As I read my way through the Shakespeare plays I cannot help but wonder about the boy he might have been. Was he annoyingly cerebral? Could he relate to other kids who said things like "Hey dude" rather than "Harken!" Did his mother want to stuff a rag in his mouth to stop him emoting? Or tell him to shut up and eat his oatmeal? Was he a little prissy pants? Somehow I don't see William Shakespeare as the stud-muffin-heart breaker of Stratford on Avon. Geniuses rarely fit in and I imagine he had a rather rough time of it.
I left Henry VI, Part I with poor Joan being lead off to the stake (proving unequivocally that smoking can be dangerous to ones health) and Suffolk gloating Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king; But I will rule both her, the king and realm. Politics, power and greed. Will we ever learn? I'm waffling on my original idea of reading all the plays in chronological order. For one thing, I don't know that I have the ability to recognize the intricacies of the Bard's evolution as a writer. For another, I don't think I care. At my age I read for fun. So, perhaps I'll continue on to Part II (which does make some sense) or say "to hell with it" and read Love's Labour's Lost. (Stay tuned, details at 11.)
Getting back to what I planned to tell you all along, I closed the back cover of Wolf Hall (reviewed at length by better minds than mine - suffice to say I loved it) and was once again on the prowl. A little background information is in order here: A few months ago I wandered into the library and saw a display entitled "Librarian Picks..." with volumes and audio books recommended by the library staff. Among these was an audio version of The Well Of Lost Plots by Jasper Fforde. I picked it up and began to read the back of the case.
"Have you read the Thursday Next books?" a voice asked over my shoulder. I turned to find the diminutive, graying librarian attempting to maneuver a push-cart of books destined for re-shelving peering at me over her glasses which were festooned with a kind of Edwardian grill-work.
"No, I've never heard of them or Jasper Fforde. New glasses!"
"Prada...only fake," she whispered tapping the rim.
"Very becoming."
She smiled. "I strongly recommend them...the books not the glasses" Now she twittered a little, but softly because, after all, we were in the library. "But I'd begin with the first one first."
"Do you have that one on audio?"
"Not at this branch, but we can get from another branch in a few days."
"Well...that's okay. I was looking for something to listen to right away so I'll just start with this one."
She gave me that okay-suit-yourself-don't-listen-to-me look, held it for a moment, and disappeared into the stacks preceded by the slightly wobbly cart.
But by the time I listened my way through one-third of the book I knew. As much as it pained me, I returned the audio book unfinished. The librarian knew her stuff. I had to start from the beginning. Starting in the middle was like trying to eat a sumptuous meal with a head cold. I was missing too many nuances of flavor. I wasn't just reading a book. I was entering a new world and I needed the backstory...I had to learn the language.
That weekend found me at Barnes and Noble where I bought The Eyre Affair in paperback (I also purchased a hardback version of the 5th book in the series, First Among Sequels, at a super-deluxe bargain price that I simply could not pass up.) The Fforde was put on the back burner of my reading stack. And so it was that after having finished Wolfie I was wandering down my upstairs hallway and spotted The Eyre Affair on a bookshelf. I snatched it up as quickly as a frog does a fly. Rarely have I fallen into a book so effortlessly (which oddly enough is much of what the series is about). So mesmerized was I by the writing, the story, the premise that as I neared the end I was afraid of "running out" of Thursday Next.
I stopped at the library last Friday and picked up Lost In A Good Book and The Well Of Lost Plots (book version). When she saw me the librarian said, "I knew you'd be back for these." Which brings me to a sidebar discussion: The benefits of a small library, or a small bookstore, or a small grocery...or a small local bank for that matter, are much the same. You are known by your name if you go in often enough. The people who work there look out for you. They keep an eye out and know when something seems amiss. "We've got some nice lamb chops, Miss Linda," "Morning Mrs. ___. Got your deposit? How's Katharine doing?" "We just got so-and-so's latest book. It's right up your alley." Oh, there are drawbacks, surely. Not enough copies, few exotic ingredients, no Panko crumbs - that sort of thing. But by and large (or by and small) big is better in some departments but small is better for others.
The weekend looms long - being the Fourth of July. I'm half-way through Lost In A Good Book and am trying to pace myself, debating if I should go ahead and check out Something Rotten...just in case of an emergency. What if it rains all weekend and there is nothing to make me feel guilty about laying around reading? Eating only things I can handle with one hand? What if I really and truly can't put Lost In A Good Book down? And immediately jump, crazed and as unstoppable as a juggernaut, into Well Of Lost Plots? And it gets to be Monday afternoon and the library is closed for the holiday and the Thursday Next well has run dry? (I'm slightly dizzy and my colon is giving me a worrying feeling at the prospect.) There is always First Among Sequels as a fall-back but I don't want to read out of turn. Nope. I'd better take precautions. I'll have to prepare - stock the provisions. I'm off to hunt down Something Rotten, so I must run along now.
Oh yes. Before I go...Are you sitting down for the best news? The 6th Thursday Next adventure comes out this month...in fact I think next week. Once I have the new book in my hands, and have read the last word on the last page of that latest book I promise to start a twelve-step program. But for now, there's joy in Bookville!
Happy Fourth of July. Happy Birthday good ole U.S.A.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
"Brush Up Your Shakespeare"
I've never been a reader who can have more than one book in progress. Juggling multiple reads has always felt uncomfortable in an odd and inexpressible way. But when reading a long-ish book (Anna Karenina, Armadale, and Noble House come to mind) or a flat-out tome (Les Miserables) I have often felt the need to break away and let my mind settle briefly elsewhere.
In taking a recent pause from Wolf Hall (which I am enjoying enormously) I wandered over to my bookshelves. A two volume set of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, acquired at some point while I was still in high school, caught my eye. Oddly, there is no publication date in either. Upon opening Volume I, I noted that in apparent youthful exuberance I had placed a small check by the plays I had read. They included A Midsummer Night's Dream, Richard III, Romeo and Juliet, Richard II, The Merchant of Venice, King Henry IV (Parts I and II), The Taming of the Shrew, Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Coriolanus. Although I know I read Cymbeline, it wasn't checked off. Perhaps by that time I had grown up enough to stop keeping score. In any event, some Shakespeare was just the ticket for a little diversion. I thought about the tiny check marks. Was it my early intention to read my way through everything Sweet Ole Bill wrote? And if not, why not? Why not! And so, I shall. They are perfect interludes, beautifully crafted and each one short enough to read in an evening. So, that's my plan...to read every play and sonnet contained in those two volumes and tick each one off as I go.
The first unchecked play was Titus Andronicus - and so that is where I began. I dived in knowing there was some debate whether this play was actually written by Shakespeare. Many scholars reject it as one of his plays altogether. Others argue that, at most, Shakespeare may have made some suggestions to its real author regarding character development. Its style is certainly alien to Shakespeare's in the copious blood department. It was a stunning 16th century version of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I know Shakespeare was quite the innovator but...who knew? Not being a fan of slasher movies, I found it more than a little disturbing and quite unlike Bill. Example: "And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, receive the blood: and when that they are dead, let me go grind their bones to powder small, and with this hateful liquor temper it; And in that paste let their vile heads be baked, to make this banquet; which I wish may prove more stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast." (Scene II, as Titus cuts the throats of Chiron and Demetrius and Lavinia collects their blood in a basin.)
I was grateful when Lucius (one of the few principal characters to survive with all his limbs, his head and his throat intact) delivered the plays final lines, spoken as he throws the body of Tamora to the beasts and birds of prey rather than provide her with a burial. It was so him.
And so, I staggered to the sink to wash the blood off my hands 1) relieved Titus Andronicus was over, and 2) buoyed in the knowledge I would never have to read it again. I was also grateful it was not my introduction to Shakespeare. I doubt I would have been a repeat customer. Of course, Saw II fans would probably enjoy it.
Because I am trying to read the plays in chronological order, the next is King Henry VI, Part I written in about 1590. It is said to have been produced on the stage in March 1591 and received rave reviews by the audience. William Shakespeare would have been about 26 years old, as if there isn't enough to make underachievers feel queasy. (Someone...please tell me he lied about his age.) Once again, there are some qualifications as to the plays complete authorship and experts can't quite agree that this one is "All Shakespeare - All The Time." It was probably a collaborative effort; most critics concede it contains Shakespeare's "touch," at least.
Looking ahead, perhaps something a little lighter, Maestro? I see Love's Labour's Lost waiting in the wings.
One day I hope to visit the Bard's final resting place.
Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.
Of course, you could skip Shakespeare altogether and simply sing Cole Porter:
Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
Just declaim a few lines from "Othella"
And they think you're a helluva fella.
If your blonde won't respond when you flatter 'er
Tell her what Tony told Cleopaterer ,
If she fights when her clothes you are mussing,
What are clothes? "Much Ado About Nussing."
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they'll all kowtow.
Sleep well, Bill. Try not to roll over.
In taking a recent pause from Wolf Hall (which I am enjoying enormously) I wandered over to my bookshelves. A two volume set of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, acquired at some point while I was still in high school, caught my eye. Oddly, there is no publication date in either. Upon opening Volume I, I noted that in apparent youthful exuberance I had placed a small check by the plays I had read. They included A Midsummer Night's Dream, Richard III, Romeo and Juliet, Richard II, The Merchant of Venice, King Henry IV (Parts I and II), The Taming of the Shrew, Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Coriolanus. Although I know I read Cymbeline, it wasn't checked off. Perhaps by that time I had grown up enough to stop keeping score. In any event, some Shakespeare was just the ticket for a little diversion. I thought about the tiny check marks. Was it my early intention to read my way through everything Sweet Ole Bill wrote? And if not, why not? Why not! And so, I shall. They are perfect interludes, beautifully crafted and each one short enough to read in an evening. So, that's my plan...to read every play and sonnet contained in those two volumes and tick each one off as I go.
The first unchecked play was Titus Andronicus - and so that is where I began. I dived in knowing there was some debate whether this play was actually written by Shakespeare. Many scholars reject it as one of his plays altogether. Others argue that, at most, Shakespeare may have made some suggestions to its real author regarding character development. Its style is certainly alien to Shakespeare's in the copious blood department. It was a stunning 16th century version of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I know Shakespeare was quite the innovator but...who knew? Not being a fan of slasher movies, I found it more than a little disturbing and quite unlike Bill. Example: "And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, receive the blood: and when that they are dead, let me go grind their bones to powder small, and with this hateful liquor temper it; And in that paste let their vile heads be baked, to make this banquet; which I wish may prove more stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast." (Scene II, as Titus cuts the throats of Chiron and Demetrius and Lavinia collects their blood in a basin.)
I was grateful when Lucius (one of the few principal characters to survive with all his limbs, his head and his throat intact) delivered the plays final lines, spoken as he throws the body of Tamora to the beasts and birds of prey rather than provide her with a burial. It was so him.
And so, I staggered to the sink to wash the blood off my hands 1) relieved Titus Andronicus was over, and 2) buoyed in the knowledge I would never have to read it again. I was also grateful it was not my introduction to Shakespeare. I doubt I would have been a repeat customer. Of course, Saw II fans would probably enjoy it.
Because I am trying to read the plays in chronological order, the next is King Henry VI, Part I written in about 1590. It is said to have been produced on the stage in March 1591 and received rave reviews by the audience. William Shakespeare would have been about 26 years old, as if there isn't enough to make underachievers feel queasy. (Someone...please tell me he lied about his age.) Once again, there are some qualifications as to the plays complete authorship and experts can't quite agree that this one is "All Shakespeare - All The Time." It was probably a collaborative effort; most critics concede it contains Shakespeare's "touch," at least.
Looking ahead, perhaps something a little lighter, Maestro? I see Love's Labour's Lost waiting in the wings.
One day I hope to visit the Bard's final resting place.
Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.
Of course, you could skip Shakespeare altogether and simply sing Cole Porter:
Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
Just declaim a few lines from "Othella"
And they think you're a helluva fella.
If your blonde won't respond when you flatter 'er
Tell her what Tony told Cleopaterer ,
If she fights when her clothes you are mussing,
What are clothes? "Much Ado About Nussing."
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they'll all kowtow.
Sleep well, Bill. Try not to roll over.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Something Wonderful
When I was a young girl I would awaken in the morning and say to myself, "Something wonderful is going to happen to me today." Do understand - I didn't merely hope it...or wish it. I believed it. I trusted it. I went armed into the world wrapped in the warmth of it. Quite often something wonderful didn't happen. That never seemed to matter. Although totally unreasonable, the "not happening" never altered my belief that it would. When the next morning arrived I knew that something wonderful was going to happen to me that day.
At some point I stopped saying it to myself. I wish I remembered when, or how old I was, or why. It was some time after college, perhaps, but I can't be certain. It wasn't cold turkey but rather a gradual weaning off. Quite simply one day it dawned on me that I had lost it somewhere...somehow. I hated that I had lost it. It made me feel instantly older and burdened and very tired. Oddly sad and slightly darkish. Out of sorts. I mused, "Not with a bang, but with a whimper." And although he was writing about something far more serious and not about my lost belief, I nevertheless felt a kinship with T. S. Eliot.
I decided I would begin to say it to myself once again every morning and get it back. But I found it really is not as easy as that. What made it work for me...what made it real...was that I believed it - really and truly. I suppose life and experience take their toll.
But in all my years on the planet I have never awakened in the morning saying, "Something terrible is coming. Something dark and insidious with long, oily fingers reaching for the throat. Something mean and grim and seemingly unstoppable." Until now. Georgia has approximately 100 miles of coast - ocean and beach, marsh and wet lands. It is a fragile and tender place. It doesn't belong to us but we belong to it. The marshland in particular is quiet and hushed. Walking along a trail on Cockspur Island, 5 minutes from my home, I can hear the marsh sounds - frogs, fish jumping, gulls, rustling reeds. Traveling farther up the road one comes to the ocean and the beach and the sight of dolphin fins rising up and down in graceful arcs. The usual cast of characters, the terns, skimmers, pelicans, egrets and other birds are present doing what they do: preening, pecking, dozing, taking flight, diving, calling, filling the sky.
The most recent prediction is that the oil may very well be carried around the Florida Keys and up the eastern seaboard destroying life as it goes - a phosphorescent, unctuous, aquatic equivalent of Sherman on the march. There is even the possibility it will cross the Atlantic and despoil those shores.
I am angry. I am angry at a reckless and cavalier company. I am angry at the feckless, flatfooted and delayed response of Washington and our "leaders." (In quotes because I see very little leadership being displayed.)
I have heard that the gush may not be quelled until Christmas! How much of the coast I have come to love will remain?
Maybe private and government resources will work together to come up with a solution. Maybe we can put politics aside and bring together the worlds best and brightest minds in an effort to find an answer. Maybe if we all clap very loud Tinkerbell will live. Maybe something wonderful will happen tomorrow.
At some point I stopped saying it to myself. I wish I remembered when, or how old I was, or why. It was some time after college, perhaps, but I can't be certain. It wasn't cold turkey but rather a gradual weaning off. Quite simply one day it dawned on me that I had lost it somewhere...somehow. I hated that I had lost it. It made me feel instantly older and burdened and very tired. Oddly sad and slightly darkish. Out of sorts. I mused, "Not with a bang, but with a whimper." And although he was writing about something far more serious and not about my lost belief, I nevertheless felt a kinship with T. S. Eliot.
I decided I would begin to say it to myself once again every morning and get it back. But I found it really is not as easy as that. What made it work for me...what made it real...was that I believed it - really and truly. I suppose life and experience take their toll.
But in all my years on the planet I have never awakened in the morning saying, "Something terrible is coming. Something dark and insidious with long, oily fingers reaching for the throat. Something mean and grim and seemingly unstoppable." Until now. Georgia has approximately 100 miles of coast - ocean and beach, marsh and wet lands. It is a fragile and tender place. It doesn't belong to us but we belong to it. The marshland in particular is quiet and hushed. Walking along a trail on Cockspur Island, 5 minutes from my home, I can hear the marsh sounds - frogs, fish jumping, gulls, rustling reeds. Traveling farther up the road one comes to the ocean and the beach and the sight of dolphin fins rising up and down in graceful arcs. The usual cast of characters, the terns, skimmers, pelicans, egrets and other birds are present doing what they do: preening, pecking, dozing, taking flight, diving, calling, filling the sky.
The most recent prediction is that the oil may very well be carried around the Florida Keys and up the eastern seaboard destroying life as it goes - a phosphorescent, unctuous, aquatic equivalent of Sherman on the march. There is even the possibility it will cross the Atlantic and despoil those shores.
I am angry. I am angry at a reckless and cavalier company. I am angry at the feckless, flatfooted and delayed response of Washington and our "leaders." (In quotes because I see very little leadership being displayed.)
I have heard that the gush may not be quelled until Christmas! How much of the coast I have come to love will remain?
Maybe private and government resources will work together to come up with a solution. Maybe we can put politics aside and bring together the worlds best and brightest minds in an effort to find an answer. Maybe if we all clap very loud Tinkerbell will live. Maybe something wonderful will happen tomorrow.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Ode To Suburbia
All through the winter, when the lawn was dormant and nothing grew, my "lawn man" was apparently mowing my dead grass. I never noticed any difference in my dead grass from the time I left for work in the morning to the time I returned after dark in the evening. I didn't notice any difference in my dead grass when I walked the dog on Saturday evenings, nor did I notice a change in it when I went out to get the paper on Sunday mornings. Still brown. Still asleep. Status quo on the dead grass. I didn't notice anything about the dead grass until I received a bill from my "lawn man" in March in the amount of $375 for services from November through February - for mowing the dead grass every three weeks - just the front lawn.
So now it's Spring and the grass is no longer dead. The grass has decided to awaken from its slumber. Quite frankly, I can't afford my lawn man now that there really is grass to mow.
This weekend I ventured into the garage (a place I hate almost as much as the attic). Behind some old doors and under a box of roof tiles, I found the power mower. Not the John Deere riding mower. That one was over in the corner next to a trunk I had in college. The John Deere won't crank up. I have no idea what is wrong with it. In order to get it repaired, the John Deere dealer has to come over and put it in a trailer and haul it over to the shop. But until the garage gets emptied out, there's no way to get the John Deere out of the garage.
I was grateful that the mower was close to the door, and with some shifting and pushing and pulling, I was able to get it outside to take a look at it. I wiped the cobwebs off, filled it with gas and put lawnmower oil into the oil case. "Push red button 3x." I did. "Hold down throttle and pull cord." I did. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. Finally, sputter-sputter-cough-cough....roar...off we go. Third time's a charm
The mower hasn't been used in years. I think it needs new spark plugs. If I could find the owners manual I would be able to tell where they are on the machine and learn how to change them. It will chug along for a while and then give a gasping, choking sound. If I push the handle downward causing the deck to rise slightly, it chugs again. (I'm not a mechanical engineer, but I think that symptom tells me there is an air flow problem.)
My lawn. Admittedly, my lawn is more weeds than grass. On the other hand, my neighbors' lawns are beautiful. The men go out every Saturday morning in their bermuda shorts and socks with brown loafers and work on their lawns. It shows.
I got home from work at around 7:00 p.m. last evening. The lawn looked ghastly. The weeds had grown like - well - weeds. So after changing into "yard clothes" I pulled the lawn mower out...pressed the red button 3x...held down the throttle and pulled the cord. Instant start. Good sign.
Putt-putt-putt down the driveway and onto the lawn. I see a youngish man (late 30s) coming up the street walking his dog. I see him a lot. I've seen his dog taking a dump on my lawn on several occasions. He's one of the "newbies" in the subdivision. Moved in several years ago; total renovation. Young professional. Cocktail party type. Nice house, good lawn, great landscaping. He waves. I give him the "hi-dee-ho" with my chin because if I let go of the throttle the mower will stall, then stop, and I may not get it started again before dark. He slows down as he gets to the edge of my property. His dog sniffs around. He stops, takes in a wide shot of my lawn, and starts to speak in a tsk-tsk tone.
"Gee. You're lawn is really gone, isn't it."
What I thought: Nice to meet you too, rude little snotnose. You're from the North East aren't you? Or from L.A.? The product of too much smoke and dust and a thin ozone layer.
What I said: "Well, its a process. Um - I can't let go of the throttle so you'll have to speak up."
"Oh! Sure!" he shouted. "I spent $$$$ (here he divulges a large price tag) on having my lawn re-sodded last Spring."
What I thought: Idiot boy. I could have had a face lift with that.
What I said: "Yes, it's very expensive."
"This year I'm seeing weeds."
What I thought: Duh.
What I said: "Oh."
"I think the seeds might have blown over from your yard."
What I thought: They didn't blow over, dweeb. I sent them over...special delivery...just for you.
What I said: "Huh?"
"Yeah, those seeds blow with the wind, you know."
What I thought: Like the wind that blows into one of your ears and comes out the other, douche-pie?
What I said: "I guess that would depend upon which way the wind is blowing."
"Well, they look exactly like the weeds you have," taking in another expansive view of my weedy lawn.
What I thought: Are you filing a paternity suit? Did you do a DNA sample? You cracked the case, oh great genius. My weeds travel up the street in the dark of night to spawn on your lawn.
What I said: "Weeds of a specific species have identical characteristics - like all plants."
"You should probably rip the whole thing out and re-sod."
What I thought: I guarantee you something's going to get ripped out if you stand there one more second.
What I said: "Well, gotta go chop the heads off my weeds."
"Good seeing you."
What I thought: And if your dog shits on my lawn one more time, you'll find it on your windshield the next morning.
What I said: "Same here."
So now it's Spring and the grass is no longer dead. The grass has decided to awaken from its slumber. Quite frankly, I can't afford my lawn man now that there really is grass to mow.
This weekend I ventured into the garage (a place I hate almost as much as the attic). Behind some old doors and under a box of roof tiles, I found the power mower. Not the John Deere riding mower. That one was over in the corner next to a trunk I had in college. The John Deere won't crank up. I have no idea what is wrong with it. In order to get it repaired, the John Deere dealer has to come over and put it in a trailer and haul it over to the shop. But until the garage gets emptied out, there's no way to get the John Deere out of the garage.
I was grateful that the mower was close to the door, and with some shifting and pushing and pulling, I was able to get it outside to take a look at it. I wiped the cobwebs off, filled it with gas and put lawnmower oil into the oil case. "Push red button 3x." I did. "Hold down throttle and pull cord." I did. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. Finally, sputter-sputter-cough-cough....roar...off we go. Third time's a charm
The mower hasn't been used in years. I think it needs new spark plugs. If I could find the owners manual I would be able to tell where they are on the machine and learn how to change them. It will chug along for a while and then give a gasping, choking sound. If I push the handle downward causing the deck to rise slightly, it chugs again. (I'm not a mechanical engineer, but I think that symptom tells me there is an air flow problem.)
My lawn. Admittedly, my lawn is more weeds than grass. On the other hand, my neighbors' lawns are beautiful. The men go out every Saturday morning in their bermuda shorts and socks with brown loafers and work on their lawns. It shows.
I got home from work at around 7:00 p.m. last evening. The lawn looked ghastly. The weeds had grown like - well - weeds. So after changing into "yard clothes" I pulled the lawn mower out...pressed the red button 3x...held down the throttle and pulled the cord. Instant start. Good sign.
Putt-putt-putt down the driveway and onto the lawn. I see a youngish man (late 30s) coming up the street walking his dog. I see him a lot. I've seen his dog taking a dump on my lawn on several occasions. He's one of the "newbies" in the subdivision. Moved in several years ago; total renovation. Young professional. Cocktail party type. Nice house, good lawn, great landscaping. He waves. I give him the "hi-dee-ho" with my chin because if I let go of the throttle the mower will stall, then stop, and I may not get it started again before dark. He slows down as he gets to the edge of my property. His dog sniffs around. He stops, takes in a wide shot of my lawn, and starts to speak in a tsk-tsk tone.
"Gee. You're lawn is really gone, isn't it."
What I thought: Nice to meet you too, rude little snotnose. You're from the North East aren't you? Or from L.A.? The product of too much smoke and dust and a thin ozone layer.
What I said: "Well, its a process. Um - I can't let go of the throttle so you'll have to speak up."
"Oh! Sure!" he shouted. "I spent $$$$ (here he divulges a large price tag) on having my lawn re-sodded last Spring."
What I thought: Idiot boy. I could have had a face lift with that.
What I said: "Yes, it's very expensive."
"This year I'm seeing weeds."
What I thought: Duh.
What I said: "Oh."
"I think the seeds might have blown over from your yard."
What I thought: They didn't blow over, dweeb. I sent them over...special delivery...just for you.
What I said: "Huh?"
"Yeah, those seeds blow with the wind, you know."
What I thought: Like the wind that blows into one of your ears and comes out the other, douche-pie?
What I said: "I guess that would depend upon which way the wind is blowing."
"Well, they look exactly like the weeds you have," taking in another expansive view of my weedy lawn.
What I thought: Are you filing a paternity suit? Did you do a DNA sample? You cracked the case, oh great genius. My weeds travel up the street in the dark of night to spawn on your lawn.
What I said: "Weeds of a specific species have identical characteristics - like all plants."
"You should probably rip the whole thing out and re-sod."
What I thought: I guarantee you something's going to get ripped out if you stand there one more second.
What I said: "Well, gotta go chop the heads off my weeds."
"Good seeing you."
What I thought: And if your dog shits on my lawn one more time, you'll find it on your windshield the next morning.
What I said: "Same here."
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Thoughts That Go Bump In The Night
It began uneventfully. Bed at 10:00 p.m. as usual. Hours later something awakened me. A dog barking in the distance? A car door closing? I glanced at the clock: 2:00 a.m.
"If I fall back asleep right now, I'll get four more hours of sleep."
But the "night thoughts" started. Random, stupid, annoying things that keep the mind awake:
That conversation earlier today - no, I guess that would be yesterday now. Why do we say African-American? I would bet that very few Americans have ever put a toe on Africa. My buddy P** is African-American. She hasn't been to Africa. Does she even call herself African-American? I've never heard her say, one way or the other. Make a note to ask P** about that. What about people of color who live in...let's say...Scotland? They wouldn't be African-American...surely.
There are a lot of syllables in that phrase as well. We like to abbreviate everything, so that's odd. We're getting lazy. Names of leaders...There was FDR, and JFK, and MLK - and then the shortest of all - W. Then there's LOL and TBA and FYI. "I've got the 411 on that."
If I fall back asleep right now, I'll get 3-1/2 more hours of sleep.
What program was it tonight - no - by now it was last night - someone said, "I bet most Americans can't even name the 9 Supreme Court Justices." I think I could. Rogers, Ginsberg, Kennedy, Scalia, Alito, Stevens, Sotomayor - I wonder how she spells her name. S-O-T-O-M-A-Y-O-R. Right? Now I lost count. Alphabetically - Alito, Bader-Ginsberg, Kennedy, Rogers, Scalia, Sotomayor, Stevens, Thomas. I wish I had a camera with me when I met Clarence Thomas. Why didn't I think to bring a camera? I could have asked someone to take our picture. He's short for a man. I wanted to genuflect and kiss his ring when I met him. I got so nervous. I think I said something dumb - I can't recall. Did I name nine? No. Eight.
If I fall asleep right now, I'll get almost 3 more hours of sleep.
I had a feeling Snape would turn out to be a good guy in the end. In fact I knew it. I told John so. I knew it right from the first. I don't forgive J.K. Rowling. That was mean, what she did. And that comment she made about Dumbledore. If it didn't happen to the character in the books, it didn't happen, right? I mean, they can't have a life outside the books themselves.
Did I let the cat in?
Did I turn off the oven?
What ever happened to those Northern Nights sheets? The sage ones. They were crisper than these. These are Egyptian cotton and soft. Maybe I need crisper sheets. Am I cold? Should I get up and get another blanket? I'll wake up too much if I get up, and...
If I fall asleep right now I'll get almost 2-1/2 hours more sleep.
Oh, blast! I have to get my car tags tomorrow. No - I guess that would be today. Why do I have to get them again? I just got the car in February. Didn't I pay tax, tags and license at closing? Make a note to pull the paperwork out of the glove compartment. Why do they call it a glove compartment? Does anyone ever put their gloves in the glove compartment? Why not call it the paper compartment, or owner's manual compartment. I don't think the car has a cigarette lighter. On second thought, I know it doesn't. When did they stop putting cigarette lighters in cars. I don't smoke. It doesn't matter.
I did let the cat in, right? I remember calling him. I'm not getting up. I know I did. Didn't I? I turned the oven off, I'm sure...but I think a light is on downstairs.
My hours weren't good enough last month. I have to do better this month. Let's see...this Friday is the half-way point in the month. After Friday I'll have 11 more work days - no 10. Because the 31st is a holiday. So, I have to be at...what? 80 by Friday. What do I have so far? Was it 40? or 42? or was it 38? If I do ten hours a day for the last ten days, that's 100 right there.
If I fall asleep right now, I'll get another 2 hours of sleep. That will be fine. Good enough anyway.
Lord...it will be "bagels in the kitchen" at work tomorrow - I mean today. They do that every time someone has a birthday. I wish they'd just forget about mine. I usually skip the bagel thing. But I'll have to have one tomor...today. It will be for me. So I have to. I hope they don't make me eat the bagel while they watch. I'll say I'm taking it back to my office to "save for later." Damn carbs. Well, then, I'd better give up red wine if I don't want carbs. No more wine. Maybe just for the occasion and then that's it. I'm serious.
I wonder what movie is in the DVD player? I wonder if I can work the clicker in the dark? Oh, good. You've Got Mail. I did it. There's the tune..."Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream you wish to come true..." Give up. Watch a movie...Breyer! Justice Breyer. That's nine. Does he spell his name like the ice cream? I'll look it up tomorrow - or today. "If only I could have a puppy, I'd think myself so very lucky..." continues the tune.
If only I could fall asleep right now, I'd get 1-1/2 more hours of....zzzzz
"If I fall back asleep right now, I'll get four more hours of sleep."
But the "night thoughts" started. Random, stupid, annoying things that keep the mind awake:
That conversation earlier today - no, I guess that would be yesterday now. Why do we say African-American? I would bet that very few Americans have ever put a toe on Africa. My buddy P** is African-American. She hasn't been to Africa. Does she even call herself African-American? I've never heard her say, one way or the other. Make a note to ask P** about that. What about people of color who live in...let's say...Scotland? They wouldn't be African-American...surely.
There are a lot of syllables in that phrase as well. We like to abbreviate everything, so that's odd. We're getting lazy. Names of leaders...There was FDR, and JFK, and MLK - and then the shortest of all - W. Then there's LOL and TBA and FYI. "I've got the 411 on that."
If I fall back asleep right now, I'll get 3-1/2 more hours of sleep.
What program was it tonight - no - by now it was last night - someone said, "I bet most Americans can't even name the 9 Supreme Court Justices." I think I could. Rogers, Ginsberg, Kennedy, Scalia, Alito, Stevens, Sotomayor - I wonder how she spells her name. S-O-T-O-M-A-Y-O-R. Right? Now I lost count. Alphabetically - Alito, Bader-Ginsberg, Kennedy, Rogers, Scalia, Sotomayor, Stevens, Thomas. I wish I had a camera with me when I met Clarence Thomas. Why didn't I think to bring a camera? I could have asked someone to take our picture. He's short for a man. I wanted to genuflect and kiss his ring when I met him. I got so nervous. I think I said something dumb - I can't recall. Did I name nine? No. Eight.
If I fall asleep right now, I'll get almost 3 more hours of sleep.
I had a feeling Snape would turn out to be a good guy in the end. In fact I knew it. I told John so. I knew it right from the first. I don't forgive J.K. Rowling. That was mean, what she did. And that comment she made about Dumbledore. If it didn't happen to the character in the books, it didn't happen, right? I mean, they can't have a life outside the books themselves.
Did I let the cat in?
Did I turn off the oven?
What ever happened to those Northern Nights sheets? The sage ones. They were crisper than these. These are Egyptian cotton and soft. Maybe I need crisper sheets. Am I cold? Should I get up and get another blanket? I'll wake up too much if I get up, and...
If I fall asleep right now I'll get almost 2-1/2 hours more sleep.
Oh, blast! I have to get my car tags tomorrow. No - I guess that would be today. Why do I have to get them again? I just got the car in February. Didn't I pay tax, tags and license at closing? Make a note to pull the paperwork out of the glove compartment. Why do they call it a glove compartment? Does anyone ever put their gloves in the glove compartment? Why not call it the paper compartment, or owner's manual compartment. I don't think the car has a cigarette lighter. On second thought, I know it doesn't. When did they stop putting cigarette lighters in cars. I don't smoke. It doesn't matter.
I did let the cat in, right? I remember calling him. I'm not getting up. I know I did. Didn't I? I turned the oven off, I'm sure...but I think a light is on downstairs.
My hours weren't good enough last month. I have to do better this month. Let's see...this Friday is the half-way point in the month. After Friday I'll have 11 more work days - no 10. Because the 31st is a holiday. So, I have to be at...what? 80 by Friday. What do I have so far? Was it 40? or 42? or was it 38? If I do ten hours a day for the last ten days, that's 100 right there.
If I fall asleep right now, I'll get another 2 hours of sleep. That will be fine. Good enough anyway.
Lord...it will be "bagels in the kitchen" at work tomorrow - I mean today. They do that every time someone has a birthday. I wish they'd just forget about mine. I usually skip the bagel thing. But I'll have to have one tomor...today. It will be for me. So I have to. I hope they don't make me eat the bagel while they watch. I'll say I'm taking it back to my office to "save for later." Damn carbs. Well, then, I'd better give up red wine if I don't want carbs. No more wine. Maybe just for the occasion and then that's it. I'm serious.
I wonder what movie is in the DVD player? I wonder if I can work the clicker in the dark? Oh, good. You've Got Mail. I did it. There's the tune..."Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream you wish to come true..." Give up. Watch a movie...Breyer! Justice Breyer. That's nine. Does he spell his name like the ice cream? I'll look it up tomorrow - or today. "If only I could have a puppy, I'd think myself so very lucky..." continues the tune.
If only I could fall asleep right now, I'd get 1-1/2 more hours of....zzzzz
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Perhaps A Barge Down The Nile
A wasted day. An absolutely wasted day. I hate days like this...days when I arrive at the office with every intention of being productive. But after I walk into my office and sit down in my big blue leather chair a funk settles over me. I drum my fingers on the desk and stare out the window, I groan every time the phone rings. I Google Castles in Ireland, or the cost of flying from Atlanta to Heathrow in - let's see - six months from now. Then I remember how I hate flying. How about Nova Scotia? I can actually drive all the way to Nova Scotia. What is there to see and do there? And I spend the next hour flitting from Nova Scotia to Prince Edward Island to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and up to Mackinac Island. (My mind never goes very far west, nor any more south than where I currently am).
Some time ago (well...in truth some decades ago) I was at a party in Hawaii at a friend's condo - which had a lovely view of Diamond Head. We were a group of about 8 or 9 from all over the world, drawn together because not many of us could afford to fly back home very often (or in my case ever) for years at a time. So we became family to each other, spending holidays hanging out together. All young, all hopeful, all very clever (or so we thought - things aren't always what they seem to be, alas.) One of the guys in our group was into psychology. I can't remember now if he was working on his Ph.d. or not, but as I recall he worked in the field. In any event, at this particular party "D" was listening to me expound on some thing or another. I am quite confident I droned. He was a very rapt audience, looking very intently at me (he was also rather drunk). I finished my point. Silence. Seconds passed. He continued to stare me down. Discomfort mounting, I was about to shout, "Okay - What?" when he said, "Linda, for you, analysis would be a complete waste." He took another swig of whatever he was drinking, hiccuped, and fell asleep on the floor.
I am now trying to remember why I told you this story. Oh, yes. Here it is: I never have to wonder why I feel the way I feel, or why I think the way I think, or do the things I do. I just know myself. I am not sure if that is an unusual trait. I'm so used to it, it doesn't seem at all odd to me. Maybe it is something one is born with - like being right-handed, or being able to tie a cherry stem into a knot with ones tongue, or being very very limber. (Which reminds me -most competitive swimmers are born with a ligamentous laxity in their shoulder joints, which in the rest of us might be diagnosed as Multidirectional Instability but for them makes them better swimmers. In other words, my abnormal can be someone else's normal.)
So, I do not have to ask myself why I am staring into space and thinking of castles in Ireland. I know why I can't focus properly on tasks at hand, whether it is answering my business correspondence or cleaning out the hall closet. I know myself, you see. I need a vacation. I have not had a vacation since my eldest son was in the 5th grade and we went to the mountains for a week. He will turn 30 this summer. How pathetic is that?
Well, blast and damn I've had enough! I'm fired up and I'm going to do it. And I'm not just talking about a long weekend visit with family. This year I am going on a Vacation - (note the capital "V"). A real one. I'm going to pack my bags and brush the dust off my traveling shoes and...well...just go. I might pin a map to the wall and throw a dart. I might travel by pack mule or by paddle wheel up the Mississippi. But go I shall. Blessed relaxation - with nothing to do but read and drink those little drinks with the paper umbrellas. I'll remember to take lots of pictures - maybe from the top of a pyramid.
Some time ago (well...in truth some decades ago) I was at a party in Hawaii at a friend's condo - which had a lovely view of Diamond Head. We were a group of about 8 or 9 from all over the world, drawn together because not many of us could afford to fly back home very often (or in my case ever) for years at a time. So we became family to each other, spending holidays hanging out together. All young, all hopeful, all very clever (or so we thought - things aren't always what they seem to be, alas.) One of the guys in our group was into psychology. I can't remember now if he was working on his Ph.d. or not, but as I recall he worked in the field. In any event, at this particular party "D" was listening to me expound on some thing or another. I am quite confident I droned. He was a very rapt audience, looking very intently at me (he was also rather drunk). I finished my point. Silence. Seconds passed. He continued to stare me down. Discomfort mounting, I was about to shout, "Okay - What?" when he said, "Linda, for you, analysis would be a complete waste." He took another swig of whatever he was drinking, hiccuped, and fell asleep on the floor.
I am now trying to remember why I told you this story. Oh, yes. Here it is: I never have to wonder why I feel the way I feel, or why I think the way I think, or do the things I do. I just know myself. I am not sure if that is an unusual trait. I'm so used to it, it doesn't seem at all odd to me. Maybe it is something one is born with - like being right-handed, or being able to tie a cherry stem into a knot with ones tongue, or being very very limber. (Which reminds me -most competitive swimmers are born with a ligamentous laxity in their shoulder joints, which in the rest of us might be diagnosed as Multidirectional Instability but for them makes them better swimmers. In other words, my abnormal can be someone else's normal.)
So, I do not have to ask myself why I am staring into space and thinking of castles in Ireland. I know why I can't focus properly on tasks at hand, whether it is answering my business correspondence or cleaning out the hall closet. I know myself, you see. I need a vacation. I have not had a vacation since my eldest son was in the 5th grade and we went to the mountains for a week. He will turn 30 this summer. How pathetic is that?
Well, blast and damn I've had enough! I'm fired up and I'm going to do it. And I'm not just talking about a long weekend visit with family. This year I am going on a Vacation - (note the capital "V"). A real one. I'm going to pack my bags and brush the dust off my traveling shoes and...well...just go. I might pin a map to the wall and throw a dart. I might travel by pack mule or by paddle wheel up the Mississippi. But go I shall. Blessed relaxation - with nothing to do but read and drink those little drinks with the paper umbrellas. I'll remember to take lots of pictures - maybe from the top of a pyramid.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Renaissance Tinky

My dear pal, Tinky Weisblat, (well, we've never actually met, but that's one of the marvelous things about the blogosphere, right?) is not only an author, a food writer, a fabulous cook, the holder of a doctorate in American Studies and a masters degree journalism, she has a marvelous blog named In Our Grandmothers' Kitchens which you really ought to visit regularly. Tinky is also a gifted singer (or, chanteuse, as she would say). ("Well big deal," grumbles Grad. "I've got talent too, 'ya know. I'm am practising my Hula Hooping and I bet I could beat the snot out of her if it ever came to a contest." Yeah, you go, Grad.) Tinky's blog often has an event- driven theme, and in honor of the running of the Kentucky Derby she created a link to her beautiful rendition of My Old Kentucky Home, and with any luck, I'll be able to get the link to work correctly so you can enjoy it as well. Songs about the south always make this Yankee a little teary-eyed. I love your voice, Tinky, but how about a little Led Zeppelin? Stairway to Heaven or D'yer M'aker perhaps. So, okay (with Tinky's kind permission) here goes...let's see if I can do this ... http://www.merrylion.com/downloads/music/Kentucky%20Home%20with%20Band.mp3
Woo hooo! Success!
Did I mention that I am available for all sorts of agent-type promotions. My commission is a mere 20%...off the top.
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