Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

Oh So Ready

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My sister asked me if I was ready for next week. Am I ready? I have been mentally ticking down the days, practically the hours until next week. Too bad it’s the end of next week that I have to wait for. The wait can kill me.

I’ll start off by making the drive to Portland. Part of me wants to load up the billion ME/CA only returnables and finally make a return on them (think of all the nickels I’ll get! They might pay the parking meter…) Then maybe I’ll be able to get through the basement…
Then it’s a boat trip to Peaks. I’m tempted to bring running gear because the run ways out there are so beautiful. It’s a crazy mix of ocean, pines, pavement, big luxury houses, small shacks, horses, wildflowers, dirt and sea salt air. Different scenery than what I see everyday and different is good. Very good.
Babysitting the Bebe. I’m sure my sister is worried. I haven’t dealt with a child under the age of 30 in over a decade. There’s a voice in my head that reasons, “how hard can it be?” while another counters, “there’s a reason you don’t have one yourself.” Oh yeah. So, I’m looking forward to being a cool aunt trying to stay calm. I’m only half kidding.
Then. Then. Then! There is Monfreakinhegan. CanNOT wait to get there. It’s been almost a year. A full fukcing year. I tell anyone who will listen I am never doing that again. Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day & Columbus Day. Those will be my dates next year. Count on it.

I am oh so ready.

My Day

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Kisa sent me a link today. Said it was my day for my kind. My Day. A day for Lefties. A day dedicated to 10% of the population…those being not right handed. Imagine that! Needless to say I automatically joined the club and then immediately questioned my qualifications. Even felt a little guilty about printing out the certificate…(but it’s a pretty certificate).

I’m not entirely all right brained. This dominate right hand world has taught me a little something about compromise. Think about it. Try using a computer mouse in your left hand. Try holding a pair of scissors upside down. It’s a little screwy. So, I adapted. Here’s more: I throw a ball equally as bad with my left as with my right. I play golf right handed. I zest lemon rind with my right. Nutmeg, too. Peel potatoes righty. Even pick my nose with the right. So, am I right to belong to a left-handed club? Hmmmm….

When to Hold ‘Em

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When I was a kid Kenny Rogers was cool. More than cool. His ‘Coward of the County’ was king. His ‘Gambler’ was even cooler than that. I didn’t know much about gambling, the card playing kind. But, I knew about taking risks. Or, as Natalie says, “taking dares with yes.” I stretched my safety to the limits, kicked at the walls of my comfort zone all the time. It’s the only way I knew how to be. If there was a line to walk I wobbled just outside of it. Teetered on the edge of trouble. I think I was so terrible because I couldn’t get attention. Not the kind I craved. The line “when to hold ’em” was always “when to hold ME” in my mind. And I lived by the options of walking or running away. Did it all the time. If it wasn’t a physical move-to-a-new-state-no-forwarding-address kind of move it was an I Need To End This Relationship Right Now kind of running away. Shutting down, kicking someone out. Let me leave you before you leave me. Allow me to hurt myself before you do it for me. Walking or running I was always leaving someone or something.

As an adult here’s what bothers me about Kenny’s song. He says “Know when to walk away, know when to run.” Well, what about staying? Wasn’t that ever an option in his world or mine? Just sitting right there, not flinching a muscle. Not twitching a lip. Doing absolutely nothing. Being braver than brave for not bolting. I don’t get it or me. Wasn’t I stronger than that? I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer to that. Really.

Admitting Defeat

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Forgive me, but I can’t get into The Far Field: a novel of Ceylon by Edie Meidav. I feel like a failure because she has been compared to my all time favorite author, Barbara Kingsolver. That should afford me some loyalty. And yet, yet I can’t wrap my brain around this 600 page novel. Not at this time. It’s not that I find it boring. It’s not that I find it difficult. It’s neither of those things and nothing like that. I think in my twisted sense of summer it’s not entertaining enough for the dying days of August. It’s not a fun in the sun, beachy kind of read. Not right now. Never mind the fact I haven’t been to any beach since June. Never mind that I haven’t seen the sun for days and days.
So, I am admitting defeat and putting down Far Field… for now. Sorry.

In the meantime, I got two Early Review books (one already finished & reviewed – in the bag, as they say). I’m saving Emily Post’s biography for September to even out the reading just a little. I want to get through Egger’s The Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius if nothing else.

ps~ I have decided to take all my “attempted” books back and give them all second chances. It slows the BL challenge down a little, but everyone deserves a second chance. Right? Of course I’m setting myself up to feel like sh!t if I can’t finish something for a second time!

Blackbird, Farewell

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Greer, Robert. Blackbird, Farewell. Berkley: Frog Books, 2008.

I took a chance requesting Blackbird, Farewell for the Early Review program. For one thing, I don’t know that much about basketball (the little I do know I learned this season from watching the Celtics win the championship this year). For another, I have never read a CJ Floyd novel. I didn’t want to make comparisons or see how it stacked up against to other CJ Floyd books. None of that really mattered when I got down to the serious reading.

Blackbird, Farewell starts out a little rough. It begins with Shandell “Blackbird” Bird going to make a deposit at a bank. Within 27 pages he is dead. Leading up to his murder Bird is described as “having a problem”, jittery, frustrated, sad, mechanical, dismissive and blank. It seems excessive considering the reader already knows he is to die. The cliches did little to pique my interest as to what was really wrong with Bird or care when he was killed.

When Bird’s best friend and college teammate, Damion “Blood” Madrid decides he needs to solve the murder the plot of Blackbird, Farewell  picks up. Madrid is the godson of famed CJ Floyd, a Denver, Colorado bail bondsman. While rough around the edges Madrid does a good job tracking down key players in the mystery. Of course he has his beautiful girlfriend, Niki, for a sidekick as well as the mafia, a hitman, and a Persian Gulf war vet (flora Jean Benson, CJ’s partner). Blackbird has enough drama (violence & sex) to make it interesting but not overly stereotypical of murder mysteries. The streets of Denver, as well as surrounding towns of Fort Collins and Boulder serve as an accurate and appealing backdrop for Greer’s mystery to play itself out.

Final thought: If Greer is trying to sell Blackbird, Farewell on the popularity of other CJ Floyd mysteries he shouldn’t. CJ Floyd doesn’t even enter the picture until the final 20 pages of the book. It is misleading to lure readers in by saying CJ Floyd is there to watch Madrid’s back (back cover) when he isn’t even in the book until the very end. Floyd fans are sure to be disappointed. Blackbird, Farewell stands alone a fun read apart from the CJ Floyd series.

Edited to add: If I were Greer’s editor I would have asked him to change Flora Jean’s “gasket popping” comment to something else, especially since not even five pages later a completely differently character is using a very similar gasket phrase.

All is Vanity

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Schwarz, Christina. All is Vanity. New York: Doubleday, 2002.

This book cracked me up. It’s the story of a friendship between two women and how friendships can be taken advantage of. Margaret is a New York City woman (displaced from California) who gave up her teaching career to write a novel. She has subtle hubris (described as “cynical roilings” p138. ) that she tries to disguise to Letty and anyone else who listens to her (mainly her husband, Ted). Letty is Margaret’s childhood friend who became (Poor Letty!) a stay-at-home mom with four kids and a great kitchen in Los Angeles, California. They keep in touch via email and almost immediately I noticed that between the two friends, despite Margaret being the one trying to write a book, Letty is the better writer. I love Letty’s writing, but I think that’s the point. It’s only a matter of time before Margaret starts using Letty as the subject of her first book. When Letty’s life starts to spiral out of control Margaret does nothing to help thinking it helps her own fictional plot.

Funny line: “Also, as a preteen, I half believed I could do anything, as long as I set my mind to it, but was never actually willing to set my mind to anything that threatened to take up a good portion of the rest of my life” (p 12).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Women’s Friendships” (p 247). Pearl calls this book “delightful” and I would have to agree! It’s a really fun read!

Happiness Game

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Happiness is…taking a half day to visit the farm. Happiness is knowing everything is going to be alright, eventually. Happiness is….

I play this game all the time. Whenever I am overcome by being happy I have this habit of identifying the source of emotion. I haven’t acknowledged my feeling until I can fill in the blank. Something I picked up from therapy. A little weird, but there it is.

Today, coming back from the farm I felt giddy, euphoric even. My impulse was to think “on the verge of a psychotic snap” because I had just spent 40 minutes standing in the pouring rain, searching for tomatillos, the ones that had burst through their paper-lantern shells. I had given up on the cherry tomatoes 10 minutes earlier. We were allowed two quarts and for some reason my heart wasn’t in hunt. The recent storms have knocked down all the trailing twine and posts so picking tomatoes off the vine is literally hunching over, pulling up sodden leaves to look for orange orbs. We already have so many! So, I opted for just one quart and moved onto my goddess, the tomatillo.

I don’t think I can fully express my obsession with this green tomato-like, apple-like, hint of lime wonder. As the rain continued in sheets, soaking me to the bone, I stood there quietly, carefully surveying the harvest. Only the ones that had successfully burst through their paper shells were ready for picking and in the pouring rain it was impossible to tell. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a cobalt blue raincoat standing and staring on the other side of the row. “Are we crazy?” the man under the cobalt asked me when our eyes met. “I wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for the tomatillos.” I replied as I raised a hand in greeting. My hand said “Yup, we are crazy” even as my voice made excuses. Soon he came around to my row and said “what’s a tomatillo?” I pulled one of out my bag and launched into cooking school mode. “They’re like a tart tomato, think granny smith – think Mexican food…”  Meanwhile an obese drop of rain hung on the man’s nose, another in his eyelashes. A mosquito bit my neck. “Ah…” the man nodded. Why, I’m not sure. He told me the raspberries were worth the rain. I was anxious to move onto Italian flat leaf parsley but didn’t say so. Instead, I laughed and admitted the raspberries might have to wait a week. My sneakers were filled with silt. My canvas pants clung to my calves. Mud graced the cuffs. Grit was in my teeth from sneaking a cherry tomato. Dirt was under my nails and I’m sure, smudged on my face. Rain’s wet had found it’s way through my raincoat. It started to run down my back. Still I wished my picking companion a nice weekend and grinning like a fool, made my way back to the car.

Green peppers, zucchini, summer squash, onions, carrots, hot peppers, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuce, kale, cilantro, dill, honeydew, watermelon, arugula, thyme, sage, plum and cherry tomatoes…and tomatillos. Happiness is all that.

Standing on the Platform…

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For those of you in the know, you know that’s the beginning of a line from the movie Sliding Doors, one of my all time favs. The scene cracks me up.
But, back to the platform. That’s me. Standing on the platform in Indecision City. A really nice author friend likes my book reviews. She’s said as much. Like I said, really nice. But, and it’s a big but, she’s not so wild about the ranting. She gets a little squeamish when I mention the bullsh!t. Especially when it relates to my life. TMI! “I like what you read. I like how your brain works when you read. Your heart…well, it’s more than I need to know.” Odd. I say odd because most people classify my “reviews” as dry, without substance…the stuff they mutter “yeahyeahyeahwhatever” about as they scroll to the juicier bits. Hmmm. Here’s someone on the other side. A first!

So, this got me thinking. Do I split hairs with topics and separate my blogs? In truth, I’m already doing that. I “journal” my workout sessions, running miles, eating habits and yoga (dis)graces in another blog, just around the corner from here. It gets like two hits a day, but I’m okay with that. I just needed another space to fill up with “My shoulder keeps popping during overhead presses. This is NOT normal!”
So. Do I weed out the writing about reading and put it somewhere else? Start a fourth blog? Seems kind of excessive, right? Well, not if I would be writing those things anyway…Each blog would have more relevance to one thing. Maybe the BookLust Challenge blog would end up on someone else’s “review list” or something…

Or do I embrace life as I know it? Keep running&yoga where it is. Keep books&blatherings together in an unlikely (but surviving) marriage? There is no doubt I was hurt by someone stealing my creativity and passing it off as her own. I’m not flattered. But, I’m also not deterred. I will not stop using these spaces as creative outlets. Write on I will. But, here’s the question – how?

ps~ this was supposed to be the real  blog of the day!

Sorry for That

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You are an azzhole. Royal sh!tface fukc-up.

There. Got that out of my system. I feel better. Much. To my friends: sorry for that outburst. But, to the person I am swearing about:
I am sorry that you don’t have an original thought in your pee sized brain. I pity you and your need to take MY words and use them for your weak-azz porn site. Obviously you can’t string two sentences together so you have to steal other people’s intellence to pass it off as your own.  Your slutty picture just adds to the offense. You say you have a blog. I say you have a sh!t filled bog. I’m just sorry my words had to end up there.

Fukc you.

Nice Guys Never

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Power Hungry

I think I’ve said it a billion and one times. Today makes a billion and two. I always root for the underdog. That doesn’t mean I like the self-professed Homer/Family Guy; the guy who is proud to be life’s class clown fukc-up. Kisa, when I first met him said “I’m dumb.” But, that didn’t mean he was describing his whole IQ in a nutshell. He meant when it comes to meaningful relationships he’s not Mensa. I like that honesty, that soul-baring GiveMeAbreak mea culpa. I’ve Never Done This Before kind of virginity.

Let me clarify one thing. Underdog doesn’t mean under-confident, under-powered, under anything. Really.
I think I speak for every woman out there when I say tough is attractive. There’s a reason why the bad boy wins and nice guys finish last. Sometimes. Confidence is kickazz. Awkward is…well…awkward. Daring James Dean trumps goofy Gilligan every single time. Why am I saying this? Well, I’m tired of that guy saying he’ll never find someone. I know why. He knows why. He sells himself short. He takes pride in being a punching bag, the punchline to someone else’s joke. Meek is murder on meeting people. It’s frustrating when the personality has flat lined five minutes into the conversation. The underdog is scrappy, a fighter, a face to be reckoned with – not walked over. I was telling a friend about Kisa and she exclaimed, “but he’s such a nice guy!” Yeah, he’s nice, but not exactly innocent when it comes to trouble.

I came across someone’s Woe Is Me-ness the other day. If I had a remote I would have changed the channel. No, if I had a remote I would have hit the mute button. No, no, no! If I had a remote I would have shut the whole thing off. Here’s a tip, boyfriend: you are smart, you are funny, you are even cute to boot. Stop whining about what wasn’t or what was at one time and wonder what could be. Stop telling me how everything about your life falls short. Do something about it. Do something about you. Really. Be a man for fukc’s sake. Or, if you can’t be a man, be a bad boy.

Culture Crisis

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Fly High

I don’t know how to say this. Well, I don’t know how to say this without coming off as a cultural snob, but there is no refinery in my life right now. I wanted to see two nights of Natalie at the symphony. I was willing to pay someone’s way just to have a second night w-i-t-h someone (and not just sharing a table and maybe a bottle of wine with a complete stranger). Call me generous but my motives were selfish. Call me selfish but I would have paid the way. The whole way. The problem was I couldn’t think of a single person who would sit through orchestral music. No offense, but I’m having a culture crisis.

I need people in my life who want to look at art from the back of the room. The kind of person who not only sits and stares at art, but collects it as well. Cherishes it rather than chucks it. Someone who doesn’t get their wall decore from A.C. Moore. I want to know people who hear a cello live and call it an experience to remember. Music that moves them beyond screaming teenage fantasies. I desire people who would rather savor their food than chew, choke and swallow it. Can close their eyes and say, “cilantro…with a hint of lime” rather than, “there’s something funky with this rice…”

Show me someone who reads poetry, watches documentaries, understands fresh basil, and can handle a song without words. Show me someone who reads biographies, goes to the theater, knows a good Alfredo sauce, and hears the protest in folk music. Show me because I’m tired of Cosmopolitan magazine, Dumb & Dumber, dried oregano, and Hannah Montana.

*Edited to add: When I voiced this angst rather than post it, a friend took me to the theater. Another friend said, “I’ll go with ya!” I guess all I had to do was ask. I don’t know if that would have worked for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, but now I know…It doesn’t hurt to ask!*

Boy With Loaded Gun

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Nordan, Lewis. Boy With Loaded Gun. Chapel Hill: Algonquin, 2000.

Lewis Nordan celebrates a birthday in August. I am pleased to have started off with his nonfiction/fiction memoir, Boy with Loaded Gunas my introduction to Nordan’s writing. I think it will bring insight to everything else I read of his. While this may or may not be a good thing, I am looking forward to it just the same.
Boy with Loaded Gunis heartbreaking and humorous at the same time. Pulling the reader down into sadness, lifting him or her back up with laughter. I found myself comparing the reading experience to that of a fast moving, slightly rickety, out of control rollercoaster. At times I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I didn’t know what was real or an exaggeration. But, I did know one thing, I loved every minute of it; page by page.
Nordan’s memoir begins with the chapter called “Voodoo” and Nordan’s inexplicable love for a voodoo practicing woman. It is at this time Nordan professes, “In these lonely backwaters and days of grief my memory begins” (p 7). We are then taken on a journey through Nordan’s young life while he struggles to love his step-father and escape the confines of small town Itta Bena, Mississippi. Later, it’s coming-of-age encounters with sex and marriage. Babies and buying houses. Alcohol and writing. Down and outs, ups and accomplishements. At times you want to love him. Other times you have to hate him. Just like real life. In other words, human.

Best quotes: “Two men got into an argument about whether a tree was willow or a weed. It was a small knife, and not a deep wound, so neither of the men went home, they just didn’t talk to each other for a while. Then they seemed to forget all about it, and before long they were talking about something else” (p 49).
“Eventually I tried to kill my father, of course” (p 69). Nordan does address the “of course” part of the statement, but it struck me as funny the first time I read it.
“I could scarcely tolerate standing in my own skin, let alone being strong” (p 188).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Lewis Nordan: Too Good To Miss” (p 172).

Lie in the Dark

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Fesperman, Dan. Lie in the Dark. New York: Soho Press, 1999.

 I can remember this intense sadness when the civil war in Sarajevo broke out…the second time. It seemed like yesterday the Olympics were held there & it was a city of promise, of dreams come true.

Lie in the Dark is an interesting tale about life in war-torn Sarajevo and one police inspector’s fight to win his own private war. In the beginning of the conflict Vlado Petrics’s wife and infant daughter were allowed to escape to Germany. Vlado, as with all men of military serving age, stayed behind. He escaped being drafted into the military because of his employment as a policeman.
While investigating a murder Vlado is confronted with a much bigger scandal than he bargained for. Not knowing who to trust he works alone, unraveling the mystery while the civil war continues all around him. Woven into the plot are the harsh realities of what war can do to economics, politics, families, the landscape and the human spirit.

Right away I knew I would like this book. Fesperman does a great job describing the absurdity of investigating a murder in the middle of a war. As Fesperman says (p 2) “Vlado’s task was that of a plumber fixing leaky toilets in the middle of a flood.” It makes you realize that people will grasp and struggle for normalcy even if it doesn’t make sense.

Favorite lines: ” They never stopped retreating, ending up at the bottom of either a bottle or a grave” (p 5).
I found this next line profoundly sad: “It had taken the first few weeks of separation to rediscover her as lover, as something more than the wife and mother she’d become” (p 83).
“He felt himself beginning to deaden, to go numb and cold and dreary as he left the truth behind” (p 86).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Crime is a Globetrotter” (p 59).

August Is…

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booklit2

August is a day late. Sorry about that!

It is awful to wish the summer away. To look forward to Labor Day…but I can’t help it. The time has (finally) come for me to go home. And I haven’t been there since last October!  August is all about going back to the island. I’m bringing a truckload of books:

  • All is Vanity by Christina Schwartz (in honor of Womens Friendship Month)
  • Boy with Loaded Gun by Lewis Nordan (in honor of Lewis Nordan’s birthday)
  • Far Field by Edie Meidav (August is the best time to visit Sri Lanka, believe it or not)
  • Dog Handling by Clare Naylor (August has a “woman’s day” so I’m reading what Pearl calls “chick lit”)
  • Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester (National Language Month)

It seems traitorish to think that the island’s library won’t have any of these books, but I can’t take the chance by assuming they do…and here’s the funny part- I don’t leave until the latter half of the month. I’m acting as if I won’t read a word before then! I’m actually hoping to have All is Vanity and Boy with Loaded Gun finished and off my list before leaving.

I scored another LibraryThing Early Review:

Blackbird, Farewell by Robert Greer. I am excited about this new book for odd reasons. For starters, I love the title! There is something about blackbirds. I love how they are associated with something dark and ominous. Dangerous. If you ever get the chance, check out Jamie Wyeth’s art. He has some great blackbird paintings. I also love the song ‘Blackbird’ (Jerry Garcia’s version is my favorite). Nearly everyone who has ever made me a mixed tape has put that song on one for me. I don’t know why…Maybe they have insight about my broken wings and the need to fly? Anyway, this book doesn’t have anything to do with blackbirds….funny.

August is also a Police concert (awesome, awesome, awesome by the way – blog coming soon), more trips to see Sean Rowe, Swell Season in my back yard, maybe Rebecca Correia. Should be an interesting month! Speaking of flying, I hope it does!