"you know my theory about that store."

"no."

"i think the designers were drunk, in their grandma's attic, with a glue gun. "

"true."

"but i still love it."

"true."

We are also singing.

I must not be turning the pages fast enough. I do like to overly savor a book's language; she must be reading for plot, only.

Utterly Wretched

I am freezing yet covered in sweat. Sweat has soaked through my pajamas, my sweatshirt, and dampened my sheets. Which, in my finicky mind, Must Be Washed before I fall asleep. My aching joints are not sure if it is necessary. In agreement, my lungs shudder in a series of cough spasms that bring tears to my eyes as well as fluid from my nose and ears. My stomach feels a little left out, so it heaves a bit. And I run to the bathroom. Not to lose my cracker and soup lunch, but to spit out the piece of my lung that is choking me.

I pass out in my bathroom and wonder when this misery will end.

The front passenger side door of my car has OCD. Specifically, the lock will only work after an elaborate and ritualistic turning of the key. Left, Left, Right, Left. A process repeated every cold morning, in every abandoned parking lot, on every dark evening.

I am not sure if this is a mechanical problem or a character trait reserved just for me. No car psychologist has been called. My father - the car nurse - has his own diagnosis. He has yet to examine the lock but he knows: it is not the car that is crazy, but the driver. The driver, he informs me, may need mechanical as well as emotional support. He has anecdotal evidence of the symptoms: driver calling crying because lost coming home from sister's; driver calling crying because of a flat tire; driver calling crying because she was hungry. He went on, but driver stopped listening. She was crying.

Crying because her car has OCD and there is no car Zoloft available in the states.

Busted

"Watching your hair in the mirror is not exercise."

"I am stretching! It is very important to have correct form when you are stretching. The mirror helps with that."

"Right."

Now my library is complete.

Because I am not alone.

Contentment

A nap of 20 minutes lasted 120. I woke up squinty eyed, confused, and with my skirt on backwards. Drool matted my hair to my face. I was a set of wrinkles: face wrinkles, shirt wrinkles, and worry wrinkles. I had articles to read! Literary letters to write! Bathrooms to clean! However, I don't move from my encasement of sheet, blanket, and down comforter. I turn over and watch the fading light from my window.

I could be there now,
snuggled with content,
if not for the smell of bacon. *


*so aware of the extra syllable. it is killing me.

Confidential

The package was tucked in my box, sealed in a manila envelope, labeled as important. As I slide it out, hidden among the packets of Tuesday folder flyers and attendance cards, my fingers tingle with the contraband. Who knew reading could feel so devious?

I lent out one of my prized possessions today. I don't often share possessions of such a degree of emotional magnitude and I am a bit nervous. Not on the return - my personal library has no due dates.

And it is not that it is an All Time Favorite. I hand those out for free. Haven't read Emma? I might have three copies under my bed. You can keep one and then judge me accordingly. You might not agree with my literary biography, but you might enjoy the read.

No, this is a book that defined me as a reader, that changed me as a writer. Not only do I know the season/ month/ day I read this book, I know which room I was in when I read certain lines. I still think about this book on a weekly, if not daily bases. I know this is not saying much from the girl who reads Jane Eyre on a monthly bases. I obviously think about melodrama on a weekly, if not daily bases, too.

But this is a book that touched something - in my heart, in my thoughts, in my soul. I am not sure how and I am not sure why. I don't want you just to like the book. To appreciate the author's prose. To lose yourself in the character's life story. I want you to feel and breathe the book. To capture it, to take away some unspeakable understanding.

This book did not define me, did not identify who I am. It made me consider alternative versions of me. Versions that I could be, that I may be, that I will be.

I shared this book not because I want you to enjoy it, but because I want you to experience a revolutionary moment. Our friendship doesn't depend on it; we always have Emma.

Supers

My New Year's resolution is to temper my solitary and taciturn ways by putting myself out there and giving people a chance. Which is way hard and way annoying. I wish I resolved against swearing.

Case in point: yesterday.

I had a date with the super nice, but super boring. Making me the super mean because I was in super amounts of pain. He emailed later that he had a super time. There were no less then 3 smiley faces in that super email. I took it as a super sign.

That evening, at a bar: I assumed I was having a conversation with the snbsb. And for the most part I was; I know because he was wearing an argyle sweater and khakis. But then, he zapped me: "I am really enjoying this Tom Robbins book I started." What?!? Unsuspecting depth. "Then you must really like Vonnegut, too." "Yes, they have similar writing styles." Hmm, maybe I should have given him a chance. But he wasn't as excited about the Philly food trucks as I thought everyone should be.

Learning from my mistakes, I gave the super ass a chance, even when I should have run from his super shifty eyed ways. He was an aeronautical engineer working in the Netherlands for NATO. I know! Super cool. But he was super snarky and super aggressive. Dude, calling Ender's Game a fantasy was not a personal insult, just super laziness. The evening clincher: "I bet I can name more African nations than you can." I bet so too, super freak.

I hate Thursday nights during the strike even more then I hate Wednesday nights.

SO, I was ready to quit life, move to Brooklyn, and become a waitress this afternoon because I was tired, hungry, and there was no good tv on tonight. And damn it, I need fluffy, dromcoms to balance reading anything with value. Which means, not only do I have nothing to watch, I have nothing to read as I have already exhausted my stock pile of fluffy fiction that I am not embarrassed to rent/buy used and therefore, I am stuck with Gilead.

And Gilead should be right up my alley - a book that goes no where and is really for the word lover who is like, f* the story, tell me more about the sun set. I am all about a novel that has no complication, and ends when the author comes to a deeper point like, "The seashell glistened as the tide tussled it through the sand. I knew then, that I was the sea shell, and I was happy." What does the author mean by this? I don't know, but I like the word tussled.

With no near end to the writer's strike, I am stuck with only books like this where I must actually think because they have no obvious complication - never mind having a resolution - and are teaching me some Great Life Lesson.

But then I found this: http://mindyephron.blogspot.com/

I am saved from a deep, thought provoking life!! Because all I really want in life are predictable plots that involve scruffy, but smart and adorable, boys who happen to shop at the same grocery store as the cute modern day girl with the sassy hair; champagne brunches; and, of course, shoes with giant bows.

Quite Possibly My Favorite Adjective, if not, My Favorite Word, in the Whole Entire World

Wee. As in, the wee little hat looked jaunty on her sassy locks.

And I feel no need to explain myself.

A last hurrah

I have such a heavenly day planned:

- Read on metro. Watch speeding scenery changes. Play million dollars and a passport.

- Wander around Capitol Hill Books. Peruse all mysteries, hold on to something that is more madcap then thriller. Hunt for Cold Comfort Farm. Justify its purchase as I cannot find my own copy. If possible, buy two copies, just in case. Success means I found some wonderful Elizabeth Gaskell that I have not read; super success means I have also found my Monday night book club book.

- Make transfer on metro. Miss train to people watch.

- Walk up and down fancy stairs at the Portrait Gallery. Maybe imagine that it is 1865 and am wearing a regal creation with a long train. Visit all my friends. Pay respects to Katherine. Ran sack book store.

- Caress finds on the metro.

While I knew my day was perfect, the heavens above sought to make it even better: Hot Jane Eyre, tonight.

My Life as a Ten Year Old: How on the first day of vacation, I avoided all adult responsibilities and read a book all day, from start to finish.

When I started Hiroko Sherwin's Eight Million Gods and Demons, I thought I was reading about the strength of a tender wife whose philandering husband causes great devastation in her home life. I did not know her strength was just the introduction, that her story laid the foundation for the narrative's theme.

I was reading about the strength of family. How strength and courage changes overtime; what was once confrontational, maybe now courage to speak one's mind. As the characters moved out of their caricatures, I found myself in their words and actions. And I wondered. In the same shadow of destruction, would I have the same strength of words and actions. Or is my courage only strong when the sun is shinning.

Excuses*

The calm,
Cozy feel of my pajamas
Asked me for a cuddle.

*With apologies to Langston Hughes's "Suicide Note."

Play it Again

Re-reading: Slowly
sinking in sentence structure
words wrap like water

Not yet Nine

I had ten perfect half moons this morning. No longer then a centimeter. Cloud white tips to rosie pink ovals.

Vanity, thy name is Tree. And she has been painfully humbled as now she has only 8 perfect half moons.

Life with an Intern

I peek inside, what
was mine, became ours, is yours.
Unneeded, but loved.

Small Steps for Lazykind

I was so noble in the car. I had a plan. I made a list. I had a goal. I would be productive. I would accomplish Things. Many Things. I would not put on my super soft sweat pants, read a lost forever but really under my bed Jane Austen, and then watch two hours of tv. (Sounds excessive, but one of those hours is "Antiques Roadshow." And the other is "Heroes." Both teach very important life long lessons: "Save your crap and don't try to fix anything." and "Don't let people know you are special; they will try to kill you.")

But I am in my super soft sweat pants. I have changed to my fuzzy socks. And I have accomplished one thing on my list. But I have life lessons to learn.

Over reading, or subtle details missed

Things I did not notice, or think about, when I read The Giver in middle school, in high school, and then again in college:

- The pilot in training was released. Which means he was killed.

- I began most mornings as a student, and most mornings as a teacher, chanting the morning anthem and singing a patriotic hymn.

- "Hair like Fiona's must drive them (genetic scientists) crazy." Is Lois Lowry commenting on genetic engineering, or giving a scientific reason for the color blind society? And if it is the former, is The Messenger a comment on immigration?

- Jonas-bonus and Lily-billy. Coincidental nicknames? Or letter dictated by family?

- Was Rosemary the Giver's genetic daughter or community daughter?

- Does the baby Roberto and the released elder Roberto (or the baby Caleb and the lost four year old Caleb) share the same genes? Are they genetically the same person?

- Is my Grandfather's assisted living facility really a House of the Old?