Jesus fuck is it ever cold alla sudden. Gyah.
Okay, SBD with Kate! (twice!) and Chas!
Okay, so what have I read?
First, I read Disobedience, by Jane Hamilton, like a month ago. I found it very, very compelling - though oddly not in that "I HAVE to keep reading" way. Sometimes, I really hated to put it down, like during a few really tense scenes. But mostly I didn't mind marking my spot and tucking it away, and I was always quite eager to open it back up when reading-time presented itself. It was a pretty perfect train read.
Anyway, it's this story about a slightly whacked family - Dad's a sensible, sedate history teacher, Mom's a musician who is having a torrid affair, adolescent daughter is completely obsessed with Civil War reenactment, teenage son is Angry Young Man. It's the grown son who does the narrating, all about how he discovers (on page 1, so I'm not spoilering anything) his mother's affair by reading her email account, and how he can't stop reading her emails. The whole novel takes place over the course of about a school year, following her affair (and the shenanigans within the family during the same time) from beginning to end.
The most striking thing about the book is how very vivid the characters are. Not just the family, but a couple of side characters too. It's not like I felt I understood them all, necessarily, but rather like they were all so real because I didn't understand great big parts of them. It was so much like looking at a family from the outside, like a friend you've known for years - and you hear their descriptions of their parents and siblings, you hear about all the major Family Incidents, you know their greatest faults and most admirable traits - and you have a very good grasp on them all, but you aren't quite as inside their heads as you could be (like say if they were your own family). You know? That was some prettygreat writing.
Actually the other most striking thing about the novel is the narrator and his seething, eternal anger, his absolute obsession with his mother and her affair and what it all meant and how it all played out. It's really rather disturbing. But it's disturbing because it's so recognizably true.
So that was a good read.
I then read this great bit of fluff called Beyond the Blonde, by Kathryn Somebodyorother. It's about a hair stylist in a famous New York salon. Of course I enjoyed it, it's about hair. And absurdly wealthy people acting - well, like absurdly wealthy people. It kind of got massively annoying right at the end, though. But it was mostly just a fun fluffy chick lit thing.
And I just finished reading an actual Romance novel. (I know, right? When was the last time I read one of those?) This was a Julia Quinn that Snooks lent me, and it's The Lost Duke of Wyndham. Which apparently (according to the Bitches) has a companion novel. That's sort of neat since, as I was reading it, I was like "Oh fucking whatever, this Thomas and Amelia will OBVIOUSLY be in a fucking sequel because god fucking forbid there ever be secondary characters in a fucking romance novel that are just part of the story at hand and not fucking props waiting in the wings for their own goddamn book which will inevitably feature a sucky cameo by this present couple who will be happily married and gooey eyed and talking about their growing brood of beautiful goddamn children all of whom are named after them and are SO PRECOCIOUS AND JUST LIKE THEIR PRECIOUS PARENTS AND AHHHHHHH I HATE FUCKING ROMANCE NOVELS AAHHHHHHHH DIE DIE DIE."
So to learn that in fact these two would not become a sequel was a refreshing suprise that made me want to pluck my eyes out a little less. Always a good omen.
As for this book - eh. It was okay. The couple was likeable. The hero had an annoying heartbreaking secret that would've been a zillion times more interesting if we'd known about it up front instead of making it a Big Reveal at the end (but then authors are always revealing shit at the wrong time and none of em ever listen to me, so if they want to make their books less interesting, so be it). There are some funny bits. The dialogue is pretty decent until an anachronistic clunker finds its way onto every other page or so. Mostly it was just mindless reading - nothing fabulously juicy and horribly offensive.
And hey look, that's about the nicest thing I can say about most the crap romances I read. That's sort of my highest praise for most of the genre: It made me roll my eyes and sigh a bit, but not throw it against a wall. Not too shabby.
Okay the end, see yas later.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Okay! New day! We will soldier on, like the optimistic Americans we are, by talking about books! Yes? Yes, we will!
SBD, please.
SBD, please.
Monday, September 29, 2008
So amid all the doom and gloom and THE SKY IS FUCKING FALLING PEOPLE of today, I sorta forgot it was SBD. And I even have books to report on. I just can't bring myself to focus on it at the mo. What say we postpone it til tomorrow, when we all might be more in the mood for literary shenanigans? For tonight, let's all just kick back, finger our rosary beads, buy canned soup and/or stock in canned soup, drink a shitload of wine, and call it a night?
Yeah, let's do that.
Yeah, let's do that.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Hi, so remember my scones? I just made a batch, but instead of dried fruit or whatever, I roughly chopped up a dark chocolate bar and added some shredded orange rind and holy god almighty. Seriously, man. We have a winner.
I just made chili. As usual, I have already eaten too much. Because my chili, if you didn't know, is terrific. It is vegetarian, and yet meat-lovers are always asking me for the recipe because it's so fucking yummy.
The thing is, there isn't really a recipe. This is also why one bowl of the finished product has me bursting at the seams because I just keep throwing stuff in the pot and tasting it until it's good to go. It's a lot of tasting.
Here, you want the recipe? It goes like this:
Simmer some brown lentils. Like about a generous half-cup (dried) in about 5 cups of water. When they're done, you drain them but reserve the water because you'll use some (or all) of it later. Then you sautee some chopped (in big chunks) peppers and onions. I generally use
half a red bell pepper
half a green bell pepper
one large yellow onion
I don't sautee them til they're soft, just until they're not raw - they still need to be firm, see, because who wants to eat pepper-onion mush? No one, that's who.
So when that's ready, you toss in some finely chopped hot pepper. I usually use red chilis, but I got something green at the store this time, I can't remember what. (Not jalapeno, because I don't like jalapeno.) It's hot. I just used one. Also this is when you throw in some chopped cilantro, if you love cilantro. I do. I put in approximately a shitload.
Then dump in the lentils and some of the water. Then -- beans! I use the canned kind, because who has time to soak and simmer beans? The quickest is to get the Brooks Chili Hot Beans, but (a) they're absurdly priced at like $2.50 a can, for godsakes, and (b) I prefer something with a bit less seasoning, if I have time to noodle around on my own. If you don't mind the outrage of the price and you're in a hurry, get the Brooks. Me, I get small red kidneybeans in a mild sauce. I always think I'll use one can, but I usually wind up using at least a half can more. Then a can of black beans, unseasoned. Then a large can of diced tomatoes.
Simmer. Taste frequently, adding chili powder and cumin and coriander and more cilantro and more hot peppers and, inevitably, more tomatoes. And whatever else kinda spice you like. Make it as thick or thin as you want, adding the extra lentil water. Eventually, the balance is right and it's ready to go. Serve with whatever n top - shredded cheddar and/or sour cream and/or thin slices of avocado. And corn bread, that's a good thing to serve on the side. Wash it down with a beer.
Occasionally, I think I'll put corn in the pot. Or chunks of carrot, or mushroom, or something. But honestly, why fuck it up with more stuff? That's the problem with most veggie chili, imo - they start putting in all kindsa non-chili vegetablesin a misguided attempt to veg it up. And they end to use some meat substitute, like flaked soy or whatever. Totally stupid move. The lentils give it a good earthy taste, and gawd knows none of it is lacking in texture, so I repeat: why fuck it up with more stuff?
The end. Chili. I always wind up with a huge pot and then I have to freeze it all and eat it throughout the fall. FYI, the fall weather started in earnest today, which is why I wanted chili alla sudden.
Omg I'm so full.
The thing is, there isn't really a recipe. This is also why one bowl of the finished product has me bursting at the seams because I just keep throwing stuff in the pot and tasting it until it's good to go. It's a lot of tasting.
Here, you want the recipe? It goes like this:
Simmer some brown lentils. Like about a generous half-cup (dried) in about 5 cups of water. When they're done, you drain them but reserve the water because you'll use some (or all) of it later. Then you sautee some chopped (in big chunks) peppers and onions. I generally use
half a red bell pepper
half a green bell pepper
one large yellow onion
I don't sautee them til they're soft, just until they're not raw - they still need to be firm, see, because who wants to eat pepper-onion mush? No one, that's who.
So when that's ready, you toss in some finely chopped hot pepper. I usually use red chilis, but I got something green at the store this time, I can't remember what. (Not jalapeno, because I don't like jalapeno.) It's hot. I just used one. Also this is when you throw in some chopped cilantro, if you love cilantro. I do. I put in approximately a shitload.
Then dump in the lentils and some of the water. Then -- beans! I use the canned kind, because who has time to soak and simmer beans? The quickest is to get the Brooks Chili Hot Beans, but (a) they're absurdly priced at like $2.50 a can, for godsakes, and (b) I prefer something with a bit less seasoning, if I have time to noodle around on my own. If you don't mind the outrage of the price and you're in a hurry, get the Brooks. Me, I get small red kidneybeans in a mild sauce. I always think I'll use one can, but I usually wind up using at least a half can more. Then a can of black beans, unseasoned. Then a large can of diced tomatoes.
Simmer. Taste frequently, adding chili powder and cumin and coriander and more cilantro and more hot peppers and, inevitably, more tomatoes. And whatever else kinda spice you like. Make it as thick or thin as you want, adding the extra lentil water. Eventually, the balance is right and it's ready to go. Serve with whatever n top - shredded cheddar and/or sour cream and/or thin slices of avocado. And corn bread, that's a good thing to serve on the side. Wash it down with a beer.
Occasionally, I think I'll put corn in the pot. Or chunks of carrot, or mushroom, or something. But honestly, why fuck it up with more stuff? That's the problem with most veggie chili, imo - they start putting in all kindsa non-chili vegetablesin a misguided attempt to veg it up. And they end to use some meat substitute, like flaked soy or whatever. Totally stupid move. The lentils give it a good earthy taste, and gawd knows none of it is lacking in texture, so I repeat: why fuck it up with more stuff?
The end. Chili. I always wind up with a huge pot and then I have to freeze it all and eat it throughout the fall. FYI, the fall weather started in earnest today, which is why I wanted chili alla sudden.
Omg I'm so full.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
I'd get up, but my cat is curled up against my leg and it just seems cruel to dislodge her when she seems so blissed out.
So. I miss Snookie. Our weekly call about never happens any more, since the new baby came. Which is totally understandable, of course. But I called her a week ago and she asked if she could call back, "maybe not necessarily tonight." Yeah sure, I said. Of course. And the phone still hasn't rung.
I want to tell her about my trip to Kentucky. About my gramma and the house and the sadness of it. I want to tell her about my mother, her illnesses and money troubles. I want to hear that perfect note in her voice when I tell her I sent my mother money - that mix of anger and protectiveness and, ultimately acceptance. I have a bet with myself on her saying Of course you had to do it. Doesn't mean I have to like it. And that's even before I tell her of my mother's back-handed thank you.
(Yeah see, my mother left a message saying thanks for the gift cards, and "every little bit helps." I found this message something of a let-down and couldn't figure out why until that phrase - every little bit helps- kept coming back to me. Belatedly, like a day later, I wanted to dial her up and shout that two hundred dollars IS NOT A LITTLE BIT WHEN YOU CAN'T AFFORD GROCERIES, YOU BEGRUDGING TWAT YOU. But that feeling was gone in a flash and I shrugged it off and pretty much moved on, with just the occassional pissy muttering under my breath. That's how my mother is, and that's what I've learned to expect: no contact with her comes free of her belittling comments. It's become something of a game at this point with me, trying to figure out ahead of time how she'll slip an insult into it. Who could've ever thought she could turn a "thank you for your generous, unexpected and undeserved gift" into a bid to make me feel like shit? What twisted mind would ever imagine it? Answer: her daughter. Hoped for better, but saw it coming. Lifetime of experience, and all.)
Right okay, so lots of things to natter at Snooks about, but she's not calling. I suppose I could dial her up again, but it feels to much like nagging or whatever. Last night I had this very vivid dream where I was babysitting the newest baby. When I woke up, it felt like I'd spent hours with the baby, and hours waiting for Snookie to come back. I don't know if my subconscious treated me to this because I miss her or because I miss little kids.
Because I do miss little kids. And babies. The nieces and neffs are older now and, though always delightful, you can't hold them, carry them. There's no baby smell - all the good and bad smells of a baby. I really like little kids, and I'm feeling the loss of them in my life. I don't really have an answer on how to fix it, except I could volunteer to babysit peoples's's kids? But I dunno anyone with baby kids around here.
Wow hey, talk about your tangents. ANYWAY. I think I'm feeling slightly abandoned by friends lately. Not all of them, and none without their reasons, I'm sure. But still.
Obviously the only way to fix this is through the healing power of pizza. Which I'll just go ahead and orer now.
So. I miss Snookie. Our weekly call about never happens any more, since the new baby came. Which is totally understandable, of course. But I called her a week ago and she asked if she could call back, "maybe not necessarily tonight." Yeah sure, I said. Of course. And the phone still hasn't rung.
I want to tell her about my trip to Kentucky. About my gramma and the house and the sadness of it. I want to tell her about my mother, her illnesses and money troubles. I want to hear that perfect note in her voice when I tell her I sent my mother money - that mix of anger and protectiveness and, ultimately acceptance. I have a bet with myself on her saying Of course you had to do it. Doesn't mean I have to like it. And that's even before I tell her of my mother's back-handed thank you.
(Yeah see, my mother left a message saying thanks for the gift cards, and "every little bit helps." I found this message something of a let-down and couldn't figure out why until that phrase - every little bit helps- kept coming back to me. Belatedly, like a day later, I wanted to dial her up and shout that two hundred dollars IS NOT A LITTLE BIT WHEN YOU CAN'T AFFORD GROCERIES, YOU BEGRUDGING TWAT YOU. But that feeling was gone in a flash and I shrugged it off and pretty much moved on, with just the occassional pissy muttering under my breath. That's how my mother is, and that's what I've learned to expect: no contact with her comes free of her belittling comments. It's become something of a game at this point with me, trying to figure out ahead of time how she'll slip an insult into it. Who could've ever thought she could turn a "thank you for your generous, unexpected and undeserved gift" into a bid to make me feel like shit? What twisted mind would ever imagine it? Answer: her daughter. Hoped for better, but saw it coming. Lifetime of experience, and all.)
Right okay, so lots of things to natter at Snooks about, but she's not calling. I suppose I could dial her up again, but it feels to much like nagging or whatever. Last night I had this very vivid dream where I was babysitting the newest baby. When I woke up, it felt like I'd spent hours with the baby, and hours waiting for Snookie to come back. I don't know if my subconscious treated me to this because I miss her or because I miss little kids.
Because I do miss little kids. And babies. The nieces and neffs are older now and, though always delightful, you can't hold them, carry them. There's no baby smell - all the good and bad smells of a baby. I really like little kids, and I'm feeling the loss of them in my life. I don't really have an answer on how to fix it, except I could volunteer to babysit peoples's's kids? But I dunno anyone with baby kids around here.
Wow hey, talk about your tangents. ANYWAY. I think I'm feeling slightly abandoned by friends lately. Not all of them, and none without their reasons, I'm sure. But still.
Obviously the only way to fix this is through the healing power of pizza. Which I'll just go ahead and orer now.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Wow. I really didn't think anything could make an address by GWBush more painful. But I stand corrected: Bush in hi-def.
Eek.
Note on the financial crisis, which I have SO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT but will restrict myself to this thought: though I don't disagree with the egghead argument that forcibly restricting executive pay in failing and soon-to-be-bailed-out financial institutions - though I agree it's really a gimmick and a bit of a sideshow and only there as an empty pander to pissed-off taxpayers like me - I don't really give a fuck. I pay my goddamn bills and my goddamn taxes and I live within my means and I am FUCKING PISSED OFF AT ALL OF YOU SHITS, so I honestly don't see any problem with a bit of silly pandering. Because about the only thing we might get out of this is a little psychological reward. And since nothing they do will avert The Great Depression v2.0, I think we the taxpayer at least deserve a smidge of spiteful satisfaction.
Shorter version: A little empty populism in exchange for a trillion bucks is a steal, motherfuckers. Now eat shit and die.
Eek.
Note on the financial crisis, which I have SO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT but will restrict myself to this thought: though I don't disagree with the egghead argument that forcibly restricting executive pay in failing and soon-to-be-bailed-out financial institutions - though I agree it's really a gimmick and a bit of a sideshow and only there as an empty pander to pissed-off taxpayers like me - I don't really give a fuck. I pay my goddamn bills and my goddamn taxes and I live within my means and I am FUCKING PISSED OFF AT ALL OF YOU SHITS, so I honestly don't see any problem with a bit of silly pandering. Because about the only thing we might get out of this is a little psychological reward. And since nothing they do will avert The Great Depression v2.0, I think we the taxpayer at least deserve a smidge of spiteful satisfaction.
Shorter version: A little empty populism in exchange for a trillion bucks is a steal, motherfuckers. Now eat shit and die.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
See, now this is a cool fund raising idea:
If only I had $250. I wanna bag o'books, dammit!
If you donate $250 or more to Barack Obama's campaign through Ayelet's MyBarackObama website, you will receive a mystery bag of 10 books, all in a canvas tote printed with the BOOKS FOR BARACK logo. The bags will be assembled randomly and tied closed so that no one — not even Ayelet — will know the contents of any specific bag. Your bag could contain a signed first edition copy of Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones, a signed first edition copy of Stephen King's Hearts of Atlantis or a fine collection of poetry by a writer you've been waiting to discover.
If only I had $250. I wanna bag o'books, dammit!
Monday, September 22, 2008
Oh hey - SBD, anyone? It's not like I've called it off, I've just not been bloggy lately. I may update everyone on what I've been reading later, but then I might wait til next week (when I finish the Julia Quinn Snooks lent me). But do let us know if you're bitching today, thanks!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Hi so when you want some wine, did I tell you to drink Falanghina? Because it's my new favorite wine of all time and we were at teh restaurant and I saw they ha it on the menu and I was like AHHH we have to get a whole bottle!!! Because it's awesome. FALANGHINA. Totally. Get some. Srsly.
ok gnite
ok gnite
I haven't been to the gym in so many weeks that I feel quite literally creaky. I creak when I move. This is very sad, and yet I can't bring myself to go to the gym this morning because I know I wouldn't last but maybe 20 minutes. So instead I'll do the little home workout dvd I have, today and tomorrow. Then on Monday, I will hopefully be ready for primetime again. Sure it's a silly face-saving move. So what?
Allergies have descended on my sinuses passages, leaving me mostly exhausted. I woke up today after sleeping in to a gloriously late hour, and decided I'd go to the laundromat, then to the grocery store and fruit market and Trader Joe's for some cheap wine, then do the workout, shower, then out for fun tonight. Unfortunately, after feeding the cat and myself, and briefly rinsing off my bod in preparation for the errands, I can do no more than sit here and wonder if I can fit in a nap. It's like the sandman makes a deposit in my eyes every two hours or so. Stupid fucking allergies.
HERE BE LOCAL POLITICS: My Daley-love/CTA-hate continues with the fabulous sound bite yesterday, of Mayor Daley calling Blagojevic (Worst Governor Ever) "cuckoo". And being Daley, he of course doesn't just say "that guy's cuckoo" - he actually makes the cuckoo clock noise. See here. I have an irrational love for Daley and all his wacky ways, so it pains me to say that he's not exactly right and Blago (whom I irrationally despise) is not exactly wrong. See, the stupid CTA has been underfunded forever. Or no - not underfunded, just constantly running out of funds because of some of the worst sustained large-scale mismanagement you could ever imagine. Our transit system is a mess, and money won't fix it. What we need is like one of those principals from those 80s movies about Bad And Dangerous Inner City Schools that get cleaned up by tough love educators carrying baseball bats. Morgan Freeman - WE NEED YOU!
Anyway, here we are in the umpteenth year of not enough transit funding, and the genius governor - instead of maybe trying to force a clean up the chronic disaster and free up some money to do great things one day in the future - decided to make a new rule effective right now: all senior citizens ride for free! Because when you're bleeding money, what you want to do is drastically cut revenue. Idiot. So yes, it was a dipshit move. But to imply that If Only we hadn't given free rides to old people, then we wouldn't be in this mess? Is hilarious. Of course we'd still be in this mess, Daely you glorious bastard fool. We have been in this mess as long as I've lived here. We live in this mess. We have built our home in it and cooked dinner and hung posters on the walls of this mess. Sheesh.
In other news, I came home from Kentucky to find my ceiling dripping. I drove through torrential rain all the way home (remnants of Ike, flooding all over the area here) and it was still coming down as I hauled all my stuff inside. Drip drip drip. It gets into the woodwork around the windows, and then the varnish/stain/whatever on the wood dissolves in the dripping rainwater and all my windows and windowsills and blinds and anything else in the vicinity get splattered with this grody slop. So it's stopped raining and I'll have to clean it all now. And let me tell you: cleaning blinds is officially my least favorite household task. I'd rather do dishes. Honestly.
haven't gotten my hair cut or colored for like 3+ months. It looks awful. Here's the thing: I don't want to use almost a whole tank of gas and an entire day (half of it in traffic) to drive all the way out to the eye-talian's shop, which is like an hour away (unless there's traffic, which there always is). So I've been putting it off. Now I'm thinking maybe I'll just go somewhere local. I just need a trim, after all. And to touch up the roots - not a full color, see. Or I could even let it grow out and see what I look like with gray hair? Hmm. Anyway, I'm seriously considering it. I'm not sure how the Italian would take it. I think she'd be fine, since it's simple maintenance and not like I'm getting a new style or color or something.
This would be kind of a big deal, though. No one but her has done my hair in like 15 years. But seriously - it's like $40 of gas to get there, and my entire Saturday. And that's IF I can get an appointment on a Saturday, because her shop is insanely fucking busy and I wind up feeling guilty, taking any of her time at the salon and then I'm not even a paying customer.
Gah, okay. I'll call her first and ask if she'll give me the formula for my color and explain that it's really just more convenient if I go local for the maintenance visits. We'll see how she reacts. Plus, I need to talk to her about my mother anyway. Today's my mother's bday, incidentally, and I sent like $200 of gift cards for gas and groceries because due to some property tax hijinks, she apparently has little-to-nothing to live on. Which I can't stand, even though I also can't stand her, but there's like and then there's love, so these things happen. Anyway, I dread her calling to thank me for the gift. Maybe I should turn off the ringer on the phone.
But first I should call the Italian and sort out this hair business. It's really getting ridiculous, how bad it looks.
Um but maybe I'll just take a quick nap before that. Because allergies. And Saturday. And lovely breezey sunshine in the windows. Yeah.
Allergies have descended on my sinuses passages, leaving me mostly exhausted. I woke up today after sleeping in to a gloriously late hour, and decided I'd go to the laundromat, then to the grocery store and fruit market and Trader Joe's for some cheap wine, then do the workout, shower, then out for fun tonight. Unfortunately, after feeding the cat and myself, and briefly rinsing off my bod in preparation for the errands, I can do no more than sit here and wonder if I can fit in a nap. It's like the sandman makes a deposit in my eyes every two hours or so. Stupid fucking allergies.
HERE BE LOCAL POLITICS: My Daley-love/CTA-hate continues with the fabulous sound bite yesterday, of Mayor Daley calling Blagojevic (Worst Governor Ever) "cuckoo". And being Daley, he of course doesn't just say "that guy's cuckoo" - he actually makes the cuckoo clock noise. See here. I have an irrational love for Daley and all his wacky ways, so it pains me to say that he's not exactly right and Blago (whom I irrationally despise) is not exactly wrong. See, the stupid CTA has been underfunded forever. Or no - not underfunded, just constantly running out of funds because of some of the worst sustained large-scale mismanagement you could ever imagine. Our transit system is a mess, and money won't fix it. What we need is like one of those principals from those 80s movies about Bad And Dangerous Inner City Schools that get cleaned up by tough love educators carrying baseball bats. Morgan Freeman - WE NEED YOU!
Anyway, here we are in the umpteenth year of not enough transit funding, and the genius governor - instead of maybe trying to force a clean up the chronic disaster and free up some money to do great things one day in the future - decided to make a new rule effective right now: all senior citizens ride for free! Because when you're bleeding money, what you want to do is drastically cut revenue. Idiot. So yes, it was a dipshit move. But to imply that If Only we hadn't given free rides to old people, then we wouldn't be in this mess? Is hilarious. Of course we'd still be in this mess, Daely you glorious bastard fool. We have been in this mess as long as I've lived here. We live in this mess. We have built our home in it and cooked dinner and hung posters on the walls of this mess. Sheesh.
In other news, I came home from Kentucky to find my ceiling dripping. I drove through torrential rain all the way home (remnants of Ike, flooding all over the area here) and it was still coming down as I hauled all my stuff inside. Drip drip drip. It gets into the woodwork around the windows, and then the varnish/stain/whatever on the wood dissolves in the dripping rainwater and all my windows and windowsills and blinds and anything else in the vicinity get splattered with this grody slop. So it's stopped raining and I'll have to clean it all now. And let me tell you: cleaning blinds is officially my least favorite household task. I'd rather do dishes. Honestly.
haven't gotten my hair cut or colored for like 3+ months. It looks awful. Here's the thing: I don't want to use almost a whole tank of gas and an entire day (half of it in traffic) to drive all the way out to the eye-talian's shop, which is like an hour away (unless there's traffic, which there always is). So I've been putting it off. Now I'm thinking maybe I'll just go somewhere local. I just need a trim, after all. And to touch up the roots - not a full color, see. Or I could even let it grow out and see what I look like with gray hair? Hmm. Anyway, I'm seriously considering it. I'm not sure how the Italian would take it. I think she'd be fine, since it's simple maintenance and not like I'm getting a new style or color or something.
This would be kind of a big deal, though. No one but her has done my hair in like 15 years. But seriously - it's like $40 of gas to get there, and my entire Saturday. And that's IF I can get an appointment on a Saturday, because her shop is insanely fucking busy and I wind up feeling guilty, taking any of her time at the salon and then I'm not even a paying customer.
Gah, okay. I'll call her first and ask if she'll give me the formula for my color and explain that it's really just more convenient if I go local for the maintenance visits. We'll see how she reacts. Plus, I need to talk to her about my mother anyway. Today's my mother's bday, incidentally, and I sent like $200 of gift cards for gas and groceries because due to some property tax hijinks, she apparently has little-to-nothing to live on. Which I can't stand, even though I also can't stand her, but there's like and then there's love, so these things happen. Anyway, I dread her calling to thank me for the gift. Maybe I should turn off the ringer on the phone.
But first I should call the Italian and sort out this hair business. It's really getting ridiculous, how bad it looks.
Um but maybe I'll just take a quick nap before that. Because allergies. And Saturday. And lovely breezey sunshine in the windows. Yeah.
Monday, September 15, 2008
I drove down Lake Shore - exiting from the lovely stone two-flats and tree-lined streets of the north side onto the curving drive with the lake on my left (boats bobbing in the water, ferris wheel rising from the pier up ahead) and the comfortable beauty of the city’s architecture on my right – through to the smudged industrial wasteland of northwest Indiana where I grew up, hours spent speeding over the flat plains of the state’s corn-covered center, until I entered the sweet rolling green hills of the Ohio River valley, and over the river, across the ridge, into the valley where my grandparents live in a falling-down shack on a half-forgotten country back road.
This is the corridor of my life.
All I ever wanted, for most of my life, was to make this stretch of road less central to my journey, to make new paths that would be well-trodden by now, leading miles far afield from here. Instead I’ve worn these same roads down like the hall carpet, with my repetitive pacing back and forth. I wanted to be more. I wanted to do more. I wanted to define myself outside of this deep groove in the middle of the map. But I haven't, and likely won't. My life will remain small, and recognizable, and deeply midwestern, and everything I wanted so desperately to escape.
It's tempting to think of the trip as a kind of journey to the past, traveling to my origins. But it's not that. This - the whole thing, the end-to-end and every-point-between of it - is like something, some kind of food. A big pot of soup, I guess. There isn't a beginning or an end. It's just all there, contained in one space, full of whatever happened to fit in the pot.
There was Rita, frantic with overwork and setting aside an hour for lunch with me as I passed through, representative of the part of me that lived in Indianapolis. There was Dawn waiting like a sister, door open and eager welcoming smile, just as it's always been since we were babies together. There was Tom with his babies and his laughter and his kindness that never ever fades. There was my aunt's eternal dithering and my uncle's overbearing ways and my grandfather pointing out trees, flowers, fruits, his garden, the smell of rain on the air.
And there was, of course, my grandmother. She speaks well, through bouts of gibberish that frustrate her. It's probably habit, after nearly 90 years, to just keep trying no matter how tired you are, how angry and sick of it, the injustice of it. She's never ashamed of her infirmities, and she never thinks the effort is futile. I don't believe she's ever even wondered if maybe it's futile. It's not so much that she's a fighter, my grandma; it's that she's a survivor. When you're good at surviving, you wake up in the morning and wash your face, get dressed, take a deep breath, and keep going. You don't think too hard about it, and you don't need to pep-talk yourself. You keep going because that's just what you do.
So she stumbles over words and makes up new (and hilarious) ones. She walks her own worn path from the bedroom to the kitchen to the living room, and back to the bedroom again. She just keeps going, and will keep on, until her life ends.
I didn't feel like I belonged there. I'm family, but a guest. I asked my grandmother what she'd like to eat for lunch, I can cook or just go to the store, what are you in the mood for? She matter-of-factly told me that my aunt knew. She'll take care of me. Consider me dismissed, there. In conversation, I was the extra voice who was less familiar to her than these others who speak to her every day, so I had to work hard to get her to hear me, answer me, talk with me.
All of this is okay, and I'm not at all resentful of it. I have no feeling of being left out, as my pouty self has often felt in similar situations. By common consent, I was more firmly put in my role of observer, the helpful visiting granddaughter. And what I observed is this part of my life coming to a close. The past, this best part of my family, this deepest and richest vein of earth - it's eroding. Gradually. You know how, in Tolkein, the elves "pass into the west" instead of dying? That's what I think of, when I think of downhome. That's what's happening to this part of me. It's passing into a place I can't follow. It's passing from this world and into legend, leaving traces of magic behind. It is unbearably sad and it's indisputably right.
So I watch them play music and it's already just an echo of the music they used to make. She practices her harmonica, but now she just misses notes sometimes - her brain is damaged, after all, so the music can't be what it once was. I roll out the dough for fried apple pies in the kitchen, as they rest their old bones in the living room and we all silently remember when it was her frying the pies and me in pigtails, back when she could use her hands and stand for more than a few minutes at a time. We correct her when she's confused about which grandchild lives where and is or isn't married, gently nudging her to remember it right, don't please don't start forgetting, you who could always recite the family tree back eight generations with life stories to go with every name on the tree. Please spare us that. Don't get lost before we lose you.
And when we do, what then? What is my grandfather without my grandmother, besides an empty man waiting around to die? How long would he have to wait? Can anyone who loves them bear to watch them in their final days?
And then: my mother's sick. I realized that she's closer to 70 than 60, and in poor health and not getting better. Would this God they all love be so cruel as to let my mother die at the same time her own mother is fading? Or to let my grandmother - she of the multiple dead babies - live long enough to see the death of her oldest child, one more sucker punch at the end of life? Morbid thoughts, all. There's no panic to it, no obsessive worry. There's just the life my grandparents have lived together. It's a testimony to unexpected loss and survival and patience and limitless grace. And love. Neverending, unconditional, constant love.
But I drive home. I head toward the big tall buildings on the horizon to get to a place that I call home. I'm a city girl. A northerner. This is where I start from and return to, every time. Theirs is the place I look toward, the place I wish I belonged to, at least a little bit. There's this whole life of mine, stretching a modest distance from the tip of one state to the tip of another, and they're this solid and immovable object at one end of it. A boulder in a riverbed, the surest place to tether a line even if I don't really move that much outside the narrow confines of my narrow little life.
And I am so, so grateful for them. For all of it. Really, that's all there is to say, at the beginning and at the end and at all the good, ugly, perfect, maddening, heartbreaking, joyous, lonely, despairing, beautiful, light-filled points along the way: I am so very, very grateful for it.
This is the corridor of my life.
All I ever wanted, for most of my life, was to make this stretch of road less central to my journey, to make new paths that would be well-trodden by now, leading miles far afield from here. Instead I’ve worn these same roads down like the hall carpet, with my repetitive pacing back and forth. I wanted to be more. I wanted to do more. I wanted to define myself outside of this deep groove in the middle of the map. But I haven't, and likely won't. My life will remain small, and recognizable, and deeply midwestern, and everything I wanted so desperately to escape.
It's tempting to think of the trip as a kind of journey to the past, traveling to my origins. But it's not that. This - the whole thing, the end-to-end and every-point-between of it - is like something, some kind of food. A big pot of soup, I guess. There isn't a beginning or an end. It's just all there, contained in one space, full of whatever happened to fit in the pot.
There was Rita, frantic with overwork and setting aside an hour for lunch with me as I passed through, representative of the part of me that lived in Indianapolis. There was Dawn waiting like a sister, door open and eager welcoming smile, just as it's always been since we were babies together. There was Tom with his babies and his laughter and his kindness that never ever fades. There was my aunt's eternal dithering and my uncle's overbearing ways and my grandfather pointing out trees, flowers, fruits, his garden, the smell of rain on the air.
And there was, of course, my grandmother. She speaks well, through bouts of gibberish that frustrate her. It's probably habit, after nearly 90 years, to just keep trying no matter how tired you are, how angry and sick of it, the injustice of it. She's never ashamed of her infirmities, and she never thinks the effort is futile. I don't believe she's ever even wondered if maybe it's futile. It's not so much that she's a fighter, my grandma; it's that she's a survivor. When you're good at surviving, you wake up in the morning and wash your face, get dressed, take a deep breath, and keep going. You don't think too hard about it, and you don't need to pep-talk yourself. You keep going because that's just what you do.
So she stumbles over words and makes up new (and hilarious) ones. She walks her own worn path from the bedroom to the kitchen to the living room, and back to the bedroom again. She just keeps going, and will keep on, until her life ends.
I didn't feel like I belonged there. I'm family, but a guest. I asked my grandmother what she'd like to eat for lunch, I can cook or just go to the store, what are you in the mood for? She matter-of-factly told me that my aunt knew. She'll take care of me. Consider me dismissed, there. In conversation, I was the extra voice who was less familiar to her than these others who speak to her every day, so I had to work hard to get her to hear me, answer me, talk with me.
All of this is okay, and I'm not at all resentful of it. I have no feeling of being left out, as my pouty self has often felt in similar situations. By common consent, I was more firmly put in my role of observer, the helpful visiting granddaughter. And what I observed is this part of my life coming to a close. The past, this best part of my family, this deepest and richest vein of earth - it's eroding. Gradually. You know how, in Tolkein, the elves "pass into the west" instead of dying? That's what I think of, when I think of downhome. That's what's happening to this part of me. It's passing into a place I can't follow. It's passing from this world and into legend, leaving traces of magic behind. It is unbearably sad and it's indisputably right.
So I watch them play music and it's already just an echo of the music they used to make. She practices her harmonica, but now she just misses notes sometimes - her brain is damaged, after all, so the music can't be what it once was. I roll out the dough for fried apple pies in the kitchen, as they rest their old bones in the living room and we all silently remember when it was her frying the pies and me in pigtails, back when she could use her hands and stand for more than a few minutes at a time. We correct her when she's confused about which grandchild lives where and is or isn't married, gently nudging her to remember it right, don't please don't start forgetting, you who could always recite the family tree back eight generations with life stories to go with every name on the tree. Please spare us that. Don't get lost before we lose you.
And when we do, what then? What is my grandfather without my grandmother, besides an empty man waiting around to die? How long would he have to wait? Can anyone who loves them bear to watch them in their final days?
And then: my mother's sick. I realized that she's closer to 70 than 60, and in poor health and not getting better. Would this God they all love be so cruel as to let my mother die at the same time her own mother is fading? Or to let my grandmother - she of the multiple dead babies - live long enough to see the death of her oldest child, one more sucker punch at the end of life? Morbid thoughts, all. There's no panic to it, no obsessive worry. There's just the life my grandparents have lived together. It's a testimony to unexpected loss and survival and patience and limitless grace. And love. Neverending, unconditional, constant love.
But I drive home. I head toward the big tall buildings on the horizon to get to a place that I call home. I'm a city girl. A northerner. This is where I start from and return to, every time. Theirs is the place I look toward, the place I wish I belonged to, at least a little bit. There's this whole life of mine, stretching a modest distance from the tip of one state to the tip of another, and they're this solid and immovable object at one end of it. A boulder in a riverbed, the surest place to tether a line even if I don't really move that much outside the narrow confines of my narrow little life.
And I am so, so grateful for them. For all of it. Really, that's all there is to say, at the beginning and at the end and at all the good, ugly, perfect, maddening, heartbreaking, joyous, lonely, despairing, beautiful, light-filled points along the way: I am so very, very grateful for it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
