The many blues of a thunderstorm.

I love the sound of weather, the patter of sleet, the drive of rain, the quiet whooshes of wind bursts. Body curling among blankets and books, face pressing against cold glass, legs stepping from the dry bubble of an umbrella, listening, I immerse myself in the simple rhythms and harmonies of its patterns. I let it flow through me, around me, circling my body as if I am a rock in its a stream. Submerging me - wet and cold; hot then warm; forceful but soft.

8 More Days

Sigh loudly, look longingly. The piles of to-reads long ago over ran my night stand. Their stacks line my floor in neat rows, like cars in a parking lot, waiting to be picked up by their loving owner. And this loving owner is not at the opera, or a 4 course - 4 star meal, but feasting upon the dry bones of grad school articles and final projects.

One more week, I whisper to them. Then we will joy ride again.

Avoiding my bookclub book, as usual

I really hate the main character. The title was a heads up that I ignored. However, the chapters were short and the cover was of a cheap, pliable material. Perfect for subway reading and purse stuffing.

This happened many months ago, and yesterday.

I left either too early or too late. Either way, I was tense. My cotton shirt was soaked through by the first stop light. At 15 minutes till, my shirt still moist but my face radiating from a sweat facial, I thought I could make it. I bopped to my music and coasted along. All was ok for 2 minutes.



At 13 minutes till, my confidence melted as I willed my phone to dial itself, speak, and inform all parties that I would be 25 minutes late. I held back, as 1 minute later, at 12 till, I was going to be early. Fear of awkward standing around, waiting, setting off another round of nervous sweating.

By 10 minutes till, fear and crazy thoughts completely took over. I oscillated from fear of being late to fear of being early so quickly that I considered driving myself to the closest psych ward. I would not pass go, I would wear only white, I would never be late or early again.

All forgotten at 8 minutes. A pretty bend in the road, a shimmering of early spring leaves, I forgot my paranoia as the charm of a low key Saturday morning took over.

5 minutes till, stuck at a light, my anxiety rose in my throat. I was so close, and so far. My fingers fiddled with my phone. I reached to turn off the radio, to warn all that I will be embarrassingly late, but this song needed to be heard.

The light turns green. I arrive. I am late; I am early. I am ok.

Best use of the colon in a drunk email ever.

"Guys: confession."



Genius of this email is also known to conduct very lengthy and well thought out debates about deep and important topics, all while pounding car bombs.

Shoes

The walk turned into a carry. But who could blame her, she has brand new walking shoes - smart looking mary janes. She couldn't both walk and admire her fashionable toesies. It is just too much to ask from a fashion conscious one year old.

**picture to come.

Pigs and Babies

Squirm makes me instantly think of a pig or a baby. Not fat oinkers or wrinkled prunes passing as pigs and babies, but soft, fuzzy, piggies and babies. They must be scrunching their noses, squealing, and wiggling their rears in order to escape from your grasp. Woman! They shout in piggie-baby talk, I want to make a mess and I want to make a mess now!

Model Library Patron Movie Scene

Scene: Local Regional Library.

Players: Angry looking middle aged librarian, puckered lips a must; and serious, but pleasant, library patron.

Model Patron, handing Annie Dillards' An American Childhood to librarian: I would also like to renew a copy of Graham Greene short stories I have checked out.

Librarian, anger seemingly melting away as takes books: I would be delighted to!

MP: Oh dear! I think I forgot to return a vhs of "Brideshead Revisited." Will you please check that for me?

L: Certainly. (pause) No, the Graham Greene is the only item not returned. I have renewed it for you. Have a pleasant day. (Handing books to LP.)

MP: You do the same. Thank you.

L: No. Thank you.

"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.