains and whether someone was friendly or enthusiastic and if she truly believed she wanted applesauce over raisins. She’s a two-year-old for goodness sakes. So the next time she sneezes, I’m not going to ask if she wants to scrub the mucus from her nostrils. I’m not going to ask if she’s feeling under the weather or if her allergies are aggravating her or whether she wants for me to deliver to her a tissue to prevent a sneeze. I’m simply going to walk up to my daughter, stick a Kleenex to her nose, and say “blow.” I think she’ll get the message.

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 13:11:52 | 0 comments

Thursday, September 27, 2007

The Value of a Life

I sang Amazing Grace at a memorial service today for a co-worker (very badly, I might add, and in too high of an octave). It was a sad event not because I would terribly miss the individual who died, for I barely knew him. It was sad because his life seemed so meaningless. He had no family except for an estranged sister who lived in California. He lived in a little shack and rarely washed his clothes and had mental problems. He stammered and stuttered and seemed to have an issue with people’s feet. He never knew how to talk to people and kept his head down.

Originally, this coworker was a computer analyst, but after his mental capacity declined he was relegated to an office clerk. He got to the point where he could no longer file, always throwing away the wrong files and unsure how to label them correctly. He died a few weeks after being given a performance counseling at work, seemingly afraid he would get fired. The office has reason to believe he might have taken his own life, afraid he would lose his job and have nothing to live for.

After he died, there was no funeral planned. The office decided to put together a memorial for him, in some way to add closure to his life and honor the fact that he even existed in this world. That is the sad part. The fact that people thought he was just a crazy old smelly fool that couldn’t get anything right. The weird co-worker with the foot fetish. The guy who smelled bad and mumbled to himself and had to be sent home at times to take a shower and change into clean clothes. Yes, there were times he was sweet and sent nice emails and gave co-workers packets of information on karate and rafting and such for the benefit of their children, but most of the time he just laughed at odd times and ate cream-of-wheat in his cubicle and sharpened his pencils. I never found out if he ever used the pencils, but they were clearly very sharp. This is the man we mourned, a 61-year-old retirement-eligible veteran whose mind had turned sour over the years and was worried about losing his job.

What was the purpose of his life? To make us feel guilty for passing him in the hallway saying nothing, hoping he would just keep walking? Perhaps. To put a personal face on Jesus’ preaching to love the least of us? To show us the error of our ways in passing him by and not getting him the respect he deserved? Yes, yes, yes. The good Samaritan story I read my girl at night kept flashing through my head like a broken record.. .We should stop and pay attention to those who are downtrodden.

But all I could really think about was whether his mother had such strong emotions for him upon his birth. Was he at one time laughing and walking and asking his ma ma to blow bubbles and play blocks? She undoubtedly had high hopes for him. He will grow up to be a doctor or engineer, she probably thought to herself. He is such a quiet boy and a thinker. But alas – she passed on, not knowing her only son grew up and worked for the government as a crazy office clerk that no one really paid much attention to.

I was trying not to think of all this when I picked up my little girl from day care. I smiled as I made her a grilled cheese and fruit, and watched her bob her head up and down and yum yum up the blueberries and tell me to blow bubbles and boo boo and night night. I forgot about the memorial service and my singing of Amazing Grace and went about my evening routine. Dinner clean-up, bathtime, reading, rocking my girl.

But after it was over, I couldn’t help thinking about this man. This son. This mother. This child who had to grow up and not fit in and was made fun of. I can only imagine that she loved him as strongly as I love my daughter, with a fierce protective love that cannot falter. I can imagine she loved for him to bury his little blond head into her chest during bear hugs and made him little sandwiches and lovingly changed his diapers. This is the man, and the son, that we mourned.

God loves us like this man’s mother did – despite our flaws and smelliness and crazy talk and foot fetishes. We are his children whom he loves to talk to and have belly laughs with and smile at. When this man passed, God was undoubtedly just as excited to welcome him into the kingdom as an ex-president or Nobel peace prize winner. In God’s eyes, as in the mother of this co-worker, we are all just children, waiting with sparkling eyes for our grilled cheese sandwiches and needing our hair brushed. And there’s not a mother in the world who doesn’t look at their child in that moment and love them then and until the end of time.

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 07:59:07 | 0 comments

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Phone Voice

I just hate Phone Voice. That pesky little creature always appears out of no where when I meet a new friend. No matter how hard I try to avoid it, Phone Voice still somehow hops into my vocal cords during phone messages and dinner dates. I try to squash it, but it’s just as futile as fake smiling when you run into an old neighbor. I’m a pro at that.

It always starts out the same. I see a new friend’s phone number sparkling on caller-ID like an unopened present and intend to just casually pick up the phone with a nonchalant hello. But Phone Voice takes over and my hello is suddenly plucked from morning talk radio; it’s high-pitched and silly and resounding with manufactured energy. It’s as if I were suddenly playing hop scotch or baking oatmeal cookies, be-bopping to oldies while painting my nails hot pink with sparkles. In reality I was sitting at my computer in my t-shirt and pajama bottoms, my eyes sunken in with fatigue and my throat aching for more hot tea. Or, more frequently, sitting in rush-hour traffic biting my lip and scowling.

I suppose I should be grateful. Phone Voice is refreshing – so perky and full of life. Very different from my off-moments at home or in the car. But it’s insincere, and don’t you agree that new friends shouldn’t be lied to? I should be able to maintain a consistent attitude, regardless of how negative or unappealing, regardless of how new my friendship is with someone. But appearances are everything, even if those appearances rest in your voice. Cheeks are rosy, the sun is shining, and by golly my voice will reflect it.

So bubbly happy me goes on about how delightful it would be to have lunch and how busy I’ve been and did I mention your haircut is absolutely adorable and are those shoes from Jimmy Choo? You really must meet me for coffee and tell me what you’re reading and I will call you the moment I watch Grey’s Anatomy and we can go shopping for bras this Saturday. It ends with giggles and pleas to send pictures of our respective children. It’s inevitable.

But there is a moment when it starts to die a slow death. The more frequent you visit a new friend, the more you talk to them, and the more you learn about their life you realize they, too, are human. They use Phone Voice to mask their insecurities and appear optimistic and pretend they are not in the process of waxing their eyebrows or ironing their already-worn pants when you call. So you come to an understanding one day, after helping a friend move until the wee hours of the morning and smelling of dirty sweats and laughing with fatigue. You realize that you have finally formed a friendship. It is then Phone Voice disappears. When they call, you offer an honest and humble hello. If it’s been a while since you have spoken, your happiness is truly reflected in simply hearing their voice. Your laughter is genuine and the smiles that erupt from the sound of their voice real.

Phone voice may be the beginning of any friendship, but it doesn’t have to exist forever. The test of a true friendship is whether you can ever fully overtake it. So here’s a toast to Phone Voice – for without it, friendships would never have the rosy and cheerful beginning they so desperately need to really get off the ground to begin with.

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 14:05:26 | 0 comments

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Dessert

The other day I read the expression “Life is short; eat dessert first.” I realize it is a masked attempt at telling the general public to seize opportunities while you can in life and not wait for near-perfect conditions. We are not morons; we get it. But I disagree wholeheartedly. What it’s really saying is “You might fall over dead in the middle of your filet, so why not have the pleasing taste sugar on your lips as you take in your last breath?” Not many dead folks I know retain the sense of taste, so I hardly see what it matters exactly what you are eating when you die, unless of course you are eating spinach and you get itcaught in your teeth for all the waiters to glare at as they wheel you out in a stretcher. So what do you do? If you slam down an entire walnut brownie a lamode while your dinner guests are munching delicately on their spring salad, you are a certifiable gluttonous slob. And even if you just nibble sweetly on a berry tart before the dinner rolls arrive, there’s really nothing to look forward to at the end of the meal. If your health is in such poor shape that you are actually worried about having a heart attack mid-bite, for goodness sakes stay home with a bottle of aspirin. But assuming you are healthy enough to make it out alive after an entire dinner, I suggest waiting and eating dessert last. Life may be short, but why ruin the anticipation of a sweet ending? Dessert is the climax to a salad’s foreplay, and I couldn’t possibly imagine devouring it first, it’s creamy sweetness lost on a rude and ravenous stomach. So enjoy your courses, my friends, but end it all on a sweet note. Life may be short, but you certainly have time for a few olives and a slice of bread before sucking down a chocolate torte. Happy eating!Amanda

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 12:36:07 | 0 comments

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Mom's Letters to Santa

Santa,

I’m writing you this letter because alongside of me is my daughter, dutifully writing her Christmas list to you. So to play along, I am eating gingerbread men right beside her at the kitchen table and writing you as well. The pour souls have been beheaded by my daughter’s razor-sharp teeth and I’m consuming their deformed bodies. A few are still are wearing their little icing jackets with red-hot buttons. But moving on to the Christmas list.

Now Santa. Seriously. Everyone know you are just an imaginary character made up by the Coca-Cola marketing executives in the 1930’s. Oh sure there was a St. Nicholas in the olden days, but he didn’t have rosy cheeks, wear a ridiculous red suit with white fur, and say “Ho Ho Ho” while flying through the sky hauled by a set of puny little reindeer. Now that we are clear on that, I would like to have world peace and complete dominion over my household. And clean toilets. And a diamond drop pendant. And while I’m at it, I want a self-cleaning dog and an escalator up to the second floor. Hey – you’re Santa. Work your magic!

Still writing. And eating. Now I’m chomping on little gingerbread feet, all-the-while trying to convince myself that egg nog really isn’t that fattening. Eggs are full of protein, right? Isn’t that on Atkins? At this very moment my daughter has four things on her list. A doll, a tube of bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss, Candy Land (which we already have), and a power drill. The latter is what her father wants, so she’s obviously confused. If you really are out there Santa, please don’t get my daughter a power drill. Seriously.

My precious little thing is now gazing into the backyard scratching her head, which means she’s forgotten what she’s doing and is contemplating playing on the tire swing. I can read my daughter like a book. So over and out, Santa. It’s been real.

Well here I am again, you old man. Despite my incredible mothering insight into my child’s mind, my daughter was in fact not thinking of abandoning her Christmas list project but was wondering if power drills come in pink. Oh heavens.

So I’m still pretending to write you, and I have to admit it’s becoming sort-of fun and I think it would be neat if you really did exist. Can you imagine having an escalator to the upstairs bedroom? Or a clean toilet?

I just now informed my daughter that perhaps what she really wants for Christmas is an easy bake oven or perhaps some new pajamas. But in response, she asks me if drills come with “atackmens,” which of course means “attachments” in my child’s newly developed language. When I told her I didn’t think power drills came with attachments, and in reality power drills really aren’t made for little girls who might possibly saw off their little fingers, she threw down her crayons and started banging her fists on the table. This rattled the two remaining gingerbread arms right off the plate and sent my daughter to time out.

So now, Santa, my daughter is in her room and I’m still writing you. I have no reason to still write now that my daughter is finished with her Christmas list, but I don’t feel like doing laundry so I’ll continue. For some reason I think you might be out there somewhere, listening to my thoughts and really earnestly wanting to grant my wishes. If so, the priority is (1) diamonds, (2) weekly-maid service, and (3) everything else, including world peace.

Well I suppose I shall let you go so you can get to your Santa duties. I, on the other hand, have to head to Target to see if pink power tools exist. If you were real, I wouldn’t have to worry with these small dilemmas.

Your friend,
Mom

Santa,

It’s now December 26, and I’m writing to tell you to please disregard my previous attacks on your character. And challenging the fact that you exist at all. My bad. My daughter is currently out in the garage with her daddy, the little electric heater fired up to keep them both warm. He’s cutting a piece of wood and she is pretending to do the same with her little toy power drill, as pink as pink can be. It has attachments. And a butterfly on the side. And a note saying “girls can use power tools too.” So now I look like the big bad mommy who said Santa and his stupid elves didn’t exist. I feel bad about that. Not only did you teach me that you are in fact alive and well, but I learned a valuable lesson in gender stereotyping. You really are a cool old man. Sorry I doubted you.

But one thing – why didn’t I get what I asked for? Can you not haul an escalator across the sky in a sled? I forgive you in light of my harsh words earlier. Next year, however, I expect diamonds. They travel easily.

Your most devoted fan,
Mom

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 07:52:00 | 0 comments

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

A Good Reminder

Two fellow employees in the building where I work went
to lunch together yesterday and never came back. They
were hit by a large dump truck. The car slammed into the median and
killed both the driver and the passenger immediately.

One employee had small children at home – she was only
34 years old -- and the other was only 47. This is not
the first death this season – another employee and his
10-year-old child were both killed over the
Thanksgiving weekend in a traffic accident. I can
only imagine the pain and grief associated with losing
a husband and a child at one time.

Every single day is a precious gift; it’s a reminder,
at least to me, to treasure all the little things in
life. . .

Like telling my family how much I love them. Not
spending energy on things that don’t matter, and on
arguments that don’t advance relationships. Not
allowing people’s little annoying habits get to me.
Using those little soaps and bath gels I am saving for
company. Buying the beef tenderloin, despite the
price. Forgiving those I hate. Telling a frayed
mother with a screaming child at the mall that it’s
okay – children cry. Finding a way to compliment the
grocery store checker and the lady that works in the
dry cleaners. Surely they have pretty nails or thick
hair or a nice sweater or something. Spending time
listening to my older relatives; they get lonely.
Getting a manicure, smiling at strangers, and eating
dessert at every opportunity. Singing loudly, in
public or at home. Sending hand-written notes to
people I love, explaining just how valuable they are
to me. And most importantly, laughing as much as
possible.

Life is but a breath and can be taken away at any
moment. So hug your family, take a day off,
make meaningful decisions, and brighten someone's day.

Go out there and make a difference.

Amanda

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 12:24:58 | 0 comments

Friday, September 08, 2006

Welcome Addition

I am always amazed at how quickly time flies. Since my last posting, so much has happened! I started my own company (Hill Pen Enterprises, L.L.C.), which will allow me to focus on commercial freelance writing as well as children’s literature. More importantly, however, my husband and I welcomed our first child into this world. We had a baby girl weighing 9 pounds 9 oz at birth and she’s growing by the minute. How exciting to see the birth of your own child!

Being a mother is much more challenging than I ever imagined – much harder than any task on The Apprentice or any legal problem I’ve been handed. It’s unrelenting, all consuming, rewarding, exciting, exhausting, frustrating, and enlightening. Despite the lack of sleep and constant work, now that I’ve seen the light of motherhood, I wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world.

Recently, on a visit to see my grandmother, I commented about amazing it was that my husband and I could create such a beautiful creature (I mean seriously – she’s much prettier than both of us put together). She quickly corrected me that it was God who created her, not us. “Don’t you forget it,” she said. She is so right. No two human beings could create a life so precious and untainted – so peaceful and pure. That’s God’s department.

Before you go about thinking I’m jet-setting around the country from party to party, let me correct you that I’m more likely feeding, burping, or cooing at my baby girl. So if you see me somewhere in Austin dabbing a spit-up stain on my shirt with a wet cloth while trying to balance a baby carrier and a briefcase, please just keep walking. Motherhood is not as easy as it looks!

Until next time,
Amanda

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 15:00:00 | 0 comments

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Memory of Summer

Fierce rays squeeze me
throwing my mood hard
against cracked soil
Afternoon’s heavy hand
Slaps my face
I curse the humid skies

Panting hard atop
dirty white blankets
Teddy flops down
Dreaming of cooler nights
manufactured air

Kids jump in sprinklers
lick icy pops
little brain freezes and red shorts
sleeping late until day camp
eating brownies

The working trudge
practical and old
through shaking pavement heat
no slip-and-slides or milkshakes
just sticky Texas sun

I long to embrace it
hug the heat, my fiery friend
sip pink lemonade with a crazy straw
do belly-flops

When did I stop swinging
stomach jump high
peeking through lemon-streaked hair
painting tall brown barns on freezer paper
sucking up strawberry summer?

I want to paint and slurp and sing
once again.

© Amanda B. Hill

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 16:14:42 | 0 comments

Friday, February 17, 2006

Never Give Up

One Fall, my husband and I signed up to run a 5K race. We were not dedicating ourselves to a marathon or training for the Olympics – merely 3.1 miles of running up and down hills to benefit some charity. My husband considers running 3.1 miles a mere warm-up, but I was embarrassingly and completely out of shape. But it was a race, which meant there was an element of competition involved. That’s when the trouble began.

I started off slow, letting the strong runners float by with ease, convincing myself that a slow, steady strategy was the best option. I did okay until I started to notice children – some as young as 8 or 9 – begin to pass me. I was a bit concerned that I might embarrass myself, so I sped up. Ahead of me was a woman who was obviously as out of shape as I was, her legs plodding up and down through her hot pink shorts, plunking down on the pavement with her flat-bottomed shoes. I certainly could not lose this 3.1-mile run to the pink shorts woman. So I quickened my stride. I tried to remember my husband’s tips of taking in more air through my nose and not my mouth. I relaxed. But my childhood asthma started to come back with a vengeance. My breaths became labored and my wheezing more pronounced. But I passed. . . the . . . pinkshorts. . . girl. I slowed.

Finally I had achieved my goal of at least beating her up the hill. All of a sudden I started to see those hated pink shorts out of the corner of my eye – the nerve! She was starting to pass! All of a sudden we faced another hill, and it was even higher than the one before. I thought to myself, “How long can it possibly take to run 3.1 miles?” I started up the hill. I kept about two clicks ahead of pink shorts girl, hoping she would tire after the second hill. But doggone it she kept up. Finally, we were neck and neck rounding the corner toward the finish line. I saw my husband sitting down at the end, finishing a bottle of water and looking bored. I’m sure he finished half an hour ago and was patiently waiting for his wife to make it through the course.

Pink shorts girl picked up speed, and so did I. I was no longer focusing on “breathing through my nose,” but was furiously panting and plodding and wheezing my way to the end. Instead of attractive strides and a smiling face, I looked as if I had been attacked – a look of dread and fear that I would both pass out and die and stop running, losing to PINK SHORTS GIRL of all people, at the end. So I ran faster, wheezed harder, and plodded heavier. Finally, I was nearing the line. I looked again at my husband, who had a look of panic on his face. I must have really looked rough – my face contorted and my mouth gulping in air as fast as possible.

I almost collapsed when I finished, but I am happy to report that I was at least 5 yards ahead of you-know-who. So I was happy. I can’t tell you how long it took me to recover from that race. My stomach was cramping, I almost fainted, and I saw stars in my eyes at least twice. My husband just kept instructing me to breathe and drink water, and then finally things got back to normal. “What the heck is wrong with you?” he asked.

He just didn’t understand. It’s about competition. It’s about succeeding. It’s about not losing to pink shorts girl. That’s what drives me to continue in life: it’s not that I’m the best at what I do, because believe me, I’m not. I’m not the prettiest or the smartest or the fastest. I don’t always win. I’m not always the best. But I am fiercely competitive, and I’m not afraid to run through whatever it takes to get the job done.

posted by Amanda B. Hill at 16:14:02 | 1 comments