Author: gr4c5

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

You Have It Better

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I have climbed up on the soapbox to tell you this: just because You are not Me does not mean I have it better. There is a certain whine that I cannot abide by. Not anymore. I’m sick of you thinking because I’m not you I have it easier. I don’t have your troubles. I don’t have your burdens. Therefore, (you think), my life must be easier than yours. Welcome to the bullsh!t but where in the world did you get it? What did I do to give you the impression that I have the easy life because I don’t own a house or have three kids? Hell, I don’t even have a dog I need to walk so I m u s t have the charmed life. Right?

It’s funny. Children are the end-all, be-all for excuses. Pull a problem out of a hat and blame the kid. The ultimate PityMeParty because you don’t have a moment to yourself; you can’t afford this or that; you’re oh so tired. Give me a break. It’s not my fault you forgot to take a pill or wear a rubber. Don’t look to me as “lucky” because I don’t have motherhood as my middle name. You haven’t even stepped in my shoes so let’s not pretend about walking that mile in them, okay? You don’t ask the questions so I can’t give you the answers. And who’s to say you would listen anyway? All you know is that I don’t have daycare in my vocabulary so my life must be dandy.

My reason for this rant? Single Income, Three Kids all under the age of six, Five Pets, Four Charities and not a single WoeIsMe complaint. Does not envy a dink like me. You go girl.

Catcher in the Rye

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IMG_0672Salinger, J.D. The Catcher in the Rye. New York: Bantam, 1985.

How many times have you read this book? I’ve lost count. Because I ran out of things to read over the weekend (Continental Drift wasn’t in yet) I picked this one back up. We have it at home because, ironically, my husband stole it from his high school. What an appropriate book to walk out with (he never cared for school either). Everyone should have a copy of Catcher in the Rye no matter how they get their hands on it.

I didn’t write a review for LibraryThing. What more could I say that hasn’t already been said by 200 people (and risk getting one of those “not a review” things)?
Holden Caufield is a contradiction in terms. He gets annoyed or hates everyone around him pretty easily, yet he hungers for attention, companionship, and isn’t afraid to admit his shortcomings. He swears frequently yet is offended by a “fukc you” on the wall of his kid sister’s school. I’ve read reviews claiming Holden has “mental issues” or is “a brat.” But, consider the circumstances – he’s a 16 year old kid who just got kicked out of another preppy boarding school. His parents aren’t really involved in his life and his still grieving over the loss of his brother (to leukemia). I wasn’t perfect at 16 and I think if I had been just a little braver, I would have been a little more rebellious, too.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust twice: once in “Boys Coming of Age” (p 45) and again in “100 Good Reads, Decade by Decade: 1950s (p 177).

Funny side story: on the morning I decided to reread Catchermy husband was playing with my ipod, getting my music ready for the race. I stood there, book in hand, listening to itunes’ 30 second sample of “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel (thanks, Manda!) and heard the line about Catcher in the Rye. Spotting the coincidence I showed kisa the book. It freaked him out a little, especially when I told him I had no idea he was going to play the clip, nor that Catcher would be mentioned in that brief 30 seconds.

Beatles Sex or Celine?

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Las VegasI can’t decide. My choices are, but are not limited to: The Beatles, Zoomanity, Celine Dion, Wayne Brady, tigers…and some burlesque thing. At least that’s what I’ve found so far while researching things to do…other than gamble…in Vegas. Here’s the thing. We’re planning our Nevada/Utah,/Arizona/California trip and I want to make the most of everything everywhere. We’re giving Vegas only two days. So, that means cramming a lot into a little time. Definitely a show in Vegas, maybe 10 minutes of gambling (just to say I did it), and who knows what else. I am a virgin when it comes to Vegas. Sooo “skies the limit” as they say. To say that I want to experience it all doesn’t mean I want to find a prostitute…and I was only kidding about Celine Dion. She is not an option. Neither is Wayne Brady. But, I do know there is a wealth of fun in Vegas. After all, someone had to have coined the phrase “what happens in Vegas…” for a reason. Right?
This is what I know I want to do in Vegas: skinny dip in the pool, find a turtle in the wilderness sanctuary, have a cheeseburger in paradise, do that 10 minutes of gambling I mentioned, have a dirty martini, see a CirqueDuSoleil show (sex or Beatles? I can’t decide!), find evidence of Bugsy’s vision (at the Flamingo), maybe get a new tat, and finally, last but not least, find a diner that serves huevos rancheros at 3am. That’s pretty tame for what I could want. I know I know! But, it’s a start. Right?

Party for Anne

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I feel like we should throw a party for Anne…or something. Her NotAreview blog has been viewed over 2,000 times. I know I’ve asked what’s with Anne? in the past, but now I’m thrilled. Anne deserves all the attention she can get!

Pivotal Moments

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It’s not often that I notice a turning point, a change of definite direction, one of those important pivotal moments in life. It’s striking when something strikes me as “pivotal” – such as what happened today.

I came across a resume of a friend. One of those drowned relationships that sank without apparent good reason. I admit, I let it sink. I have this habit of moving away from something if it no longer feels right. Such is the case with this friend.

I met her at one of the most out-on-a-limb times of my life. I was creating a new existence like never before. Everyday was a struggle to not fall. I clung to anything supportive. While I wasn’t paying attention she easily fit herself into the newness of it all. Somehow she became someone with the label of friend. It was all without fanfare and I thought nothing of it. It just happened and I didn’t notice. Until I started thinking too much about it. Something about the friendship made me worry. Made me nervous. Made me more than a bit uncomfortable. Made me want to move away – just a little. I started to decline invitations. Started to invite her out in groups of people. Strength in numbers. It was more than just having nothing in common or disagreeing about just about everything.

When she finally went away for good it took me months to really notice. It took another month to really care. Another month to be surprised by how much I did care. I made feeble attempts to fish around for the friendship. Murky and muddled I wasn’t sure I really wanted to find her. I sound horrible, but really I was more than confused. I wasn’t sure what I really wanted. Looking just to look? What would I say if and when I found her?

I found her resume today. Full name, address, phone number. Email. All things I had lost along the way, suddenly now in my way. Everything I needed to start all over again. Information in my hands. The search I didn’t really know if I wanted to make. Then came the turning point. The change of direction. That pivotal moment I mentioned earlier. I don’t know what made me do it, but letting by-gones be by-gones I let  her resume slide into the trash. The moment the paper left my hand I knew it was one of those moments. If it were a scene in a movie it would have been slowed down and dramatized. The symbolism of such a shot is not lost on me. I let go.

Beating Up Bill

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I woke to rain and rolled my eyes. Of course it was raining. Of course. Today was race day. I had to run…and it was raining. At that point I wanted nothing more than to snuggle deeper under the covers and pretend I had a few more hours of snoozetime. It’s hard to take a stand when all you want is to let sleeping dogs lie. *sigh*
The park was buzzing with ipods and lycra tights. Stretching, jumping, running in place, people talking the talk of runners. PRs, last races, and strained hamstrings. Water, bananas and bagels. I got #779 and tried to figure out what happened in July 1979 that was good. Looking for an omen. Killing time with idle chatter to calm less than idle nerves. I heard a rumor the run was twice around the park. If memory serves me right, the park is only 1.1 miles around. Hmm? I anticipated a creative run…to say the least. At least it stopped raining.
Here’s what I forgot about running outside: Hills – up and down ones, gradual and steep ones. I wasn’t used to running down Duck Pond Hill. Weird on the knees. Gusts of wind. Cold wind. Patches of ice. Large puddles of really cold, dirty water. Larger than life piles of dog sh!t. I encountered all of it with shock and amusement. Ran right through all of it without prejudice. Baseball cap pulled low, low, low. Eyes on my feet the entire time. When I got to That Spot I cursed it. Fukc you and your pain. Even spit on it the second time around. Yes, even spit on it.
The creative addition to 2.2 miles? Running in a circle in the train station parking lot. I knew it would be different!
We finished running up Hell Hill. This, I’m used to it. It’s the only way out of the park, the only way home. I’ve done it a thousand times. Grind my teeth, focus on the feet and dig in. I found power and surged to the finish line. Before ‘These Are Days’ could get a minute of music, I finished. Technically, I finished on ‘Paint it Black’ – two songs earlier than I planned. I don’t have the official time, but I do know this, I officially finished. Beating up Bill never felt so good.

Bill’s Challenge Playlist:

  • Hotel California
  • We Didn’t Start The Fire
  • We’re Not Gonna Take It
  • Higher Ground
  • All My Life (kisa’s spur of the moment pick)
  • Lose Yourself
  • Paint It Black
  • These Are Days (didn’t hear)
  • The Scientist (didn’t hear)

Bluest Eye

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IMG_0663 Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. New York: Plume, 1970.

The LibraryThing Review:
“Because The Bluest Eye doesn’t have a traditional storyline plot the reader is free to concentrate on the complexities of the characters. The entire work is like a patchwork quilt of human suffering. Each character a different patch of sadness and survival. With each square, the ugly underbelly of society is exposed: poverty, racism, rape, incest, abuse, violence…Toni Morrison is the eye that never blinks in the face of such harsh subjects.”

These are the quotes that stopped me short. “They did not talk, groan or curse during these beatings. There was only the muted sound of falling things, and flesh on unsurprised flesh” (p 43). It’s the word ‘unsurprised’ that speaks volumes.
“He urges his eyes out of his thoughts to encounter her” (p 49). Another way of describing a deep-seeded prejudice.

One aspect of this novel that caught me up was the narrator hearing certain words in colors like light green, black and red. I have done the same thing with my imagination. I see words as certain shades or hues. Aside from the colors, this was a hard book to read and I can’t say anything that hasn’t already been said.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter called “Big Ten Country: The Literary Midwest (Ohio)” (p 29).

The Dying Know Their Time

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“Dearest Dalva,
I am putting my affairs in order, and that is why you have this short letter from a dead man. I don’t intend to tip over tomorrow but I sense this will be my last summer. Unless we are insensitive we know our own weather” (Dalva, Jim Harrison; Dutton, 1988. pg 287).

My good friend Leo started to say things like this six months before he committed suicide. He saw himself as not a weather pattern, or a change in temperature, but rather a leaf on a tree. He admitted that he could see himself dropping from the limb “any day” and that he wasn’t meant for this world. Over and over, leaves were his symbol of life and death was the act of disconnecting from the branches. Falling gracefully.
I had no idea he was planning his own end. No idea that his suffering was something no doctor could cure. There was no medicine that could soothe him. Despite a daily raw onion eaten like an apple (!) his pain was the very act of aging itself. Failing eyesight, faulty plumbing, noisy hearing aids. Shaking fingers. Uncontrollable, unstoppable aging. Repeatedly he kept telling me it’s time. “Not today,” he would gently assure me, “but it’s time. It is time” Over the phone his breath sounded raspy and his voice mean. I swear I could smell onion juice. 
One time he was taking me to the Bronx to look at plants. As a member of the Botanical Gardens he had all sorts of access to all sorts of green things. He wanted to buy me a huge tree. Remembering his analogy of death I refused. Plus, I had nowhere to put it. ‘Just walk with me and tell me the names of plants’ I begged. He smelled of onions and vodka like always. He walked with hands clasped behind his back asking “does this make me look Jewish? No? Too bad! Because I am.” And laughing loudly, scaring away pigeons in the brush. It was hard to believe he wanted to fall with a laugh like that. I ended up allowing him to buy me a small fern which dried up and whithered away the following fall, despite my diligence to watering and worrying.
On the day I learned of his death, confused and angry, I threw up at the first sight of an onion. I couldn’t understand the meaning behind “I Quit” written on a calendar. Leaves weren’t supposed to pluck themselves from the limb. Whatever happened to falling off gracefully?
In the end Leo taught me that you don’t have to be sick to be dying. It was years before I really accepted it. Even still I don’t think I understand it. The dying know their time.

Thanks 2 U

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musicIt’s the day before my first BackInTheSaddle race. A little 5k-er…in the snow (at least that’s what the forecast was predicting). I’m a little nervous. It’s o n l y 5k, but still…This marks the beginning of my road back to the run. Mentally, it’s a big, huge, colossal deal for me. Mentally, it’s all that I have. Having said all that, I think conditions are perfect. The race is in the same park where I trained for the half. I know it intimately. I love it well. Friends have gotten married there. I’ve seen Natalie perform there. I have so much history there…it’s also the same place where I first felt my knee give out. It’s where I fell to the ground. I know the exact piece of pavement I crumpled on. Half of me prays we avoid that spot altogether, but other other half wants to run over that exact spot with a fukc you vengeance, stomp on that spot…and keep going.

I asked people for input on favorite songs. I made it obvious that I want to make each list into a special mix just for that person, but what I didn’t make clear is that I want to take certain songs from each list and create my very first race mix. Two people emailed me privately with their choices, someone else sent me a text message…and my husband thought the task too daunting to just rattle off 10 songs. As he says, “I really need to think about that.” So, his choices will come later…much later – something for the next run.
So, here’s the 3/15/08 Bill’s Challenge 5k Run Playlist:

  1. We Didn’t Start the Fire – Billy Joel (Manda)
  2. Higher Ground – Stevie Wonder (Ruth)
  3. We’re Not Gonna Take It – Twisted Sister (Sarah)
  4. The Scientist – Coldplay (Heather)
  5. Paint it Black – Rolling Stones (Greg)
  6. Hotel California – Eagles (Rebecca)
  7. These Are Days – 10,000 Maniacs (ME 🙂 )music

My third motive for asking for music was to discover new music. I have some really, really creative people in my life and I am always looking for new stuff to listen to. I love the process of discovery, especially when the education comes from my friends. So, thank you, thank you, thank you for chiming in!

Stay Away from Gainesville

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Stay away from Gainesville, Florida…or better yet, someone find George E. and muzzle him. George writes for the Gainesville Sun and believes Central Florida should “pull the plug” on public libraries in his county. He goes through the usual blatherings “no one needs a library anymore…we’ve got the Internet!” Yes, you do, Mr E. That and a whole bunch of garbage. Here’s a little exercise for you – Let’s say you have a not-so-manly problem of ED and you want to research the problem. So, you get yourself on Google and “research” your anatomy to figure out where the “dysfunction” comes from. Or doesn’t. Sorry about that bad choice of word. Check out how many hits Google was able to return to you in whatever seconds. [Google likes to brag about that sort of thing. Not sure how useful it really is when no one looks beyond the first two pages of search results…] but, anyway. Back to the exercise. Now go to Google Scholar, that is, if you know how to find it, and conduct the same search. What’s the difference? How much porn did you get with the first search? How much do you really want to be looking at people doing it while you can’t even get it up? Can you evaluate your sources accurately? Do you take advice from just anyone (because that’s what you’re doing if you can’t tell who’s sponsoring your search results)? Do you even care? Obviously not if you can’t see my point.

I like the woman who laid it all out in her comment: what her “library” taxes cost her per year compared to her savings when borrowing (for free) books, journals, dvds, music, cds, and audio books. The real kicker is when she mentions the research help she got from a real, honest-to-goodness librarian that saved her husband’s life. Priceless.
Someone else said Florida’s culture is going down the drain (well, they called the culture “backwater” which to me sounds equally unappealing). I don’t know that much about the Sunshine State, but I do know complaints about Florida’s lack of culture is nothing new. I have a friend who’s dying for a little culture in her little corner of sunshine.

Why do I rant about this? I’m sick of trying to defend my profession. There. I said it. I have a vested interest in all libraries and not just my own. I admit, the word ‘library’ is archaic. But, in this ever-growing wealth of cyber information someone needs to stand in the mire and sort it all out. That’s what professional librarians are paid to do. I have to wonder what Ben Franklin would say if he met Mr. George at a dinner party and was told “you don’t need a library for books, just to go the Salvation Army!” Since I’m not in the mood to promote George’s editorial let me know if you want to read it for yourself. I’ll forward the link….

Stepping off the soapbox for today.

oh yeah, and have a nice day.

Dalva

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Harrison, Jim. Dalva. New York: E.P. Dutton, 1988.Dalva

What I wrote on LibraryThing:
There are two elements that make this story compelling: the characters and the sweeping shadow of history under which they live. Dalva is supposed to be the main character, but her story is told through the richness of the other characters. Michael, the alcoholic professor bumbling his way through Dalva’s history in attempt to reach tenure; Duane, Dalva’s teenage half Sioux love; Dalva’s mother, Naomi; Uncle Paul and the diaries of her great-grandfather, the missionary who first came to Nebraska.

There are more quotes than this, but here are my favorites:
“You are at an age when you are not to yourself as you are to others” (p 51).
“I rehearsed my entire life and heard my heart for the first time” (p 56). Who hasn’t done this at least once?
“It’s not what turns one on, but what turns one on the most strongly” (p 61). Good explanation for the fickle.
“There was a loud noise that turned out to be my yelling, which I managed to do while running backwards” (p 115). Just a really funny image.
“In these semi-angry moods or after she had a few drinks she owned the edge of a predator” (p 122). Aren’t we all?
“Nebraska strikes one as a place where it never occurs to the citizens to leave” (p 126). I think that’s why I don’t know of anyone from Nebraska.
“Some wise soul said that grownups are only deteriorated children” (p 257).
“My mind so clear it shivered inside” (p 296).

The one thing I didn’t care for was the sense of false advertising I got from the description of the book – “this is the story of Dalva’s search for her lost son who was given away for adoption.” Out of a 324 page book it wasn’t until page 221 that Dalva has a serious dialogue about finding her son. Up until then it isn’t mentioned barely at all. That only leaves 103 pages for the story of searching. In truth, I found the first 221 pages were spent explaining Dalva’s past and the important people in her life. They all have stories to tell and fascinating ones at that!
BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust actually twice – once in the chapter “The Great Plains: Nebraska” (p 108) and again in “Men Channeling Women” (p 166).

The Music Game

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I have a proposition to make. I’m exploring the idea of running on emotion. Right now I’m running by heartbeat. Bass and drums, bass and drums. Driving beats that match footfall. “Last night” I ran to Paint It Black five times because it got me where I wanted to go. That’s nice and all, but I want more. I need more. I found that I get more “fired up”, more “pumped” to run when there is a strong emotion behind it. Does that make sense? I’m looking to explore the idea of running angry (since I have so much of it, naturally), running happy, running with purpose. I’m thinking running angry will be a good substitute for energy since I’m less likely to have a surplus of that thing called energy, ha!  ipod
Last night I was discussing the “angry” songs with kisa. I think he was surprised to hear Gravedigger by Dave Matthews is on the list, but when he asked “1940 to 1992?” I knew he understood completely. It’s the line that gets me every single time. What’s The Matter Here? by 10,000 Maniacs goes without saying. How could any song about child abuse not get you pissed off? Uncomfortable by sirsy is another great one.

So here’s a question for you: if you could pick 10 songs; 10 all-time favorite, YOUR greatest songs ever, what would they be? How about if there were rules attached like one had to be from the 1980s (‘cuz I’m an ’80s child), one had to be a love song, one had to be personal (for whatever the reason), and one had to outside your comfort zone. Could you pick 10 and only 10? If you can do it, lemme have ’em!

Here’s my all-time 10 (don’t laugh)ipods

  1. These are Days ~10,000 maniacs
  2. Take Me To the Top ~ Loverboy
  3. Paint it Black ~ Rolling Stones
  4. Bulls on Parade ~ Rage Against the Machine
  5. Holiday ~ Scorpions
  6. Please Let Me Be ~ sirsy
  7. Thick as Thieves ~ Natalie Merchant
  8. Pretty Polly/Diver Boy ~ traditional murder ballads
  9. Grace is Gone ~ Dave Matthews Band
  10. Island Woman ~ the Merrymen

I think it’s pretty obvious where my inspirations are hiding. 80s song, love song, personal song, out-of-comfort-zone song. They’re all there. Those of you who know me will be able to spot them in a second. I doubt there will be any surprises. Your turn.

Compassionate Hate

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“I try to incorporate compassion into my everyday life because without trying, nothing in this world will ever change.” ~ Now & Zen Yoga

 Some of you might recognize this quote as a comment from one on my blogs, but as I said before, it’s worth repeating. I lose my compassion about 50 times a day. Drop it somewhere. Forget about it. Impatience, intolerance, insensitivity – all these things find and take control of compassion’s lonely place. Like the impossibility of holding water in my hands I find it difficult to hold onto good thoughts, deeds and gestures throughout an entire day. They slip away undetected as bad moods settle in; goodness is chased away by anger, frustration, irritation. Where does this come from and why is it easier to be this way?

I was at a family function not long ago when my table companion leaned over to me and whispered ” —‘s put on weight.” I found myself taking furtive glances. I couldn’t really tell. Suddenly angry I snarled, “her dress is beautiful!” knowing my companion hated her own. Was I trying to defend the weight-gainer or hurt the observer? Maybe both. I couldn’t tell. I do know I was caught between two kinds of cruelty.

This morning I was on my way to pick up bagels. I could have gotten the supermarket variety – six of one kind, half dozen of the same. Instead I went gourmet and bought flavors like apple cinnamon, garlic and herb, honey walnut, and blueberry. Fancy cream cheeses on the side. It was good to be generous. On the sidewalk sat a crumpled, bearded man. More blue than blueblue eyes stared up at me. I dropped a five in his can and wordlessly walked away. I couldn’t help wondering how he would spend it. Wine? Cigarettes? Or something stronger? Something only a syringe could deliver? Was it callous of me to think that way? Why did I think I just donated to his uselessness? Why couldn’t I think something better of his begging? 

Oddly enough, I have gotten help through someone else’s blog. If you are really interested, click on February 15th’s post titled “Happy Day.”

oh. and have a nice day.

Wrack + Ruin

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Lee, Don. Wrack and Ruin. New York: W.W. Norton, 2008

My March Early Review book.Here’s the LibraryThing review:
Funny and witty. Sarcastic and insightful characters who are well developed but have a sense of mystery about them. Great one-liners. It’s hard to believe it takes place over one long Labor Day weekend because so many different things happen. The plot is complicated with many different fast moving subplots. Take this one to the beach because it’s fun.

I love it when the cover of a book takes me in, makes me wonder. My cover of Wrack and Ruinis of a oversized, plain white dinner plate cracked completely in half. On the plate, surviving the plate’s demise is a single brussel sprout, whole and healthy. Behind the gaping crack of the plate is, presumably, Lyndon’s oceanside brussel sprout farm.
Aside from plot, the characters fascinated me. Where did Lee come up with these people? There are more than I can mention, but here are some of my favorites:

  • the pot smoking, dreadlocked, amputee surfer.
  • the aging, kung fu expert, alcoholic Asian actress.
  • the fiery, impulsive, twice divorced mayor of Lyndon’s town who dabbles in small business ownerships
  • her equally fiery daughter who wants to be a musician & get laid before college
  • the shiatsu woman who smells of chocolate ice cream
  • the prissy, germaphobic, narrow-minded brother

Then, there are the funny catch-phrases that definitely caught my eye:

  • “garden-variety curmudgeons” (p 3). I picture a whole bunch of plants with sour faces…
  • “she was raising an asshole” (p 78). What mother says that?
  • “I’m a little underemployed these days” (p 132). Hmmm…can that be a new check box between employed and unemployed on a survey?

All in all, this was a great book. I would like to read it again because there are details I’m sure I missed!

Just Plain Poppi

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IMG_0644My husband’s screen name is Poppi. He wears his hair in two Space Oddity pigtails on top of his head and a tight, black skull tee shirt that shows off his navel and the twins. He sneers at the crowd and jumps around a lot. He looks hot…for a girl. I’m talking about his persona in the game Rock Band. I’m not sure if he plays bass or lead because all guitars look the same with Rock Band. But, but, but, he’s super cool. IMG_0636I wanna be him. If only to be that cool wearing the clothes. When he goes on tour, playing places like Los Angeles or Tokyo, he earns threads for his closet. Big chunky boots, fishnet stockings with safety pins, short army fatigue skirts, hip-hugger tight glitter jeans, big hoop earrings, metal tees with strategically placed holes, and metal studded wrist bands. He has a whole closet full of cool clothes. Rocker outfits. Really cool outfits only really cool people can wear.
I wanna be Poppi but, I’m out of my league.IMG_0637x