Buyer Be Seated

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the-dress.jpgI could have called this “Hell Has A Name Part Two” because this is just a continuation of the disaster I call the Quest for the Dress.
So, I’ve already covered the fiasco that was finding said dress. Yes, this is a picture of me in it. Not a happy camper am I? If I only knew…believe it or not, this is the happiest moment (wearing the dress) I would have that night.

 After humiliating myself for five hours finding the beforementioned dress I thought I was being wise to my “hefty” situation by next buying body hugging undergarments. You know the things that cinch you in, hold your extra baggage sausage-like? I guess I’m just talking to the women out there…But, I found the perfect all-in-one. Bra and skirt together. Lots and lots of lycra. Brilliant! Somehow, I really believed I could benefit from such a contraption. And for an hour all went well.
I can’t tell you when it all when wrong or why. I can’t say I made a wrong move, made a sudden move, or really moved at all. But, the next thing I knew the top to before beloved undergarment had popped off. Literally popped off and slid. Down. Way down. Without warning. All through dinner I discreetly negotiated trying to pull it back up. Leave it to lycra to be so uncooperative. I never got it back to the right place.
Sometime later, the same thing happened with the bottom half. Instead of popping suddenly the bottom portion had, unbeknown to me, worked its way up. Subtly, silently. Now the entire garment was around my waist, and cinching only my waist. Not in a good way, either. If I had a tire before, now definitely I had two.
I spent the entire wedding reception glued to my seat. In a corner. Trapped beside an elbowing, poking mother who insisted I asked someone (anyone) to dance. Riiiight. Luckily, my cousin put it perfectly, “We don’t dance.”

Hell Has a Name

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FatHell does have a name. Hell, hell has several names. Shopping…malls…Macy’s. Take your evil. Pick your poison. Five hours of scouring racks, trudging into fitting rooms, undressing and cringing, fighting static electricity all the while, not wanting to scrutinize lines too closely, yet knowing if I didn’t someone else would, deciding “no, this doesn’t work” only to start the process all over again. Back to the racks. Pushing aside hangers of too flashy, too shiny, too young, too short, too I’mNotThatGirl, too Holy-Cow-They-Want-$250-For-That?! Finding one or two things to haul back to the all-telling mirrors. Glancing over the shoulder, deciding something’s just not quite right (oh wait. It’s me that’s not quite right). Back and forth. Forth and back.
Halfway through the process I noticed a stain right in the middle of my turtleneck and my sweater was beyond brimming with snapping static. My feet were hurting and by dress #8 I broke a nail trying to negotiate the too-tight zipper. That should have told me something right there. With each try-on I felt fatter and fatter. Uglier and uglier. I started to curse my cousin and question why big, fat me had to attend his wedding. The dressing room felt too tiny and someone had turned up the heat. Too make matters worse, some lady tried to steal my dressing room while I was in my mother’s dressing room deep in consultation. How this woman had missed my inside-out jeans on the floor, my cat hair covered coat on the seat, my purse hanging on the door…not to mention the stained turtleneck lying crumpled in the doorway, is beyond me.
Finally, frustration found me and I started trying on black anythings. Black, black, black. Not a shred of color. I settled on something with rhinestones, something fit for a funeral. Shopping had been the death of me. I was so relieved to be finished, done with the search that when I dressed back into my clothes for the final time I put my turtleneck on backwards and forgot to zip my jeans.

ps~ while this makes a great end to the story, just wait until you hear about what happened at the wedding…Hell gets worse.

Left Out

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My husband refuses to read the book reviews when I blog. If he sees a book cover for a picture, he skips it. Automatically. He doesn’t come right out and say it, but I know he finds them boring. My impulse is to apologize, to be put off and/or hurtfully offended. Instead of being put off, I have to fight that off. I have to dig deeper and ask myself why anyone would read any word at all? Thinking like that keeps me way grounded – almost underground with humbleness. I think Kisa reads mostly because he’s married to me; he has a vested interested in what I might (or might not) say, but. But. But, he draws the line at boring books. I try telling him that I don’t write traditional reviews, that he might actually find one or two interesting….or something. He doesn’t care. He still won’t read. He has even said (and I quote) “you could call me a jerk, tell me I’m an asshole and I wouldn’t know it.” Hmmm…is that a challenge? Is that a Dare-You-To statement? That means I could unleash the dream about divorcing him; untether the frustration when I feel I’m not being fawned over enough; cry it’s a crying shame I can’t get him to clean the toilet. Seriously! Think of the possibilities! Actually…No.
Honestly, this is not a bone of contention between us (although it might sound that way). I don’t silently resent him for not reading me cover to cover, line after line, word by word. I sometimes cringe at what he does read, fearing he will misinterpret me just as much as the next person who doesn’t know me half as well. Or more.

ps~ Here’s a little haha for the unread: When I posted Everyday Zen I hadn’t been able to load a picture to go with it. So, when my husband signed into this site he was tricked into starting to read the blog. It’s actually kind of funny. When I joked that I almost got him he admitted, “yeah, it took me a few lines to realize I was reading a review…” then he added, “but when I did, I stopped.” Touche.

Alburqueque

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Anaya, Rudolfo. Alburquerque. Alburquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1992.

My final book of January – chosen to celebrate the month New Mexico became a state. Anaya’s Alburquerque is rich with the culture of New Mexico’s Mexican population. In the center is Abran Gonzalez, a young ex-boxer from Barelas. Upon discovering he is adopted he sets out to learn as much as he can about his birth parents. It is crucial to his understanding of who he really is. Swirling around Abran there is magical realism, cutthroat politics, deep rooted culture, rich history, and tragic romance.
My one complaint – I don’t know why Anaya has Abran have a chance meeting with his birth father in the very first chapter. It seemed a little too coincidental and more than a little cheesy. He is able to come full circle with the same characters at the end. Like I said, a little cheesy.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter simply called, “New Mexico” (p 167).

Everyday Zen

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Beck, Charlotte Joko. Everyday Zen: Love and Work. San Francisco: Haper Collins, 1989.

I had a hard time wrapping my brain around the reading of this book. I think I couldn’t figure out what was bugging me until I realized the reading required more than just my brain. It asked my heart and soul, my beliefs and convictions to get involved. It became a religious thing and that was something I really struggled with in order to read Beck’s book. I admit it – I am a person wrestling with and for a belief. If that bothers you, stop reading right here. I am searching for self-acceptance for what I believe and, ultimately, do NOT have faith in.

I found it insteresting that Beck put the word love in the title of her book because in the chapter specifically on love she states, “love is a word not often mentioned in Buddhist texts. And the love (compassion) they talk about is not an emotion…” (p 71). I had an interesting time coming to terms with that concept.

The other quotes that I took to heart are:
“…the storms of life eventually hit them more lightly. If we can accept things just the way they are we’re not going to be gratly upset by anything. And if we do become upset it’s over more quickly” (p 13).
“We can’t love something we need” (p 39).
“Other people are not me” (p 68).
“Not all problems are as tough as these, but less demanding ones may still send us up the wall with worry” (p 99).

New Words:

  • sesshin
  • zazen
  • koan
  • zendo
  • samadhi

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Zen Buddhism And Meditation” (p 255).

Stop The Read

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I have to stop, or at least slow down, the BookLust Challenge for a short time. Within a month I have been chosen to read three different Early Review books for LibraryThing. I don’t know how this happened, but there you have it. I will finish the two BookLusters I have going then switch to the Early Reviewer books; the first being a diet book (go figure). This feeling-fat reader couldn’t have asked for a more appropriate to start with. You will read why in a few days. Trust me, I have something to vent about and it’s not pretty!

You Didn’t Ask Me

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I know this picture is huge. I wanted it big for a reason. The reason is this: to make the message loud and clear. Some time ago I told a friend this postcard (shamelessly swiped from PostSecret) reminded me of them (grammar be damned, I want to protect the not-so-innocent from scrutiny). Yes, I thought they had something to do with a could-of, should-of relationship. Then, the other other other day someone else admitted to me, “I married the wrong person.” Yikes. What, tell me, what exactly, clued you into the right or wrong of a marriage partner? How do you know that now, and more importantly, did you know that going into the whole “death do you part” deal?
Freak me out. It would kill me to regret any part of the vows I exchanged (and now share) with kisa. I could sigh and say someone else could have been more my speed, more my temperament, more my Me. But, that’s just the way life is…and isn’t. I’m not going to regret something because ultimately, that means regretting someone and that’s not fair. So, I ask again. Did you know you married the wrong person from the very start? If so, why did you do it, let it happen, whatever?
I admit! I play the “what if?” game in my head. That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with my here and now. I think of old boyfriends and what could have been. I don’t think there’s a person out there who hasn’t done something similar, if not the exact same thing. A kind of WhereAreTheyNow? for ordinary people. I’m sure someone is Googling you right now. If I question my future with my past’s someones here’s what I come up with: a bored housewife with alcoholic tendencies, a military maiden with issues with authority, an atheist marooned at marathon mass every Sunday, a tripped out druggie wondering which sex my husband is having, gay or straight, without me, a overworked mother of three who has to wait through “just nine more holes – just nine more.” None of these are my idea of me.  But, I said yes at the time. Did I know I would be marrying the wrong person? Did I know all these past passings would be considered mistakes? Certainly not. Life just works in a weird, weird way.

Bring Home the Bacon

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image0001.jpgDon’t get me wrong. I love to cook. I absolutely adore being in the kitchen, making my own meals, creating my own plates of goodness. But, but, but. There is something to be said for the man who can bring it to the table himself. I’m not talking about the guy who blah, blah, blah brags about how great his meals are. I’m not talking about the guy who sounds positively gay discussing his creme brulee, knife skills or turducken. I’m talking about the quiet guy…the guy who sheepishly says, “yeah… I guess I can try” when I mention starting up the pasta or pan searing the sausage or something. I have a soft spot for the man who, despite being scared, somehow serves something special. I love, love, love the humble guy cook. The guy closet chef who has no clue what he’s doing…but tries anyway.
Over the course of one Sunday I served up International servings: Swedish meatballs with smooth sour cream and bright current jelly, Polish kielbasa -cooked long with spicy-sweet BBQ sauce, and Thai chicken bites with lime, cilantro and vibrant green curry. The time before that I was exploring the ocean with garlicky, clilantro-y, citrusy salmon (my first time taking a pair of pliers to a fish). None of these dishes compared to the meal already made for me. Ready for my mouth the moment I walk in the door. He says he can’t cook. He says he has no clue what he’s doing. He tastes good to me.

Say It In Song

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If memories are the stories of my life, music paints the pictures of my past, my present and my unknown future. The yet-to-come is contained in lyrics not yet listened to. I haven’t heard them. The heartbeat of songs not yet sung. The melody unknown. Not mine, not yet.

For now, I’ll hear the here and now. That’s what I should do. Here and now. I’ll listen to it over and over, chase it down, hunt like a phantom obsession. I know what I like. I know what’s not mine. “Gonna get what’s mine. Wild horses couldn’t keep it from me. Papa says I’m a golden child. The whole world’s gonna fall at my feel. It’s all coming to me. ~ Natalie Merchant” The soundtrack to a time I can’t compete with. Never forget. A time so sweet. Wish you were there again.

A child grows in the womb, a mother gives up her tumored fight. A grandfather finds his beloved wife. A man finds love on the run. A woman prepares for her own run. The heart of life beats on. Carries on. I hear it in song. So, sing to me.

Tomorrow is Today

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I’m literally at a loss for words today. If I could climb into the attic of my mind, and you watched me, you would find me picking up stray thoughts, turning them over and over, considering them – weighing the weight of them, pondering their importance and, ultimately, putting them down again, not discarding, just avoiding. I have a few things up there in that attic. I am still in mourning over a quiet death. I am still not feeling 100% well. Both my heart and body are on the mend. It’s just taking a little longer than I expected. There is more.
I ran last night. While I am happy to have faced the Gerbil wheel again I know not to get too excited. I could fall off again just as easily as when I got on. I know myself. I’m still feeling an October hurt. I’m still nursing a December disappointment. 2008 hasn’t come quietly. But, the good news is I ran easily. I ran confidently. Rubber raced under my feet while I watched three miles tick by. Simply starting over.
Tomorrow I see a friend. Someone to listen to. I don’t want to talk about me. I’d rather forget me for a while. I’ll let the attic lay dark, let the thoughts sleep quiet. It will be nice.

Obsession with Words

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Everyday I listen to a song that has me in angry tears. I listen to it two, three…okay, sometimes even more than three times a day. I have no idea why I am so addicted. Drawn to pain, I really can’t turn from it. I told myself there’s a nice drum fill in it, but that’s not it…really, it’s these words:
“Every morning waking in a fever, wet, and shaking. My heart inside me pounding, muddy water all around me. Cold, shocked and speechless. Can anybody reach us? And, why? Oh God, why?…
Gone and lost my patience with this hopeless situation. Oh yeah, I’m alive, the lonely sole survivor. Spared me for a reason, picking up the pieces. But, why? Oh God, why?”

Oddly enough, whenever I cook (the last four or five meals, anyway) there’s another song kicking around. I’ve been singing, “I never meant to be so bad to you…one thing I said I would never do. One look from you and I would fall from grace and that would wipe the smile right from my face…” and a picture a chick doing gymnastics on television sets. How very bizarre!

These words couldn’t be further apart in terms of meaning, time, artists and space. Yet, inside my head, here they live side by side. Day in and day out I am obsessed with the words.

From the Sky

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Is it wrong to have favorite moments from a funeral? Is it wrong to find small laughs and smiles amid the sorrows? We approach the “home” in a black clad seriousness, create small family clusters and murmur small talk about illnesses; it’s the weather’s fault. We all agree. Nod seriously. We want to avoid the real reason why we have gathered. Soon enough it is time to start. Quietly, we shuffle to seats and send furtive glances at the flower laden casket. So many flowers. Tissues and tears emerge in front of just-reminded, grief-stricken faces. We haven’t lost sight of why we are here, after all.
Funerals are for the living, of this I am convinced. It is our chance to praise, to love, to remember, to pay respect, to say goodbye. We may even realize or learn something for the first time. He didn’t miss a day of work. Made his girl pay her own bus fare home on their first date. He lost friends in the war and never, ever forgot their names or their faces. He was dedicated to worrying about family so you didn’t have to. He shared a love of Red Sox with his grandson. He had a Beloved Wife and shared over 60 years of marriage with her. He died of a broken heart.
At graveside the air is crisp, the sky a brilliant blue. Taps is played and suddenly a strong wind blows up, shaking snow from the overhanging tree. A saluting soldier is hit squarely in the face with a Mother Nature snowball, yet he does not flinch, doesn’t move – not an inch. Doesn’t move a muscle. A final joke played from beyond? We all glance at the flag covered casket in wonder. He loved to laugh, too.
But, that, I knew.

Americanization of Benjamin Franklin

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Wood, Gordon S. The Americanization of Benjamin Franklin. New York: Penguin, 2004.

Benjamin Franklin celebrates a birthday in January (on the 17th day in the year 1706 to be precise; in other words, today); hence my reading of his biography (one of many on my list).
Let me say first and foremost that Mr. Franklin is a personal hero of mine for advocating for libraries so much! If it were not for him who knows where my profession would be. I do not, however, approve of his treatment of his wife Deborah. Can you imagine being married to someone who insisted on living in a different country (and only returns home after your death)? Even Franklin’s friends made no mention of Deborah’s passing after he returned to America.
Wood’s biography deals mostly with Franklin’s political aspirations and most pointedly, his “switch” from supporting Britain to supporting America (hence “americanization” in the title). Of course, Franklin’s involvement in postal services and electricity were also touched upon, but only because they are important elements to Franklin’s history.

My favorite quotes:
“Things that struck him as new and odd were always worth thinking about, for experiencing them might advance the boundaries of knowledge” (p 62).
“…but Franklin thought the electrical charge necessary to kill large animals might end up killing the cook” (p 64).
“The degree of Franklin’s Revolutionary fervor and his loathing of the king surprised even John Adams, who was no slouch himself when it came to hating (p 154).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter called “Founding Fathers” (p 91).

You Call Yourself

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You call yourself a fan when all I can think is fraudulant fanatic. You are given gifts and all you can do is gripe, bitch and moan. Crass complaints instead of compliments. Questioning and quarrelling. There is no gratitude or grace in your words. There was no reason beyond simple generosity yet your greedy little heart wanted more and more. You turned a deaf ear to the offer and called for much more. Before, during and after. Laid before you were the new words from a broken heart, a soul bared still grieving, yet all you want are old words, sung too many times over. New doesn’t excite you. You want yesteryear as if nothing could be better. If you can’t move on why move this way at all? You didn’t read the letters outlining the expectations. Didn’t you know your gifts came with a purpose? Of course not for you only listened to what you wanted, disappointed when you didn’t get it. You embarrass me.
There is a rudeness to you. You wave your paltry collection like some sultan. Did you think there would be gratitude on bended knee, a bowed head murmuring thank you for all you have given? You think your donation is the salve to soothe the situation. The end all, be all answer to the cause.
You call yourself a friend when you don’t pay back debts or walk two way streets. I won’t ever acknowledge you. Unlike you, I walk away from the past when it becomes meaningless, useless, stupid and loud. There is a time and place for everything and you aren’t anything. Not to me at least.
So, call yourself fan. Call yourself friend. Then tell yourself you failed at both.

The Dollmaker

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Arnow, Harriette. The Dollmaker. New York: Avon, 1972.

Weighing in at 599 pages this book truly can be called a saga. It’s the story of Gertie Nevens, a simple country woman from Kentucky during World War II. After her husband moves to Detroit, Michigan to find work in the factories, Gertie follows with her five children. Life in the city is cold, dirty, and unkind. Gertie learns of prejudices against “hillbillies” and the importance of the word “adjust”. There is tragedy and triumph with human frailty constantly hanging in the balance. At times I couldn’t believe the hard times Gertie and her family faced. It almost seemed too much to bear. Gertie’s strongest moments are in the very beginning of the book when she has to save her baby from a life threatening illness. After moving from Kentucky it’s as if the city steals Gertie’s strength and spirit.

“…for after the bright whiteness of the hot little room, the cold rain and dark were like old friends” (p 38).
The government owed them at least one man who could fix anything and never got drunk” (p 108).
“‘Are you busy?…Yes and no…I’m in the worst kind of business – tryen to make up my mind'” (p 260).
“She stood, her mind, as always, stumbling around, picking up words, laying them down” (p 538).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter “Big Ten Country: The Literary Midwest” & the section ‘Michigan’ (p 26).