Send Me Superman

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I got the call during the worst moment. I was dealing with a bad attitude. I was trying not to deal out a bad attitude just the same. “She died” was all my mother said. For a moment I couldn’t speak. My mouth gaped open, I nearly dropped the phone, the world slowed down and drained away. Silence. She died. Just like that. Mother, wife, friend, neighbor. Gone. Just like that.

Send me Superman to take away this sorrow. Send me Superman to keep me strong. Send them Superman, too. I think of her kids, her husband, her community and hear their hurt loud and clear. Send them every super hero heart to love them during this trying time.

Disconnected

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rebecI have been meaning to blog this. I have needed to blog this. I miss you and you and you and you and you and you. To Germany: I have been trying and trying to get a Sunday – something worthwhile and lengthy. So much to catch on from so far away. Thanks for the video email. I can’t stop watching it. You know me and a good cause. It brings tears to my eyes everytime. To Ms Delusion Dr: got your holiday email tonight and I have to say I loved the sax but missed you more. Hope all is well, my friend. To Ruby: we keep trying for a meal. We keep trying for a royal bitch session (I think that’ll be my part) and nothing has worked out. You are graceful and reassuring. This is my sanity saying thank you for listening, even if it isn’t the way I want to be communicating. I love you. To Gnasher: Maybe you think I have been avoiding you. Silence on my end means nothing more than a bad day multiplied by seven to make a whole week of hell. Make that two. I miss you. Dear, dear Smiley: I need a laugh. I need something funny to keep me one step ahead of my black cloud. Cookies don’t cut it. Really. Belise: I’m intimidated by the running force you have become, yet..and yet…You might be proud of me. I’ve put in 27 miles last month and 15.6 miles so far this month. You inspire me. I’m still scared of the hurt I could inflict on myself- the shadow of pain is always there like a dark shadow I can’t escape…but I’m trying. Really trying.

And for Rebecca:

You know me and live music. You know me and this voice. You know me and this friend. Just have to promote everything about her. Rebecca Correia will be at the Iron Horse on 12/21 (Sunday) @ 7pm. She’s opening for Brian O’Connor. Have to admit, I’ve never heard of Brian, but I’m game.

Speaking of games, Kisa is going to a football game that night – a mercy outing with a friend who couldn’t get rid of his extra ticket. Probably will be the last game of the year so how could I say no? I’m no Kill Joy wife. No matter what.

Rebecca, I have missed your songs and your weird sense of humor. Can’t wait to see you!

Destination Procrastination

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What is it about this time of year that makes me move slower than molasses, feel heavier than heartache? Something is weighing me down and I haven’t found the fortitude to figure it out. What comes across as apathy is closer to personal panic. I had missed dinner with a friend by minutes and exhaustion still hasn’t allowed me to catch up with anything since.
We went to this company dinner last night, kisa and I – one of those coat and tie, heels and finery things. A nod to the powers that be, a thanks for the employment kind of thing. Before going we fussed over what to wear. Boot won out over heels. Black won out over red. We ate, chatted, and left. Just like that. It took longer to pick out clothes than it did to attend. I felt fat. I had nothing to say, nothing charming to hold anyones attention with. I’m not reading Twilight. I’m not a Harry Potter groupie and I don’t have kids to tuck in at night. Nothing to bitch about unless you count houses. It’s too bad they don’t seat people by interest. I felt like I could have started with the soup, slipped out during the salad, missed the main course, and upon rejoining everyone during dessert, not missed a thing; nor been missed myself. Like the movie kisa was watching. I left during the gangster bloody beating, talked to my mother for nearly two hours, and when I returned the movie was still in progress only this time the gangster was getting arrested. Like I couldn’t have predicted that. I didn’t miss a thing.
Somehow, somewhere along the way I pressed pause. I feel as though I am suspended from my life. Hanging inches above what I want to be doing; where I want to be. I’m sure it’s a mild melancholy of some sort. Kinda sorta maybe?

Family Affair

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img_4357Stout, Rex. A family Affair. New York: Viking Press, 1975.

When this little book came across my desk I could hardly contain my surprise. First, it’s only 152 pages long. Second, this was the very first time I was seeing Rex Stout’s picture on the dust jacket. I have to admit Jill Krementz took one funky picture of Stout! Incidentally, A Family Affair was Rex Stout’s last book published while he was still alive (he died one month later in October of 1975).

Despite this being a short mystery it certainly had more twists than the usual Rex Stout creation. Told from the point of view of his assistant, Artie, the mystery begins in Wolfe’s own home when his favorite waiter is murdered in his spare room. It’s unheard of for a crime to happen right under his nose. Another strange development is Wolfe’s uncharacteristic emotional outbursts. This is a case he takes very personally – enough to call it “a family affair” and enough for him to spend a night in jail (this coming from a man who never even likes to leave his home)! Because the murder happens in his own home he is more than determined to find the killer before the authorities do, despite not having a client. Typical of other Stout mysteries Wolfe has his beloved orchids and by-the-minute routines and mannerisms. What is different about this particular story is the inclusion of political commentary concerning Nixon and Watergate. Stout displays his displeasure with the political happenings in Washington through Wolfe.

While I didn’t I really didn’t get into the story enough to care how it ended I will say it was nice to read a compact mystery that wasn’t overburdened with subplots and heavy details.

My favorite quotes: “…on the way back there was an open door and I entered. A good detective doesn’t have to be invited” (p 25).
“I am in a rage right now and out of control” (p 30).
“…but I have rules too. No hat before Thanksgiving. Rain or snow is good for hair” (p 49). How odd.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter, “Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe: Too Good To Miss” (p 228).

Snarling Day

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I should have been listening to Sean Rowe’s Wrong Side of the Bed because that was me yesterday. I think I said it more than thrice, this thing is bigger than a bed – I got up on the wrong side of life yesterday. Where, on this map of negative, do I start? If I had written this in the midst of my mindless rage I would have ranted incoherently. I barely remember the phone conversation I had with one of my oldest friends. I felt out of control, swerving off sanity and veering into trouble, dangerously close to a nervous breakdown lane. Choking back tears I couldn’t find clarity. A real crack up.

Work has never had me as frustrated as now. People breaking down, barely held together with kind words and calls to 911. Complaints about the heat are followed by silence when something was finally done. When the head of maintenance asked for feedback it was all I could do but shrug. No news is good news, I guess. I won’t share the new complaints. Why bring his day down to my level?

There’s more. My car. My future. My family. It seems to be all about me, myself and moi these days. I think when you sink this low it’s hard to see anything but what hurts.

Angst in an Update

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We heard back. Did we ever. This whole process reminds me of war. Something akin to a clunky medieval war with ineffectual weapons and a horrible lack of communication. You lob something at me. I stare at it as it smolders harmlessly at my feet. In return I chuck something back at you; something as equally harmless and ineffective. The whole process is teeth-grittingly, frustratingly unproductive. It all feels ridiculous and stupid. You want way too much for your house. $21,000 over what every other professional thinks it’s worth. As much as I love what you have to offer I’m not about to offer you that much. Not nearly. When it came down to this war of numbers I wanted to hurl something more dangerous at you, something with the bite of  “final offer” because really, it’s no big deal to me if we walk away. It aint no big thing. But, my knight in shining armor wants to storm the gates. Wants to see what you are made of, one tiny ineffective barb at a time.
So, we counter like kids – our offer coming through as a game of tin can telephone – hollow and sounding all wrong. And we wait for your tin can reply.

I’m a Stranger Here Myself

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BrysonBryson, Bill. I’m a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America After Twenty Years Away. New York: Broadway Books, 1999.

I was skeptical of this book. The premise is Bryson has been away from American soil for twenty years (living in England) and the book is supposedly his running commentary on how different everything has become. Right off the bat I wanted to ask, “What? They didn’t have ATM machines or public pay phones in England? Not even by the time Mr. Bryson left?” I have to admit, it never crossed my mind that England could be twenty years behind the U.S. in such things as technology and invention.
In actuality, Bryson’s book was, in a word, delightful. I thoroughly enjoyed his opening essay about the differences between English and American postal services. However, for the most part the comparisons ended there. It was more about how nonsensical America could be with it’s rules and regulations. It reminded me of Robert Fulghum with his humorous observations.

Favorite funnies:
“Going to a restaurant is generally a discouraging experience for me because I always manage somehow to antagonize the waitress” (p 13).
“It is all immensely complicated, but essentially it means that practically every team in baseball except the Chicago Cubs gets a chance to go to the World Series” (p 25).
“He converses as if he has heard that someday he will be billed  for it” (p 93). Sounds like my father!

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lustin the chapter, “Bill Bryson: Too Good to Miss” (p 36).

Waking an Old Dream

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Last August I wrote a lot about a little house. From the moment we drove away from its driveway I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I saw it as overly perfect and my husband saw it as overpriced. To anyone who would listen I would say, “let me tell you about this house.” And I would launch right in. For starters, there is the neighborhood. It’s not a thrustreet to anything important so no one is racing to nowhere special. There’s a park behind the house, another across the way. People walk here. You can park on the street. It’s that kind of place. Then, there is the yard. Front and back. Big enough for a patio. Future enough for a deck. One big tree to stand guard over a hazy childhood memory…From there I temporarily slip into warm fuzzy thoughts about all the trees I have climbed, the apples I have eaten…
But, back to the house. Let me tell you about this house! I like the shutters. I like the garage. I like the idea of “cute cape cod” but, but! But, it’s whats inside that really grabbed me. Like a closet for coats and boots right inside the door. Not a mudroom, per se…but a place to stand as the snow drips off your shoulders and puddles into grittiness at your feet. A place to not only shrug off your jacket but hang it up. The arched doorway lends itself to character and leads to a lovely living room, complete with fireplace and mantle. Off that, an addition built just for family and appropriately called the family room. Go figure. Circle back and walk through the dining room. Yes, a real, honest-to-goodness dining room. An adult room to with room enough to sit at a real table to eat. Not a tv tray or bar stool in sight. then, the kitchen. Ah, the kitchen!  Blue counters, white cabinets. My dishes are already moved in. In a word, they match the decor. They go. They belong. There’s a cook’s bath off the kitchen, a view of the back yard while ignoring the dishwasher and washing the dishes by hand, even a shelf for diaries cookbooks… From there I can’t help but remember the dozens and dozens of cookies I just made. The smell of cookie dough and chocolate permeating every room.
But, back to the house. Let me tell you about The House! Climb the stairs to the second floor and notice the closets in the hall. The two bedrooms with built-ins and more closets. The sunny, tiled bath…upstairs is small but perfect. Plush carpet and quiet invite you to stay a little longer. My imagination has me staying forever.

This is the house I would have told you about last summer. The house that sold in the fall to someone else; to someone other than me. The one that brought tears to my eyes. The one I pictured being my first house. Home. now belonging to someone else. It has taken me forever to move on. I’ve liked disasters and I’ve liked dangerous dreams. But, I’ve never forgotten my August house.

Here’s the curious thing. We found this house. Same town. Same street. Nearly identical in architecture only backwards. Garage on the right instead of left. Family room far left instead of far right. Am I dreaming? This last Sunday, kisa and I revisted the house we already thought we knew. It’s the same house.

Tonight, we put in an offer…

and I hold my breath.

Christmas Spirit in a Cookie

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c is for cookie

Typically, baking is not my bag. Hand me a jalpeno and I’m a much happier girl. Pie plates, measuring spoons, and proofing are just words I can’t be bothered with. Call it the Christmas spirit (or just plain crazy), but this year is just a little different. It all started with a resourceful review and a rug remnant. There are some people in my work life who have just gone above and beyond to keep my sanity. I owe them something – nothing short of my soul – for making my life just a little easier. So, I decided to bake cookies. Everyone loves a cookie, right? Never one to take the easy road I decided against plain old chocolate chip and ended up with:

  • mint chocolate chunk (2 dozen)
  • peanut butter chocolate chunk (2 dozen)
  • butterscotch (1 dozen)
  • butterscotch with almonds (1 dozen)
  • oatmeal with tuaca soaked raisins (2 dozen)
  • cinnamon chocolate chunk (2 dozen)…and finally…
  • plain old chocolate chip (2 dozen)

Luckily, I had really good company for this cookie quest – otherwise I would have gone insane. She and kisa sampled as I went, making sure my baking was on par with yummy. I could have easily gotten off track with the measuring with all the gabbing we needed to do! Here’s a teaser for an upcoming blog – I started the cookie quest on Saturday night because Sunday was another house hunting day. We were to visit the twin of the house I fell in love with in August! More on that later!

But, for now let me say I’m still not a baker. But, I have to admit – there was something very warm and homey about the smell of cookies baking in the oven; there was something very simple and childlike about being able to lick the big wooden spoon caked with dough; there was something very comforting and personal about creating something from scratch to say thank you.

Happiness is a fresh baked mint chocolate chip chunk cookie.

Anatomy of a Murder

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img_43561Traver, Robert. Anatomy of a Murder. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1958.

If you want to get technical about it this was my first book of December – considering the first two were read while it was still November. A technicality, I guess.

Anatomy of a Murder was written in the 1950s by Robert Traver. From the moment I started reading it I couldn’t put it down. 439 pages went by in a blur. I read before bed, when I first woke, on the drive into work, on my lunch break, waiting in line at the grocery store…It had me hooked from the very first sentence. It’s no wonder this novel became a movie. For starters, take the author – Robert Traver was the pen name for John D. Voelker who happened to be a lawyer and a judge in addition to being a fantastic writer. Secondly, Voelker used a real life murder than took place in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. True stories are always fascinating.

So, here’s the story (now that I’ve set the stage, so to speak): Paul (Polly to his friends) Biegler is an ex-D.A. turned public defender set out to prove his client, Frederic Manion, murdered a bartender in a moment of insanity. Proving the insanity isn’t the only challenge of the case. Biegler must also prove Manion’s wife was raped by the bartender (and thus creating the moment of insanity) when all evidence surrounding Mrs. Manion’s attack is not admissible in her husband’s trial. The entire story is so well written you never want it to end.

Some of the many, many lines and phrases I found great:
“gently drunk” (p 13).
“Juries, in common with women drivers, are apt to do the damndest things” (p 39).
“I consider jealousy the most corrosive and destructive of all emotions and I long time ago made up my mind that I refused to be jealous of anyone or anything. Life is simply too goddam short” (p 73).

One last comment. I always thought that lawyers (of any kind) needed to show judges the utmost respect both in the courtroom and in chambers. Right? Well, someone needs to explain the scene on page 244 where Polly is in Judge Weaver’s chambers. Picture this, the Judge has just lit a pipe and Polly sits, “one leg over the arm of [his] chair.” I don’t even sit that way in my mother-in-law’s house!

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter, “What a Trial That Was!” (p 243).

Dangerous Friend

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Dangerous FriendJust, Ward. A Dangerous Friend. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1999.

This is the companion read to The Quiet American by Graham Greene. I have to say it was interesting to read one man’s book in honor of someone else. But, back to Ward Just. Just was born in December, hence the addition of A Dangerous Friend. If it isn’t clear, I read The Quiet American because it was so similar to A Dangerous Friend. It just made sense to read them together.

A Dangerous Friend takes the reader to Vietnam, 1965. Sydney Parade is a man bored with his Connecticut life. In search of something bigger than himself he leaves his wife and daughter for the jungles of Saigon. While his intention is to be part of a foreign-aid operation building bridges, administering agriculture education, and facilitating supply delivery, Sydney soon discovers war is war no matter which side you are on. The depths of conflict strike his moral heart and leave him struggling to survive any way that he can.

A couple lines that I liked:
“…we were imprisoned in our own language, tone deaf to possibility” (p 4)
“The answer to chaos is repetition” (p 73).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in two different chapters: “Companion Reads” (p 64), and “Ward Just: Too Good to Miss” (p 135). Also, mentioned in the introduction (p xi).

Bread and Jam

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Bread & Jam

I love it when a plan comes together. Things you don’t intend to happen just do and for the better. I didn’t intend for the Sean night to be just Kisa and I but I’m glad it turned out that way. We haven’t been to see a show, just the two of us, in a really, really long time. We took the opportunity to prowl around a new town scoping out the real estate it had to offer. I didn’t intend to see a twin of my first “dream house” but there it was, in the same town on the same street. They are mirror images of one another…including the price. I dared to dream for just a minute about having a second chance at a first house.
I didn’t intend for us to stop in Albany for dinner. I mentioned a place, said I had no idea where it was or even what it was really called. Kisa pointed in Tom’s direction and said, “ask him.” Tom knew the place and even how to get there (or should that be the other way around because how to get there is a given?) and so we went. Better blog about bombing Bombers later…
I didn’t intend for us to sit front row for Sean’s show. I was hoping for a quiet corner, something with candles and coffee. Instead, we found a couch with cinnamon sweet cider and a chocolate brownie to split. Sean, as usual, was amazing. I’m never, ever disappointed after seeing a show. Here’s the setlist:

  • Bluegrass Baby
  • Night (awesome, awesome tune)
  • Into the Mystic
  • Surprise (new album song) 
  • The Blues (?)
  • Tomorrow Loves a Long Time
  • Draw the Line
  • Black Lightning

Set break

  • Old Black Dodge
  • Trademark of Fools (still an old favorite)
  • Wrong Side of the Bed (new album song)
  • Jonathan (new album song – still one of my favs)
  • Wet (new album song)
  • Everybody’s Talking
  • Check It Out
  • American (new album song)
  • Alone (old fav – almost didn’t think I was going to hear it!)

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Quiet American

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Greene, Graham. The Quiet American. New York: Viking Press, 1956.

This has come up twice for my December readings – once because of Ward Just’s birthday (don’t ask), and once because it is a companion read to Ward Just, again don’t ask. I’ll explain all that when I get to Ward Just’s book later this month week.

Like my friend who started decorating for Christmas, I started reading my December picks on 11/23/08. I couldn’t help myself. I had wanted to fit in Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling but my library’s version was not the complete works. In addition it was missing the two crucial stories Nancy Pearl specifically pointed out. Rather than disrupt the flow of order I moved onto December…a week early!

This was a story of two battles. An English reporter is sent to cover a war-torn Saigon. While there he falls in love with Vietnamese woman. His love is challenged when an American from Boston falls in love with the same woman. There is a real war raging on the periphery, complete with bombings and mass murders, while at the center is a battle over a woman. The interesting twist to this story is how the story makes the reader feel towards the two men and how that changes over time.

Best lines: “I shut my eyes and she was again the same as she used to be: she was the hiss of steam, the clink of a cup; the was a certain hour of the night and the promise of rest” (p 5). That is such an achingly beautiful line!
“You cannot love without intuition” (p 13).
“The possession of a body tonight seemed a very small thing – perhaps that day I had seen too many bodies which belonged to no one, not even to themselves” (p 65-66).
“For a moment I had felt elation as on the instant of waking before one remembers” (p 205).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in two different places: in the chapter “Companion Reads” (p 64), and “Ward Just: Too Good To Miss” (p 135).

Cranberry Crazy

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feastMy in-laws didn’t want me to bring anything to the Thanksgiving dinner. They are gourmet all the way so I wasn’t really all that surprised. “We’re all set. Just bring yourself” they told me. But, that didn’t mean I didn’t offer – Stuffing? Done. Green bean casserole? P has her recipe. Sweet potatoes? Covered. Dessert? Five pies and counting. Mashed potatoes? Check. Finally, finally it was decided I could bring the cranberry sauce. Cranberry sauce! Instantly I thought: citrus, spicy and adult. One of each. Something raw (relish), something cooked (sauce). And…if they all sucked, I could always grab a few cans on the way out of town (hey, I used to eat that stuff straight from the can – STILL love it).

So, the citrus relish was in honor of my husband’s niece. Pineapple, tangerines, lemons, lime, maple syrup, and honey. If I had thought about it I would have added raisins and nuts since this was an uncooked, crunchy relish. Something for next year, maybe?

The spicy sauce was intended just to be a sauce for kisa and I – something a little kicked up. Cranberries, chipotles, Mexican cinnamon, sugar, ancho chili powder, and red wine vinegar. Simmered for a long time on really, really low heat. If I had thought about it I would have added shallots and garlic since this was a savory sauce. Something for next year, maybe?

The adult sauce was intended to be a port – a traditional cranberry sauce that everyone makes. I decided at the last minute to make a tribute to September 18, 2004 with some Tuaca – a vanilla orange liquor. Those of you who attended the festivities on that day will know exactly what I’m talking about! *wink*wink* So, it was a mixture of mustard, cinnamon, cardamon, cranberries and Tuaca. If I had thought about it I would have soaked dried fruit in more Tuaca for a really adult kick. Something for next year, maybe.
But, here’s the thing – they loved the sauces, all of them. Even the spicy sauce disappeared. Who knew?

So, I have officially been put in charge of cranberry sauce from here on out and my husband won’t stop calling me the Queen of the Bog. I’m already thinking of next year – sweet with strawberries? Spicy with jalapenos and tomatoes? Adult with sangria? Any ideas are greatly appreciated!

December is…

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img_00281December is one of the longest months in my opinion. But, it is also one of the most festive, thanks in part to the 25th & 31st. December is also the return of the Hot Chocolate Run, the return of the awesomely awesome Rebecca Correia (to the Iron Horse) and for reading books it is:

  • Anatomy of Murder  by Robert Traver in honor of John Jay becoming the first Chief Justice in this month (I’ll explain at review time).
  • Quiet American by Graham Greene in honor of Ward Just’s birthday (I’ll explain that in a second).
  • Dangerous Friend by Ward Just in honor of Ward Just’s birthday. I had always been told to read Quiet American with Dangerous Friend so that’s what I’m doing.
  • Family Affair  by Rex Stout in honor of his birthday.

And if there is time…

  • I’m a Stranger Here Myself  by Bill Bryson in honor of his birthday.

So, I’m celebrating author birthdays more than real life birthdays. What’s up with that? Not really sure I know myself….