Author: gr4c5

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

July Was…

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July flew by. I hardly knew where the month actually went. Here’s how it went for reading:

 

  • Bilgewater by Jane Gardam ~ lovely young adult book.
  • Blackwater by Kerstin Ekman ~ a dark story set in the woods of Sweden.
  • Finding Caruso by Kim Barnes ~ brotherly love set against sibling rivalry.
  • Citizen of the Galaxy by Robert Heinlein ~ Sci-fi story about a boy finding his way.
  • Chasing Vermeer by Blue Balliett ~ a young adult mystery.
  • Friend of My Youth by Alice Munro ~ short stories that center around women and their relationships.
  • Jackson’s Dilemma by Iris Murdoch ~ a muddled tale of twisted relationships with someone named Jackson in the middle…
  • Lie in the Dark by Dan Fesperman ~ whodunnit set in Bosnia.

For LibraryThing’s Early Review Program:

  • What We All Long For by Dionne Brand ~ previously published in 2003

Just for the fun of it:

  • Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill:Explosive Flavors from the Southwestern Kitchen by Bobby Flay with Stephanie Banyas and Sally Jackson. Made several recipes out of this and loved every one.
  • The Food You Crave: Luscious Recipes for a Healthy Life by Ellie Krieger. Meant to make more recipes from this, but every one I tried was amazing.
  • Music of Coal: Mining Songs from the Appalachian Coalfields (Introduction by Jack Wright). This is actually a two cd/book set published in 2007. Because Natalie Merchant contributed to the compilation I just had to check it out.
  • Kim Lyons’ Your Body, Your Life by Kim Lyons & Lara McGlashan

Taken Seriously

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There are some people you want to write off because they never mean what they say. Wait. Actually, I’m one of those people when I say I’ll call you. I hardly ever come through with dialing the digits. I think those kinds of short comings are okay, though. Those I’ll-Get-Around-To-It people who somehow never really do. They are okay. You chalk it up to they mean well, but don’t do well. If that makes sense. Manny being Manny kind of excusability.

Yet. And, yet. It’s different when it concerns the heart. Admitting emotion. “I care” when you or you really doesn’t. “I miss you” when you haven’t thought of that you for months or even years. “I love your….” when really, you find them and their [fill in the blank] annoying. Why is that? Why is it that I find a lie of emotion harder to swallow than a lie of action?
I’m trying to make sense of this. Really, I am. I find myself beating moi or me up because I mean well but don’t say well. It translates into not caring well, not feeling well. Being ill. Not nice. Or something.

I’m reading a book about someone who is self-centered and vain. She makes excuses for her superior attitude, like she has earned it, therefore can flaunt it. Wear it not so well. This character lies with emotion about emotion. Even that drives me nuts. Why is that? Why can’t what you say be taken seriously? Not by me, myself and moi, the listening, but youyouyou, the talking?

I think I have it figured out. A lie of action is excusable because it’s tangible. It doesn’t have to be an out and out lie. Something came up. Something always does. Then it’s not a lie, it’s a meant well statement. A lie of the heart is something completely and utterly different. Exposing an emotion isn’t necessary. That’s your call. You don’t have to say it. I never need to know what you’re feeling. Exposing an emotion when it isn’t truly felt is beyond inexcusable. It’s downright mean.

So. Don’t tell me you miss me. Because I can’t take it seriously if I can’t believe it.

Sunday Morning Routine

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We have settled into some semblance of a Sunday morning routine. Catching up on myself’s shows first thing in the morning. Awake but not getting out of bed, cheating morning and waking and thinking for another hour. The Food Network. Coffee. Hot and fresh brewed. I’m up but not.

Later. House hunting. We map each address in order of distance and time. Open houses. That one doesn’t start until 1pm. Let’s save it until last. Go here first. So it goes. So many questions. How is the neighborhood? Is it a hood? Can I walk the walk or will they send me running? How far from the street is it? How many cars can fit in the driveway? What if we actually (gasp) have people over? Garage? Kitchen? Counter space? Gas or electric? Can I socialize while stirring and sauteing? Will my butt hit the fridge while standing at the sink? Fireplace? Ceiling fans? Ranch? Colonial? Cape? WTF? Basements finished or frightening? Security system or do we get a dog? Closets walk in or full of skeletons? Porch, deck or patio? All three? Lawn to mow? Dude room? Workout room? Laundry room? Indiana room? Mudroom? Guest room? Gawd forbid we want someone to actually spend the night! Bathrooms 1, 1.5, or 2? Central air? Central vac? Central to work? Hardwood or wall to wall? Marble or laminate? Grand or gross?

We walk through old house after new house, roomy room after teeny-tiny room. Agents follow us with the details: one owner, built in —-, new roof, updated kitchen, close to schools…I take notes to show interest but have no intentions. No set plan. Everything has something. Nothing has nothing, well, except Sanders. Can’t decide. Don’t want to decide. Not now. No rush to move. Kisa brings up another house. I shut him down. Let’s not go there. Literally or figuratively. I’m done with the red house on the corner. We’ll keep on looking. Keep on searching.

And so next weekend we’ll watch tv in bed to wake up and catch up. Coffee and the paper. A map. More open houses. New emails. New agents. New addresses. Keeping with the new Sunday routine.
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Not One Step

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I didn’t run on my last vacation. Not one step. In Vegas I seriously thought about it. The gym was hidden in the spa. Amongst the hair dryers and manicure stations were treadmills and elipticals. I told kisa, “when you gamble, I’ll run.” To make a long story short, he never sat down to a slot machine, never pulled up a chair for a hand of Black Jack, never spun the Roulette wheel, nor threw the die for craps. The only gambling he did was on the Celtics (and won). So. I didn’t run.
At the next hotel I got up early hoping to put in a quick 30 minutes in the gym. It wasn’t nearly as nice as Vegas’s setup but I was eager to try it out all the same. Just off the registration desk was a little gym. One bike. One step machine. One treadmill. Oddly enough, the “business center” was in the same room. Two computers, a fax machine and phone lined one wall. I guess the west coast likes to consolidate their tasks -run while closing the deal? Oh well. I figured I could ignore anyone who came in. Turns out, I didn’t need to. The treadmill was broken. Try as I might I couldn’t get the thing to stay on. Finally, I asked at the front desk, “Is your treadmill broken?” The manager just looked at me, bored, and said “yup” like I was supposed to know that before I got dressed and came over from my room. Stupid.
The third place we stayed looked more than promising for a run. They didn’t boast of their own equipment but shared space with a real, live, local gym. Hotel guests could work out for free at the area’s state of the art fitness facility. When Kisa and I toured the building I needed to put my eyeballs back in my head: olympic sized swimming pool, pilates room, two weight rooms, more cardio equipment than I could count, a yoga studio, racquet ball court, tennis court, you name it, it was there. They too combined their fitness center with a salon – facials, pedicures, manicures, haircuts and color…all in one place.
When Kisa and I finally changed our clothes and went back to the gym I was practically salviating at the chance to run. Until I saw nearly every treadmill in sight was in use. Upon further inspection I realized not only was every working treadmill was in use, but half a dozen were broken and I couldn’t compete with the wait list. I ended up on a bike for 40 minutes.
The final hotel was super nice…except it didn’t have a gym. Period. Not one machine anywhere. No running for me. I would have run outside but Southern CA was boasting of a heatwave like no other. I’m not that stupid.

Jealous Again

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I’ve got the Black Crowes in my head. “Jealous. Jealous again.” Because I am. Of you. I have exactly 44 days until I can go homehome. 44 days to deal with being landlocked and loser. I always think of you when I hear the Black Crowes but this time it’s more than that. You were there. You could have bragged about it. You didn’t. Instead, you let me down easy. Talking more about the weather than what I was missing. I got weather here, too. I wanted to crawl through the phone and smell the salt in your hair. You were just there. What made me ask? Torturing myself with the wanting. How was the pizza? Where did you hike? Was it crowded? I stopped short of asking how the sea smelled, how the surf sounded on the shore, what was in bloom. Stopped short of being pitiful, but wanting all the same.

I reminded myself of someone I knew once. She would flip through fashion magazines and Victoria’s Secret catalogs and ask her boyfriend, “Do you think she’s pretty? Do you like her legs?” as she shoved the glossy near naked women in his face. “Well? Well?” What was she looking for? A lie? Could she handle the truth? What made her force the admission?

Funny thing about jealousy. It changes everything once it flares up and rages out of control. Like a fire, things get out of hand if not handled properly. People say stupid things when they are bit by the ugly green eye. Jealousy. Things become infected by jealousy. You lose things to jealousy. Things burn up in jealousy. Friends. Relationships. Things. Life as we knew it. Life period. I sort through the rubble, bits of charred emotions still smoking. Make my way through what I want to salvage, deciding what is worth keeping. Nothing. I decide nothing is worth salvaging. Let it burn I say. I’ll be home in 44 days.

Jackson’s Dilemma

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Murdoch, Iris. Jackson’s Dilemma. New York: Viking, 1995.

I hate it when I read a review that influences my way of thinking, my way of reading a book. This happened innocently enough. I was looking for more information about Jackson’s Dilemma. Was it ever made into a movie? Adapted for the stage? A musical? As a result of my searching I discovered Jackson’s Dilemma was Murdock’s last book. Not only that, but she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s right around the time of publication. Inadvertently, I read two reviews that seemed to blame the disease for the demise of Murdoch’s craft. In other words, Jackson’s Dilemma bombed. Because of the reviews I found myself wondering about the words. I will admit, the beginning was slow and the characters, curious, but in the end I didn’t think it was all that bad.

It starts off on the eve of Edward and Marian’s wedding. Edward is enjoying dinner with friends when he discovers a note under the door: an “I can’t marry you” letter from Marian. There is no explanation but the following day there is much hoopla about making sure people are “barred” from the church and from attending a wedding that won’t happen. All of Edward’s friends are absurdly devastated by this turn of events, so much so that I started to really question their sanity. Meanwhile, both Edward and Marian disappear (separately, of course). Enter Jackson (Just Jackson, no last name). Even his arrival is peculiar.

In the end the plot becomes a garbled mess. Everyone is trying to be in love with someone else, exclaiming undying devotion left and right. Even Owen (male) and Tuan (also male) have some kind of odd, unexplained relationship going on. Despite all this, I did have two favorite lines: “The moon was not present, being elsewhere” (p 22). Who actually knows where the moon was, but I thought that was funny. The other line: “After all, as Randall said, it’s the sea that matters” (p 100). Too bad Randall would lose his life to the very thing that mattered.

BookLust Twist: Book Lust in the chapter “Iris Murdoch: Too Good To Miss”. Leave it to me to read her last book (sorta) first.

Wasted on the Way

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Somewhere along the way I decided I wasn’t going to play the game anymore. Except, somewhere along the way I forgot to tell you. Consider this the open letter of I’m telling you now. I’m wasted enough to stop waiting.

I’m through with the games. We have been lying to each other for a while now. We play ping pong with promises. Bounce one to me and I’ll volley one back. But, really, they’re all lies. I have no intention of calling you. I have no intention of helping you out. The game is at the give up point and I’ve given all that I can. Now I’m just pretending. Now I’m just acting stupid because I can’t tell you how I really feel. Until now. I went from being your biggest fan favorite to feeling like the biggest fallout failure.

You used me to get somewhere else. That’s okay as long as you got where you needed to go. That’s only because I got something out of it, too. But now I’m done. There were too many other people involved and I can’t justify dragging them into this any longer. If there’s any dragging to be done it’ll be done by me – dragging my tail between my legs and admitting I was stupidstupidstupid.

Kisa has heard the rant. Time has heard the rant. I think everyone has heard the rant. The rant has turned me into a raving lunatic. Pass me the bottle. I want to poison myself enough to puke out everything vile, everything I thought I believed in. I need to get wasted to make you go away.

What You Owe Me

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What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.

No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.

What We All Long For

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Brand, Dionne. What We All Long For: a Novel. Toronto: First St. Martin (Griffin edition), 2008.

From the very beginning I thought this book looked interesting. Originally published in 2005 I had heard that it had even been used in university Lit classes. Upon knowing that tidbit I assumed a level of complication with the characters and a deeper depth of plot. Here is what I came away with: complicated characters that all want something (parallel to the title). Their relationships to one another go around and around – always circling one another – but really, going nowhere. This is where the plot came up short. That sense of longing hums along the fine lines of each relationship, and there is a common theme of boundaries but beyond those connections each character is lost. Tuyen is a lesbian in love with her straight best friend. Longing for someone she can’t have, sexual preference is Tuyen’s barrier. Carla is the biracial bike messenger Tuyen is in love with. Carla has a troubled brother. Longing to steer her brother straight, lack of money is Carla’s barrier to helping him. Oku is a music-loving college drop-out of Jamaican decent. His unrequited love for Jackie is his longing while her boyfriend is the barrier. Jackie longs for simplicity. Her barrier is being attracted to more than one man.

Oddly enough, the linear, uncomplicated character of the story (told in first person) is the one with the most depth and more intriguing story. Quy is the brother of Tuyen. He was separated from his parents in Vietnam as a very young child and has been lost to them ever since. His story is how her survived refugee camps in Thailand and how eventually, he made his way back to Tuyen and her family. Tuyen has never met this long-lost brother so when he reunites with his parents life changes for Tuyen.

The last character in What We All Long For is probably Brand’s most complex and mysterious: the city of Toronto itself. As the characters move in and out of its restaurants, nightclubs, streetcars, and alleys the city responds. It lives and breathes and entices just like its human counterparts.

Lost Without It

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Me without my right hand ring is like not having a right hand at all. Friday night seemed normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary. Exchanged texts with a friend and laughed about his upcoming gigs. Worked out. Took a cold bath but washed my hair standing over the tub, bent under the faucet. Later, I read a chapter in bed, a cool sheet draped over my knees. Coming into the home stretch of a really good book I got sleepy. When kisa came to bed I curled around his hip, grateful for the sleep that was coming fast & easy.

I couldn’t tell you what made me notice; what made me panic, but all of a sudden I felt my thumb ring was gone. For nearly 7 years this silver band with cod worn smooth swimming clockwise has not left my right hand. It’s my symbolic home away from home and suddenly it was missing. A strip of pale white skin marked where the ring should have been. Wide awake with panic I jumped out of bed. Kisa frantically asking “what? What? What’s wrong?” but I couldn’t answer him. It all seemed too stupid. This piece of metal was an extension of my, myself & moi. How could I explain that without it I was completely lost? Even now I don’t expect anyone to understand this whatsoever.

Like a madwoman I retraced my steps. Back to where I lifted. Did I fling it off mid tricep kickback? Wouldn’t I feel something like that? Back to where I undressed for the bath…back to the…bath. Oh no. With dread I remembered standing over the drain, my soapy hands scrubbing my scalp, the force of water when I rinsed (Why did we have to have such great, rushing water pressure?!), the open drain….I pictured the ring slipping off oh so easily and sliding down the drain to be lost forever. It was the only logical explanation. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. That had to be it. Kisa lured me back to bed and with the sulk of a child I went.

By 4:30am I was awake again and crawling around the living room on my hands and knees searching under the couch and in the folds of the fabric. I pictured calling my sister and asking her for the phone number to the shop where I got the ring 7 years earlier. I was getting desperate enough to have another one shipped to me although in my heart of hearts I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Not finding anything downstairs I was drawn back to the bath. Hypnotized by the thought of the ring going down the drain I tested my theory…with my wedding ring. My $1,000+ wedding ring. Holding it tightly I tried to push it down the drain and discovered…it wouldn’t fit. There was hope my ring of fishes didn’t fit either. 

In the end it was tangled in a tank top I had taken off earlier. Somehow it had lodged itself in the built-in bra and didn’t come loose even after I shook the shirt. I think Kisa was relieved I was happy again. I was happy I found my sanity.

Friend of My Youth

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Munro, Alice. Friend of My Youth. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1990.

In the very first chapter of Book Lust Nancy Pearl talks about the Alices. Alice Adams, Alice Hoffman, Alice Munro, Alice McDermott…to name a few. I recognized all, and read most of the names except one: Alice Munro. The stranger Alice of the group. Now, two years after starting the project I am finally reading an Alice Munro book.

Friend of My Youth is a collection of short stories all based on the lives of women.
“Friend of My Youth” is the opening story. Imagine hearing a story from your mother, something that happened long before you were born, but has stayed in your mother’s mind all this time and important enough to be told to you when you were old enough. But, and this is the catch, you don’t know how it ends, even after your mother’s death. You simply don’t know the end. And so begins Friend of My Youth. The connection through all of the stories are women. They have lead roles emotionally as well as physically.

The best lines: “Her hair was freshly done to blind the eye with brassy reflections, and her face looked as if it would come off on a man’s jacket, should she lay it against his shoulder in the dancing” (Friend of My Youth, p 18).
“‘Watch out for him,’ Barbara told the other clerks. ‘He’s a jerk, but he knows how to stick things to his fingers'” (Oranges and Apples, p 107).
There were other charming details like the winter and summer kitchens in “Friend of My Youth” & the watching for satellites in “Oranges and Apples.”

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “A…My Name is Alice” (p 1).

You Got Sun

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How many times can people point out the obvious before you want to either bite their heads off or say ‘No Sh!t Sherlock’ which I guess is one and the same… I can gauge my level of tolerance by how soon I start counting things. When I start noticing just how many times something is brought to my attention I know I’m near my annoyed stage, soon to be moving onto my pissed off stage. Scary, but true. It’s like counting to ten before dishing out the punishment to a small child. “If you don’t cut that out before I count to ten! One…two…” Yup. I’m childish. I count.

On my 6th day in California I got the “you got sun” comment 27 times. 27 times. Sometimes more than once by the same person, punctuated by an oohing sound, as in “oooh, looks like you got sun.” You would think I would know how burnt I was by the flame red parboiled look of my taut skin, the faint stingingsensation I felt whenever anything brushed my shoulders….but, no. People still felt the need to point out the obvious. You. Got. Sun. As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough by the fact that the SPF 50 I slathered on earlier had no effect. As if I wanted to be this burnt. I like my skin. I like not having cancer. Lamenting and tsk tsk-ing over my overexposed epidermis only made things worse. It’s not like I went for the singed look on purpose. It’s not like I was enjoying my new look.

Yes, I got sun. Now leave me alone. Go away. But, hey. Hand me the aloe before you go.

Could Have Stayed

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Week Two of the FarmI could have stayed at the farm all day. Today, I introduced myself to Liz. She’s always eating something from a bowl when I come in (well, she’s two for two so far)…I guess if I lived on a honest-to-goodness working CSA farm, I too, would be munching on something several times a day! I let her know we wanted to donate next week’s share to the homeless shelter.

The week was an interesting mix: beets, turnips, green onions, green garlic, summer squash, kolrabi (I need to check the spelling on that one), and there was even broccoli! For greens we were allowed one head of romaine, one bag of a mix of arugula, mustard greens, kale, etc; one huge bag of spinach…I bring my own recycle bags and by the time I went through “my” share they were filled to the gills.

The u-pick selection was awesome: flowers (I didn’t), herbs (got a little oregano and thyme), and and and strawberries! A huge quart! I washed and froze half of them. Tonight I’ll surprise Kisa with fresh strawberries on his icecream. Yummy!

The sun felt nice on my shoulders. Sky blue overhead. I spotted a lone cloud in the shape of a heart. Kids ran in and out of the rows of peas (not ready yet), screetching. Mothers looked under leaves for strawberries while fathers whistled for loose dogs. Sitting in the bed of thyme I inhaled an Italian kitchen and a future stew. Recipes ran through my head.  I could have stayed all day.

Chasing Vermeer

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Balliett, Blue. Chasing Vermeer. New York: Scholastic Press, 2004.

I love it when a book takes me somewhere new. It’s even better when it opens doors to other interests that stick. It’s best when it’s completely unexpected. Such is the case with Chasing Vermeer. When I first realized it was a young adult book I thought I would get through it in a day, get through it and move onto something more my speed. Who knew this book would be just my speed? For starters there is a play-along game involving pentominoes. If you can’t get the hidden message there is an interacted website (still active) to help you out, complete with other games to get you sidetracked. Then, there is the discovery of something completely unexpected I mentioned before. Chasing Vermeer mentions a lot of Vermeer’s work in detail so I started doing a little more research and found a fantastic website dedicated to Vermeer. It’s really great. I lost my lunch break playing with it! I love learning something new everyday in the most unexpected ways. But back to Chasing Vermeer, the book.

It’s a great mystery for kids and adults alike. Petra Andalee and her new found friend Calder Pillay find themselves in the middle of a mystery complete with codes and the crime of stolen art. It starts off with Petra and Calder as classmates with a weird assignment: find letters in art. Both Petra and Calder call the other “weird” and can’t imagine ever being friends, but soon weird coincidences bring them together to solve a mystery involving an old woman, the FBI and an international art scandal.

Here are some quotes that nabbed me: “Good letters were no longer written. He was sure of it” (p 23). Glad I’m not the only one who feels this way!
“What was art, anyway? The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed” (p 40). My thoughts exactly!

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Best For Boys and Girls” (p 21).

Way Nicer Everything

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When we checked into the Long Beach motel the first thing I noticed were the signs everywhere alerting us to the fact that the management doesn’t care about our belongings. “Not responsible for lost or stolen personal items” was posted in at least three different places in our room. It made me think the maids had sticky fingers, a habit of “accidentally” walking away with things. This was the hotel “management’s” way of shrugging it off. The attitude didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling about being a guest. Neither did their attitude about their treadmill, but that’s another blog. It’s ironic that this is where we left behind our camera charger & cell phone charger. Like they said (more than once): not responsible!

Then, there was something about the Mission Valley hotel in San Diego that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the broken phone when we first arrived. Maybe it was the lack of elbow room. But, but, but I’m betting it was the rude sign we encountered in the bathroom. I don’t know why I couldn’t see this as humorous. Instead of getting a chuckle out of it I felt accosted, confronted, accused of something I wouldn’t even think of doing. Sarcasm was in the ink of that sign.

Rude

When we finally got to Ontario we discovered way nicer everything. Larger pool with lax hours of operations (when we asked, the desk manager said it closed “around 10pm..ish”). Free breakfast. Nice huge room with flat screen tv. Way bigger bathroom. More luxurious toiletries. Best of all. No rude signs. Nothing warning us the maids steal. Nothing asking us not to, either.