BBC's Book List
The BBC believes most people will have only read 6 of the 100 books here. Looks like my interest in in Victorian lit has paid off for something, but I've still only read 55/100. Here's how I stack up:
1) Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen (X)
2) The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien (X)
3) Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte (X)
4) Harry Potter series - JK Rowling (X)
5) To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6) The Bible (X)
7) Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte (X)
8) Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell (X)
9) His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10) Great Expectations - Charles Dickens (X)
11) Little Women - Louisa M Alcott (X)
12) Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy (X)
13) Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14) Complete Works of Shakespeare [not the complete works, but quite a few]
15) Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier (X)
16) The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien (X)
17) Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk
18) Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger (X)
19) The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger (X)
20) Middlemarch - George Eliot (X) currently reading!
21) Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22) The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald (X)
23) Bleak House - Charles Dickens (X)
24) War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25) The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26) Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27) Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (X)
28) Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck (X)
29) Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll (X)
30) The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31) Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32) David Copperfield - Charles Dickens (X)
33) Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis (X)
34) Emma - Jane Austen (X)
35) Persuasion - Jane Austen (X)
36) The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis (X)
37) The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38) Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39) Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40) Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne (X)
41) Animal Farm - George Orwell (X)
42) The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown (X)
43) One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez (X)
44) A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45) The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46) Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery (X)
47) Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy (X)
48) The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood (X)
49) Lord of the Flies - William Golding (X)
50) Atonement - Ian McEwan (X)
51) Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52) Dune - Frank Herbert
53) Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54) Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen (X)
55) A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56) The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57) A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58) Brave New World - Aldous Huxley (X)
59) The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night - Mark Haddon
60) Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez (X)
61) Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck (X)
62) Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov (X)
63) The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64) The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold (X)
65) Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66) On The Road - Jack Kerouac (X)
67) Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy (X)
68) Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69) Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70) Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71) Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72) Dracula - Bram Stoker (X)
73) The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett (X)
74) Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75) Ulysses - James Joyce
76) The Inferno - Dante (X)
77) Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78) Germinal - Emile Zola
79) Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray (X)
80) Possession - AS Byatt
81) A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens (X)
82) Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83) The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84) The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro (X)
85) Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert (X)
86) A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87) Charlotte’s Web - EB White (X)
88) The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89) Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90) The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91) Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad (X)
92) The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery (X)
93) The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94) Watership Down - Richard Adams
95) A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole (X)
96) A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97) The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98) Hamlet - William Shakespeare (X)
99) Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100) Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Kid Fears
Been thinking a lot lately about whether or not I have the chops to be a good parent. I see all kinds of sentimental cheese about parenthood everywhere, especially regarding motherhood, and it makes me cringe. This feel-good bullcrap seems designed to make people feel that parenting is some kind of holy calling, wherein only the elite need apply. I wonder if it's like how supermodels make average women feel bad about themselves? I may be onto something.
I just finished reading this book recently and it didn't make me feel better. It seems that no one can really communicate why having kids is so great and worthwhile, largely because the reason varies from person to person, and probably partially because it is, in the end, somewhat underwhelming, after all. In every case, it seemed like the decision to have or not have a child was borne of the writer's ability or inability to rationalize and/or reconcile their own childhood experiences. The most disturbing essays were those written by people who professed to not want children, ever. The tone of these essays was largely juvenile in the sense that I felt they were trying to prove that they were different from the mainstream so hard that they kind of lost sight of rational argument. Part of me understands--no one is more persecuted in our society than people who either don't have kids or make the mistake of saying they don't want them in polite company; I've been there. But most of these essays were either written by young whip-smart (ass) twenty-somethings living the dream in NYC or by condescending, self-righteous women already long past their ripeness. One essay I found especially disturbing was a young woman who embarked on a crusade to get her tubes tied in her early 30s simply because society wouldn't let her. The ladies doth protest too much, methinks.
The essays written by people 'on the fence' and people who were on the fence but had them anyway, were the most enlightening for me. These are people with a sense of self, with an identity, who managed to have a kid and not allow their identity to become erased completely. These are people who didn't think it necessary to stop listening to rock music in favor of the Wiggles; people who aren't ashamed to admit that they need to have a glass of wine to help ease the transition between work and Kidworld. These essayists had no particular overarching reason for having a kid, other than just taking the leap and doing it, which is how I feel about it now, after many years of being on the 'no' side of the fence.
My feelings can best be summed up by these two quotes, which are available in the online review:
Basically, having kids boils down to entering into some mystical rite that is purported to be amazing but at the end of the day, looks like a lot of thankless work.
It's not that I'm afraid of losing myself and having to put this other person first, I've gotten past that initial fear. What I'm more afraid of now is that I won't find having a kid of my own as miraculous and life-affirming as most people claim it is. I worry that I am disturbed, somehow, that I will fuck things up and end up being like my mother, in the end. I don't know that I have the energy to be the Master Mother that I think I should be. I see other people's kids and I see the flaws in their parenting--whether it's neglect that leads to an angry and frustrated child, or superlative ego that leads to fostering an unrealistic sense of the child's abilities. And then there's the whole vegetables problem. I don't want a kid that only eats chicken nuggets and mac and cheese! I also don't want a kid that is so engrossed in boring shit like playing Barbies! I want my kid to be different, not just another run-of-the-mill product of consumer culture. The kid shouldn't determine what gets served at the dinner table, and yet so many parents these days seem to tailor everything to the kid, the lowest common denominator, letting them determine everything and feebly watching as their kids walk all over parental authority. I don't want a family if it's going to be this way! I want to play the music that my husband and I like in the car, and eat make nutritious dinners that everyone can enjoy. We are the adults, we existed first, the child is an addition to our lives, but we maintain control.
My mom was a single mother but she never played stupid kid music in the car with me--I grew up listening to the radio so I have memories associated with many late '70s and early '80s songs, and that early exposure to music is a big part of who I am still. We had family dinners and I wasn't given a second choice on what to eat, and although I was a picky child, I managed to get by, even if I picked at my food a lot. I was fed Swanson TV dinners, Spaghetti-O's, and McDonald's on occasion as a kid, don't get me wrong--but I don't eat those things today. I had a couple of Barbies at maximum my entire childhood, and I got a Barbie poolhouse and townhouse one Christmas...but a couple of years later those toys lived in our garage, b/c I played outdoors a lot and liked reading and writing in my diary and making secret hideouts, etc. I played by myself most of the time and had great imagination--not like some kids I've met, who seem to need nearly CONSTANT attention to the point of annoyance.
I think these days there is even more pressure to be aware of everything that could be potentially harmful to our children, and it's making parents into stressed-out worry-warts. If you don't use cloth diapers, and puree your own baby food, you're not doing the best you can to be an eco-conscious, good parent. I was reading the diary of my husband's late grandmother recently, and she noted that her sons were raised on a milk and brown sugar formula. Milk and brown sugar. They didn't breastfeed back then, because they thought it was gauche. Some people still today don't breastfeed because it just simply isn't done in their social echelon...and so they use processed formula filled with all kinds of crap. I was fed on some sort of formula, but I survived.
What is my point? I guess that there is so much to be aware of now that parenting could really be a full-time job. And yet, we still farm our kids out to daycare centers, because we are a culture of work-a-holics. So, in addition to holding down my current stressful, taxing job, I have to fight the system by making my own baby food, washing cloth diapers, still find time to exercise and be attractive, and, oh yeah, sleep. I know my husband will help me all that he can, but let's face it--women always end up doing more, period. We have to do it all, and try to look good while doing it all. And after all of that, what if having a kid, for me, is underwhelming? What if I end up feeling like a slave to baby, giving up my free time to this little parasite that will only leave me as soon as it's old enough?
These are the things I worry about. Parenthood is certainly a perplexing state, and I am still mystified as to why people continue to do it, but they do. I suppose I will never know what is so compelling about it until I just do it myself...so at the same time that I worry myself to death over questions like these, the other part of me just shrugs and says 'meh, it will be fine.'
Who knows, but the answer to the conundrum may have been in that 'meh' all along.
I just finished reading this book recently and it didn't make me feel better. It seems that no one can really communicate why having kids is so great and worthwhile, largely because the reason varies from person to person, and probably partially because it is, in the end, somewhat underwhelming, after all. In every case, it seemed like the decision to have or not have a child was borne of the writer's ability or inability to rationalize and/or reconcile their own childhood experiences. The most disturbing essays were those written by people who professed to not want children, ever. The tone of these essays was largely juvenile in the sense that I felt they were trying to prove that they were different from the mainstream so hard that they kind of lost sight of rational argument. Part of me understands--no one is more persecuted in our society than people who either don't have kids or make the mistake of saying they don't want them in polite company; I've been there. But most of these essays were either written by young whip-smart (ass) twenty-somethings living the dream in NYC or by condescending, self-righteous women already long past their ripeness. One essay I found especially disturbing was a young woman who embarked on a crusade to get her tubes tied in her early 30s simply because society wouldn't let her. The ladies doth protest too much, methinks.
The essays written by people 'on the fence' and people who were on the fence but had them anyway, were the most enlightening for me. These are people with a sense of self, with an identity, who managed to have a kid and not allow their identity to become erased completely. These are people who didn't think it necessary to stop listening to rock music in favor of the Wiggles; people who aren't ashamed to admit that they need to have a glass of wine to help ease the transition between work and Kidworld. These essayists had no particular overarching reason for having a kid, other than just taking the leap and doing it, which is how I feel about it now, after many years of being on the 'no' side of the fence.
My feelings can best be summed up by these two quotes, which are available in the online review:
Yes: "I've been granted access to a new plane of existence, one I could not have imagined, and would not now live without."—Peter Nichols
No: "I can sort of see that it might be nice to have children, but there are a thousand things I'd rather spend my time doing than raise them."—Michelle Goldberg
It's not that I'm afraid of losing myself and having to put this other person first, I've gotten past that initial fear. What I'm more afraid of now is that I won't find having a kid of my own as miraculous and life-affirming as most people claim it is. I worry that I am disturbed, somehow, that I will fuck things up and end up being like my mother, in the end. I don't know that I have the energy to be the Master Mother that I think I should be. I see other people's kids and I see the flaws in their parenting--whether it's neglect that leads to an angry and frustrated child, or superlative ego that leads to fostering an unrealistic sense of the child's abilities. And then there's the whole vegetables problem. I don't want a kid that only eats chicken nuggets and mac and cheese! I also don't want a kid that is so engrossed in boring shit like playing Barbies! I want my kid to be different, not just another run-of-the-mill product of consumer culture. The kid shouldn't determine what gets served at the dinner table, and yet so many parents these days seem to tailor everything to the kid, the lowest common denominator, letting them determine everything and feebly watching as their kids walk all over parental authority. I don't want a family if it's going to be this way! I want to play the music that my husband and I like in the car, and eat make nutritious dinners that everyone can enjoy. We are the adults, we existed first, the child is an addition to our lives, but we maintain control.
My mom was a single mother but she never played stupid kid music in the car with me--I grew up listening to the radio so I have memories associated with many late '70s and early '80s songs, and that early exposure to music is a big part of who I am still. We had family dinners and I wasn't given a second choice on what to eat, and although I was a picky child, I managed to get by, even if I picked at my food a lot. I was fed Swanson TV dinners, Spaghetti-O's, and McDonald's on occasion as a kid, don't get me wrong--but I don't eat those things today. I had a couple of Barbies at maximum my entire childhood, and I got a Barbie poolhouse and townhouse one Christmas...but a couple of years later those toys lived in our garage, b/c I played outdoors a lot and liked reading and writing in my diary and making secret hideouts, etc. I played by myself most of the time and had great imagination--not like some kids I've met, who seem to need nearly CONSTANT attention to the point of annoyance.
I think these days there is even more pressure to be aware of everything that could be potentially harmful to our children, and it's making parents into stressed-out worry-warts. If you don't use cloth diapers, and puree your own baby food, you're not doing the best you can to be an eco-conscious, good parent. I was reading the diary of my husband's late grandmother recently, and she noted that her sons were raised on a milk and brown sugar formula. Milk and brown sugar. They didn't breastfeed back then, because they thought it was gauche. Some people still today don't breastfeed because it just simply isn't done in their social echelon...and so they use processed formula filled with all kinds of crap. I was fed on some sort of formula, but I survived.
What is my point? I guess that there is so much to be aware of now that parenting could really be a full-time job. And yet, we still farm our kids out to daycare centers, because we are a culture of work-a-holics. So, in addition to holding down my current stressful, taxing job, I have to fight the system by making my own baby food, washing cloth diapers, still find time to exercise and be attractive, and, oh yeah, sleep. I know my husband will help me all that he can, but let's face it--women always end up doing more, period. We have to do it all, and try to look good while doing it all. And after all of that, what if having a kid, for me, is underwhelming? What if I end up feeling like a slave to baby, giving up my free time to this little parasite that will only leave me as soon as it's old enough?
These are the things I worry about. Parenthood is certainly a perplexing state, and I am still mystified as to why people continue to do it, but they do. I suppose I will never know what is so compelling about it until I just do it myself...so at the same time that I worry myself to death over questions like these, the other part of me just shrugs and says 'meh, it will be fine.'
Who knows, but the answer to the conundrum may have been in that 'meh' all along.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Got Christmas?
This year we won't be home for Christmas, we will be visiting my family in Louisiana. We go there every other year, so in those odd years, I typically put up our tiny fake tree instead of a real one. We have had this 6' fake pencil-thin tree since 2002, when I bought it for $20 at Target. It was our first year living in Albany after leaving New York City in the wake of 9/11. In the tiny apartment years that followed, this tree served us well, and we have many tiny ornaments that suit this tiny tree.
Since we bought a house in 2006, we have had a real tree a total of two times, in 2007 and 2009, both years that we stayed home for Christmas. To my mind, nothing can compare to having a real fir tree, despite the mess and hassle it brings. So this year, looking down the barrel of yet another Christmas trip to Louisiana, I just couldn't face putting up that pencil tree again. You see, I would like to buy a nicer, taller, fuller, prelit fake tree for the odd years, but in order to do so two things need to be in place: 1. I need to be in the area the day after Christmas in order to take advantage of the great fake tree sales, and 2. I need money, and post-Christmas, I am usually beyond broke. So probably out of spite and resentment for having to go on another frustrating and drama-filled family visit during the holiday, I proclaimed this year would be the No Tree Year.
After saying this to anyone within earshot for the past week, yesterday I caved in and put up the damned fake tree. I can't explain what came over me, but suddenly I was seized by the Christmas bug. It was almost as if some internal programming kicked in, and took over my reason. As a compromise, I only decorated the tree with the smaller ornaments, the vintage Shiny Brite ornaments I 'won' from eBay years ago, the smaller crystal ornaments, and the 'retro' Target finds. The collection of massive, beautiful glass Santas and globes my mom has given me over the years will sleep through this Christmas tucked in their original boxes, safe inside the plastic red and green bins in the basement.
I rode the Christmas wave as long as it lasted--I put up the outdoor lights, put the tree together, wrapped it with 4 strands of lights (wrapped on the branches, not draped), and then we decorated it together last night, after doing a little shopping and addressing 25 Christmas cards.
Now, we wait. Wait for the rest of the gifts to arrive by mail, wait for the days to pass so that we can do our final round of last-minute shopping before we have to start packing, wait for the inexorable experience of Christmas to happen as it does every year.
Since we bought a house in 2006, we have had a real tree a total of two times, in 2007 and 2009, both years that we stayed home for Christmas. To my mind, nothing can compare to having a real fir tree, despite the mess and hassle it brings. So this year, looking down the barrel of yet another Christmas trip to Louisiana, I just couldn't face putting up that pencil tree again. You see, I would like to buy a nicer, taller, fuller, prelit fake tree for the odd years, but in order to do so two things need to be in place: 1. I need to be in the area the day after Christmas in order to take advantage of the great fake tree sales, and 2. I need money, and post-Christmas, I am usually beyond broke. So probably out of spite and resentment for having to go on another frustrating and drama-filled family visit during the holiday, I proclaimed this year would be the No Tree Year.
After saying this to anyone within earshot for the past week, yesterday I caved in and put up the damned fake tree. I can't explain what came over me, but suddenly I was seized by the Christmas bug. It was almost as if some internal programming kicked in, and took over my reason. As a compromise, I only decorated the tree with the smaller ornaments, the vintage Shiny Brite ornaments I 'won' from eBay years ago, the smaller crystal ornaments, and the 'retro' Target finds. The collection of massive, beautiful glass Santas and globes my mom has given me over the years will sleep through this Christmas tucked in their original boxes, safe inside the plastic red and green bins in the basement.
I rode the Christmas wave as long as it lasted--I put up the outdoor lights, put the tree together, wrapped it with 4 strands of lights (wrapped on the branches, not draped), and then we decorated it together last night, after doing a little shopping and addressing 25 Christmas cards.
Now, we wait. Wait for the rest of the gifts to arrive by mail, wait for the days to pass so that we can do our final round of last-minute shopping before we have to start packing, wait for the inexorable experience of Christmas to happen as it does every year.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Novembrrrrrrr Run
I had the best 6-mile run today, all by myself on the bike path. It was cold, sunny, quiet, and everything was dead and russet-colored. I met next to no one on the path--no bikers or runners, only a few walkers. I was all alone with my thoughts, and the sound of my own breathing. There was a chipmunk, and some birds. The river was placid and picturesquely lifeless.
I am not a social runner, nor do I run with headphones. I prefer the solitude of my own thoughts, the meditativeness of running and breathing. It helps me put things in perspective, to resolve various threads of my life in a very relaxed and non-intentional way.
In my tights, gloves, fleece, and headband, I felt deliciously self-contained and efficient, moving through the landscape, doing no harm, taking nothing with me, leaving nothing behind. I felt as if I could run forever.
I am not a social runner, nor do I run with headphones. I prefer the solitude of my own thoughts, the meditativeness of running and breathing. It helps me put things in perspective, to resolve various threads of my life in a very relaxed and non-intentional way.
In my tights, gloves, fleece, and headband, I felt deliciously self-contained and efficient, moving through the landscape, doing no harm, taking nothing with me, leaving nothing behind. I felt as if I could run forever.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Where Da Wine At?
So I wrote a rap song about wine. That's right, ya dig? I often write "songs" around the house, mostly about pugs and how stupid they are, but this time in particular, wine was the subject of choice.
I hear this in my head with a drum machine backbeat. Here goes:
Where Da Wine At?
(C) 2010 JBK/TMI
Clickin’ and typin’ the hours away
Usin' my brain but sittin' all day
I gotta rush home, put my runnin’ clothes on
Hittin’ the pavement to get my sweat on
Gotta stay in shape so I don’t get fat
Did my time, my exercise, now tell me—Where da wine at??
Chorus
Where da wine at/where da wine at/where da wine at/wheredawineat!
On my way home, fightin’ traffic and snow
Living in the northeast, man does it blow
I live 30 minutes from er'where and the roads are slick
To top it off, er’body drives like they shittin’ bricks
Pugs on the ottoman when I get home
Just in time ‘cause my favorite show’s on
Poppin' that cork as I walk in the door
Now tell me again, I didn't hear you before:
Chorus
Where da wine at/where da wine at/where da wine at/wheredawineat!
Don’t want no Boone’s Farm or Turkey Hill
Just gimme da wine and a coupla Advil!
Where da wine at/where da wine at/where da wine at! (Repeat)
Now I just have to find an up and coming New Orleans rapper to make it a hit! And yes I know Turkey Hill is ice-cream; that was intentional.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Things Lost in the Wake of Industry, #2: Raking Leaves
People prefer not to rake leaves these days. They like blowing them around with a leaf blower, creating noise pollution and wasting electricity. They also don't like shoveling snow anymore, but a snowblower is something I can get behind, because snow is HEAVY and you can hurt your back shoveling it. Not so with leaves.
I raked a ton of leaves last week. I enjoyed the meditative act of raking them across the lawn, scooping them up, and putting them in a leaf/lawn bag. Even more I enjoyed seeing just how many piles I could compact and stuff into one leaf/lawn bag. It was cold out, the sky was steel gray, and the aroma of dirt and leaves added a tang to the otherwise dull November air.
The next morning, my side and back were sore. Ah, I raked leaves yesterday, I thought as I stretched, delighting in that delicious soreness as I luxuriated in the flannel sheets. And life was good.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Hey, I ate a Banana!
I read this blog yesterday and it got me thinking about changing the way I view my goals, one day at a time. I have by now established a pattern of laziness, broken up by periods of intense dedication to physical exercise and weight loss. Losing weight has never been a problem for me before, until I turned 34. Even ramping up the running to 20 miles a week for three months didn't result in the weight loss as I'd hoped (but my quads are awesome).
I've been a runner for a few years now, this year I ran the most I ever have, especially in the last few months leading up to completing my first half marathon on 10.10.10. Last winter the running tapered off in November and December and I gained 10 pounds over the holidays; this year I bought a treadmill to keep running no matter what the weather, because I will not stop running this time. Plus if I am getting pregnant at some point in the next few months, I would like to trim down a bit before I get fat with baby.
It has been getting darker earlier and earlier since the half marathon, so in these last few days before I become a treadmill owner, I still needed to keep running. We have our last big race of the year this Sunday (the 15K Stockade-a-Thon), and it's necessary to keep running (albeit not as much as when training) in the weeks leading up to a race. So my one goal for today was to change into my running clothes at work, and stop at the bike path on the way home to get a run in before the sun set at 6:00. And I did it! I got to the path at 5:20, and finished my 3-mile run just as it was getting dusky. Mission accomplished!
I'm also trying to eat more fruit and veggies. I now eat bananas, after a lifetime of refusing to eat them on grounds that I don't like their texture. Well, I tried one, and they're not so bad--so now I eat bananas. But whenever I eat one, I need my husband to recognize and praise me for eating said banana--ridiculous I know--but it's affirmation I need, and he provides it (while rolling his eyes, of course). Sometimes you just need someone to commend you for doing what's good for you, no matter how ridiculous it seems.
Tomorrow's List of One? To do cardio for 30 minutes at home and weight training for 30 minutes. And then to relax with a glass (or two) of a nice Spanish wine and indulge in Thursday night television.
I've been a runner for a few years now, this year I ran the most I ever have, especially in the last few months leading up to completing my first half marathon on 10.10.10. Last winter the running tapered off in November and December and I gained 10 pounds over the holidays; this year I bought a treadmill to keep running no matter what the weather, because I will not stop running this time. Plus if I am getting pregnant at some point in the next few months, I would like to trim down a bit before I get fat with baby.
It has been getting darker earlier and earlier since the half marathon, so in these last few days before I become a treadmill owner, I still needed to keep running. We have our last big race of the year this Sunday (the 15K Stockade-a-Thon), and it's necessary to keep running (albeit not as much as when training) in the weeks leading up to a race. So my one goal for today was to change into my running clothes at work, and stop at the bike path on the way home to get a run in before the sun set at 6:00. And I did it! I got to the path at 5:20, and finished my 3-mile run just as it was getting dusky. Mission accomplished!
I'm also trying to eat more fruit and veggies. I now eat bananas, after a lifetime of refusing to eat them on grounds that I don't like their texture. Well, I tried one, and they're not so bad--so now I eat bananas. But whenever I eat one, I need my husband to recognize and praise me for eating said banana--ridiculous I know--but it's affirmation I need, and he provides it (while rolling his eyes, of course). Sometimes you just need someone to commend you for doing what's good for you, no matter how ridiculous it seems.
Tomorrow's List of One? To do cardio for 30 minutes at home and weight training for 30 minutes. And then to relax with a glass (or two) of a nice Spanish wine and indulge in Thursday night television.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Moody Monday
I've been thinking a lot about the nature of family lately--it's a constant theme in my life what with my troubled relationship with my mother--but my sister just visited this weekend so it got me thinking even more about what family means.
I'm nearly 10 years older than my sister, so we were never exactly close growing up. Sure, I babysat her, fed her, changed her diapers--but we were always too far apart in age to ever be real siblings. That has changed now that she's older and on her own. In a very real sense, it's like I just found out I had a sister a few years ago, because we don't really share too many childhood memories.
I'm very glad I have a sister, and that we have each other amidst all of the family craziness we share. It's just odd being looked up to as a kind of surrogate mother-figure at times, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. She has different memories than I do of our mutual time at home (she was 8 when I left home at 18), and overall we have different influences given that we have different fathers and family histories. But for all of that, we have become close, at first mostly out of mutual disgust over the actions of our selfish mother, but more recently, we are starting to develop a relationship all our own.
All of this makes me realize how fortunate I am that I got out, and that I had the strength to get out, and stay out. I'm glad if I am an example for her that life can be lived in a (mostly) sane fashion, that you can build your own family if your real one sucks. I am sorry for her that she has no one, and I understand now why she has the boyfriend she does--she needs family! I wish I lived closer to her, I think it would do a world of good for her to have me nearby, and maybe even for my mother too--but if I moved back there it would ruin me, I would probably resent being cast in the role as everyone's rock, and my marriage would probably end over it because my husband can't stand their drama. Maybe I'm being selfish by wanting my own life; does that make me as selfish as my mother in the end, albeit in a different way?
It would be interesting to see a tv montage of what might have been had we never left Louisiana...I do think about that sometimes, probably more often than I should. But I have no regrets.
I'm nearly 10 years older than my sister, so we were never exactly close growing up. Sure, I babysat her, fed her, changed her diapers--but we were always too far apart in age to ever be real siblings. That has changed now that she's older and on her own. In a very real sense, it's like I just found out I had a sister a few years ago, because we don't really share too many childhood memories.
I'm very glad I have a sister, and that we have each other amidst all of the family craziness we share. It's just odd being looked up to as a kind of surrogate mother-figure at times, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. She has different memories than I do of our mutual time at home (she was 8 when I left home at 18), and overall we have different influences given that we have different fathers and family histories. But for all of that, we have become close, at first mostly out of mutual disgust over the actions of our selfish mother, but more recently, we are starting to develop a relationship all our own.
All of this makes me realize how fortunate I am that I got out, and that I had the strength to get out, and stay out. I'm glad if I am an example for her that life can be lived in a (mostly) sane fashion, that you can build your own family if your real one sucks. I am sorry for her that she has no one, and I understand now why she has the boyfriend she does--she needs family! I wish I lived closer to her, I think it would do a world of good for her to have me nearby, and maybe even for my mother too--but if I moved back there it would ruin me, I would probably resent being cast in the role as everyone's rock, and my marriage would probably end over it because my husband can't stand their drama. Maybe I'm being selfish by wanting my own life; does that make me as selfish as my mother in the end, albeit in a different way?
It would be interesting to see a tv montage of what might have been had we never left Louisiana...I do think about that sometimes, probably more often than I should. But I have no regrets.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Have We Forgotten How to Do Everything?
If you don't already know, I listen to the Today Show while getting dressed in the morning because I like my daily dose of spite. Most days it's the same old yawn-inducing crap--some white child is missing, another kid succumbs to bullying, or some hack has a new book out--ho-hum. Every once in a while though some truly asinine story will piss me off, and last week it was a story about cooking.
The segment was about how preparing your own meals at home can not only save you money, it can help you lose weight and be healthier.Then I overheard a credulous female voice saying, "Cooking is really not as difficult as people think it is." DING DING DING!
Do you understand what pissed me off about the segment? Well let me explain it anyway in excruciating detail.
I'll end with words from Voltaire's Candide, which if you haven't read, you absolutely must go out and get a copy and read it. NOW.
Cooking, you say? How could a brainless Today Show segment on cooking possibly piss you off?
The segment was about how preparing your own meals at home can not only save you money, it can help you lose weight and be healthier.Then I overheard a credulous female voice saying, "Cooking is really not as difficult as people think it is." DING DING DING!
Do you understand what pissed me off about the segment? Well let me explain it anyway in excruciating detail.
You see, preparing food has been around for EONS, and people have known how to do it forever--and yet we now seem to live in a unique time where we can fly airplanes, make Velcro, and tiny tiny batteries, yet people are apparently so retarded that they have to be reassured about cooking because they are afraid of it. The act of cooking is apparently so foreign to the collective mainstream consciousness now that fucking John Stossel needs to be called upon to launch an investigative report called, "The Crisis of Cooking: Debunking the Myths'' or some shit.
Intriguing that this Crisis of Cooking comes at a time when there is unprecedented coverage of professional cooking on the Food Network and regular TV in the form of celebrity chef shows, food porn segments, food throw-downs and challenges. And don't forget The Biggest Loser, which tells me America hasn't forgotten how to eat, they just don't remember how to render raw foodstuffs edible for themselves.
Intriguing that this Crisis of Cooking comes at a time when there is unprecedented coverage of professional cooking on the Food Network and regular TV in the form of celebrity chef shows, food porn segments, food throw-downs and challenges. And don't forget The Biggest Loser, which tells me America hasn't forgotten how to eat, they just don't remember how to render raw foodstuffs edible for themselves.
After my instantaneous rage over the Crisis of Cooking segment subsided, I got to thinking about where we are at the beginning of the 21st century. There is no question that, by and large, we have forgotten the basics for sustaining human life in the even of a sudden collapse of our (unsustainable) economy--cooking, gardening, canning, hunting, gathering, sewing, dressing properly for winter. We have also forgotten how to be civil and polite to one another, another of my pet peeves, and a topic for another time. In essence, we have now become grunting mongrels who would turn on each other over the last Twinkie at the end of the world.
Maybe this is why there seem to be so many movies in the last decade about the zombie apocalypse, nuclear disaster, ice-age, and earth-destroying asteroids. I think these movies are desperately trying to calm our unconscious fears of surviving despite our lack of survival skills should we find ourselves in that situation! If civilization were rolled back to zero overnight by some random viral or supernatural event, these movies ask, what the hell would the paltry survivors do with themselves? Why, they would become truck-driving vigilantes who take over the nearest grocery store or shopping mall, content to barely eek out the rest of their pathetic lives at subsistence level on Twinkies (hell, those things last forever), that's what!
Interesting that you never see anyone plant a garden and learn to peacefully fend for themselves in most of these movies. What you see instead is a consumerist culture fantasy, one where we can ransack grocery stores and shopping malls at will, pillaging and plundering the foodstuffs that we so desire, shooting those that stand in our way. Oh, the humanity!
I'll end with words from Voltaire's Candide, which if you haven't read, you absolutely must go out and get a copy and read it. NOW.
Pangloss: "There is a concatenation of events in this best of all possible worlds: for if you had not been kicked out of a magnificent castle for love of Miss Cunégonde: if you had not been put into the Inquisition: if you had not walked over America: if you had not stabbéd the Baron: if you had not lost all your sheep from the fine country of El Dorado: you would not be here eating preserved citrons and pistachio-nuts."
Candide: "All that is very well, but we must go and work in the garden."
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Don't let the bastards grind you down.
Today I ran 12 miles without stopping, and it took me 2.5 hours. That is the farthest I've run to date. Yesterday I did Zumba, which made me sore for today's run, but I ran anyway. I was momentarily jazzed because my time today means I am definitely going to run a sub-3 hour half-marathon next month. Which isn't great by super-athlete runner standards, but it is fucking amazing by mine.
Tonight I checked my RSS feeds. The woman who writes the stupid running blog I read just ran her first post-baby half-marathon, and she did it in fucking 2h7m, and has the nerve to complain that she's "out of shape," that it wasn't her best, blah blah freakin' blah. Even my super-in shape husband didn't run his 12 miles today in the time that she ran her half-marathon! What is this bitch complaining about?
The thing is, running is the kind of activity where you really only compete with yourself, in the end. You compete with your previous personal records, and battle your own personal demons every time you hit the pavement. But sometimes you can't help but compare yourself to how others perform. It made me feel like shit to read this woman's post about her tragic half-marathon time, just like it made me feel like shit when a 77-year old Japanese woman beat me (by mere minutes) last year at the Stockade-a-Thon. This Japanese woman and I crossed paths at a few races last year. Surely I can outpace the shuffling grandma, I thought. And most times, I did, but that one time, at my first 15K, she outpaced me. I have since learned that where you start relative to others in a race does matter. No more starting in the very back for me. She won't outpace me again.
I know I shouldn't care about these things, but they do bother me. I aways seem eager to piss on my own achievements--why is that? It also doesn't help that someone made an off-hand comment to me yesterday about a 1-hour Zumba aerobics class being harder than running. Said by a non-runner, of course. The class was tough, but I completed it, and I don't think it's harder or easier than running, I think the two activities just aren't comparable. I wish I had shot back, 'well YOU try running 12 miles and see if you can do that, then get back to me.' Stuff like this shouldn't bother me, it should roll right off, because I am focused, and I have been training hard, and I'm proud of how far I've come. And yet it haunts me.
Here I am, at the end of week 7 of my self-imposed half-marathon training, and instead of feeling on top of the world, I feel like utter shit tonight. Maybe I just need to have a good cry and go to bed.
Tonight I checked my RSS feeds. The woman who writes the stupid running blog I read just ran her first post-baby half-marathon, and she did it in fucking 2h7m, and has the nerve to complain that she's "out of shape," that it wasn't her best, blah blah freakin' blah. Even my super-in shape husband didn't run his 12 miles today in the time that she ran her half-marathon! What is this bitch complaining about?
The thing is, running is the kind of activity where you really only compete with yourself, in the end. You compete with your previous personal records, and battle your own personal demons every time you hit the pavement. But sometimes you can't help but compare yourself to how others perform. It made me feel like shit to read this woman's post about her tragic half-marathon time, just like it made me feel like shit when a 77-year old Japanese woman beat me (by mere minutes) last year at the Stockade-a-Thon. This Japanese woman and I crossed paths at a few races last year. Surely I can outpace the shuffling grandma, I thought. And most times, I did, but that one time, at my first 15K, she outpaced me. I have since learned that where you start relative to others in a race does matter. No more starting in the very back for me. She won't outpace me again.
I know I shouldn't care about these things, but they do bother me. I aways seem eager to piss on my own achievements--why is that? It also doesn't help that someone made an off-hand comment to me yesterday about a 1-hour Zumba aerobics class being harder than running. Said by a non-runner, of course. The class was tough, but I completed it, and I don't think it's harder or easier than running, I think the two activities just aren't comparable. I wish I had shot back, 'well YOU try running 12 miles and see if you can do that, then get back to me.' Stuff like this shouldn't bother me, it should roll right off, because I am focused, and I have been training hard, and I'm proud of how far I've come. And yet it haunts me.
Here I am, at the end of week 7 of my self-imposed half-marathon training, and instead of feeling on top of the world, I feel like utter shit tonight. Maybe I just need to have a good cry and go to bed.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Some Pig
Stephen Hawking has announced that God did not create the universe, that the existence of gravity makes spontaneous creation inevitable. Why not just come out and say 'there is no God,' Stephen Hawking? I know why--imagine the zealots who would plot to kill the poor bastard. Not that I care about God (with a capital g)--I don't believe in a divine clockmaker who looks down on us humans, shaking his head in bemusement at our foibles. I'm not sure I ever believed that.
I don't know why we humans think there must be a god out there somewhere, a divine creator--I'm just fine acknowledging that it's the cold, deep heart of space that stares back at us, and it's that same void that will envelop us in the end. Knowing that space and planets and stars exist while we slowly rotate around the sun is enough to humble me. After space, belief in an omniscient, gendered being seems superfluous and ridiculous when you get right down to it.
But I get why people need religion. I do. Really. My understanding of religion is that it serves a very important, repressive social function. I've been reading about sexual repression in the fictionalized account of Alfred Kinsey's team and work, The Inner Circle, by T.C. Boyle. Kinsey and his (male) team wanted to eradicate sexual repression, and therefore eliminate feelings of guilt and criminality associated with certain sexual acts, in order to open up humans to the sexual panoply that is theirs for the taking. Problem is, you can't have people going around fucking any and everything and everyone all the time, or the world would look like an Hieronymus Bosch painting. One grave factor that Kinsey didn't seem to consider important was that someone realizing their sexual potential might at times infringe on the free will of another person, that is, might rape them and stunt their development. (I also think Kinsey himself probably was probably on the autism spectrum, or was at very least, a single-minded sociopath.) It is no exaggeration that women would lose in this kind of open, libidinous, pan-sexual scenario. This is why animals fight each other to mate with females, and why extreme puritanical restrictions have been placed on female sexuality since the dawn of time. Such an eradication of boundaries can only lead us back to the chaos from whence we came. This, in a nutshell, is why religion and social law exist. Anyone who argues to the contrary in favor of plural or open marriage forgets the obvious fact that they too were born into and live within the context of an ordered world, and that their behavior is the exception to the rule.
At some point, atavistic urges must be contained, restrained, and retrained if a species is to progress; hell, if a species is to survive into successive generations at all. When we were cavemen, I'm sure there were cave orgies every night, with cave people murdering and fucking and eating each other left and right. We were animals, pure and simple, guilt-free and unconscious; monkeys for whom behavior had no consequences. Sure, life's a party, but that shit can't last! Then the Monolith arrived and we became conscious of other things to do with our time, and the possibilities of what we might become began to emerge out of the darkness.
What is religion if not an agent of control, a "right and clear path" established in a world of free will and entropy? "Do unto others" is the golden rule, and we have laws in place to reinforce good behavior and punish bad. As I have learned from watching one too many shows about demons, vampires, and supernatural entities (and maybe from CCD), being evil is easy, the path of least resistance; being good and principled is the thornier path to take in life. Have you ever tried turning the other cheek? It ain't easy. Much more satisfying to slash and burn to make your point. What would Jesus do indeed.
I know I certainly prefer living in an ordered world, with police, electricity, plumbing, the internet, movies, garbage collection, house plants, deferred gratification. At this point in time, humans have mostly mastered the art of impulse control. Mostly. (Some might argue that we have replaced sexual urges with food, but that's a different topic for another time.)
There are no gods or demons out to get us; these are just metaphors we humans have created in an effort to help us understand ourselves, and life in general. We are self-conscious, self-loathing, dirty, pathetic, insecure, ingenious, comedic, poetic creatures. Try as we might to control our world, order it to our liking, things in our nature will always bubble up to the surface, just as in "The Tempest," despite all of Prospero's careful planning, Miranda will always see Ferdinand and exclaim:
"O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in't!"
It's up to us, what we see in the stars.
I don't know why we humans think there must be a god out there somewhere, a divine creator--I'm just fine acknowledging that it's the cold, deep heart of space that stares back at us, and it's that same void that will envelop us in the end. Knowing that space and planets and stars exist while we slowly rotate around the sun is enough to humble me. After space, belief in an omniscient, gendered being seems superfluous and ridiculous when you get right down to it.
But I get why people need religion. I do. Really. My understanding of religion is that it serves a very important, repressive social function. I've been reading about sexual repression in the fictionalized account of Alfred Kinsey's team and work, The Inner Circle, by T.C. Boyle. Kinsey and his (male) team wanted to eradicate sexual repression, and therefore eliminate feelings of guilt and criminality associated with certain sexual acts, in order to open up humans to the sexual panoply that is theirs for the taking. Problem is, you can't have people going around fucking any and everything and everyone all the time, or the world would look like an Hieronymus Bosch painting. One grave factor that Kinsey didn't seem to consider important was that someone realizing their sexual potential might at times infringe on the free will of another person, that is, might rape them and stunt their development. (I also think Kinsey himself probably was probably on the autism spectrum, or was at very least, a single-minded sociopath.) It is no exaggeration that women would lose in this kind of open, libidinous, pan-sexual scenario. This is why animals fight each other to mate with females, and why extreme puritanical restrictions have been placed on female sexuality since the dawn of time. Such an eradication of boundaries can only lead us back to the chaos from whence we came. This, in a nutshell, is why religion and social law exist. Anyone who argues to the contrary in favor of plural or open marriage forgets the obvious fact that they too were born into and live within the context of an ordered world, and that their behavior is the exception to the rule.
At some point, atavistic urges must be contained, restrained, and retrained if a species is to progress; hell, if a species is to survive into successive generations at all. When we were cavemen, I'm sure there were cave orgies every night, with cave people murdering and fucking and eating each other left and right. We were animals, pure and simple, guilt-free and unconscious; monkeys for whom behavior had no consequences. Sure, life's a party, but that shit can't last! Then the Monolith arrived and we became conscious of other things to do with our time, and the possibilities of what we might become began to emerge out of the darkness.
What is religion if not an agent of control, a "right and clear path" established in a world of free will and entropy? "Do unto others" is the golden rule, and we have laws in place to reinforce good behavior and punish bad. As I have learned from watching one too many shows about demons, vampires, and supernatural entities (and maybe from CCD), being evil is easy, the path of least resistance; being good and principled is the thornier path to take in life. Have you ever tried turning the other cheek? It ain't easy. Much more satisfying to slash and burn to make your point. What would Jesus do indeed.
I know I certainly prefer living in an ordered world, with police, electricity, plumbing, the internet, movies, garbage collection, house plants, deferred gratification. At this point in time, humans have mostly mastered the art of impulse control. Mostly. (Some might argue that we have replaced sexual urges with food, but that's a different topic for another time.)
There are no gods or demons out to get us; these are just metaphors we humans have created in an effort to help us understand ourselves, and life in general. We are self-conscious, self-loathing, dirty, pathetic, insecure, ingenious, comedic, poetic creatures. Try as we might to control our world, order it to our liking, things in our nature will always bubble up to the surface, just as in "The Tempest," despite all of Prospero's careful planning, Miranda will always see Ferdinand and exclaim:
"O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in't!"
It's up to us, what we see in the stars.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Tired Tuesday
I was going to call this post 'Angry Tuesday' but wanted to use the magic of alliteration again like last week. Besides I'm not so much angry as I am tired. What am I tired of? I'm tired of taking abuse, and having to thank others for the privilege, that's what I'm tired of.
Basically, I'm tired of bullshit. Specifically other people's bullshit (OPB).
See, I have more than enough bullshit of my own to trudge through everyday, but I don't take it out on other people. You know what I do when the shit gets real bad? Sometimes I have a glass of red wine or a vodka tonic at night to help calm me down so I can sleep, that's what. I don't construct accusatory essays of how I'm right and everyone else is wrong, and how my life is sooo hard I shouldn't be held accountable for being a jerk when I'm a jerk. That for sure I don't do.
So, Tuesday, I'm saying that I am tired and stressed from working through my lunch break today to deal with myriad bullshit on top of bullshit, I have internal nasal pain that I've never experienced before, my foot hurts from running yesterday, and I'm tired. Yeah, that's right, Chickin is TIRED. Tonight was my night off of running, and I had a glass of wine to calm myself down after the day I had. And now I'm heading to bed before 10:00 like I'm 80 years old--and I will get up and do it all over again tomorrow. Most men lead lives of quiet desperation indeed.
Blerg. Bedtime.
Basically, I'm tired of bullshit. Specifically other people's bullshit (OPB).
See, I have more than enough bullshit of my own to trudge through everyday, but I don't take it out on other people. You know what I do when the shit gets real bad? Sometimes I have a glass of red wine or a vodka tonic at night to help calm me down so I can sleep, that's what. I don't construct accusatory essays of how I'm right and everyone else is wrong, and how my life is sooo hard I shouldn't be held accountable for being a jerk when I'm a jerk. That for sure I don't do.
So, Tuesday, I'm saying that I am tired and stressed from working through my lunch break today to deal with myriad bullshit on top of bullshit, I have internal nasal pain that I've never experienced before, my foot hurts from running yesterday, and I'm tired. Yeah, that's right, Chickin is TIRED. Tonight was my night off of running, and I had a glass of wine to calm myself down after the day I had. And now I'm heading to bed before 10:00 like I'm 80 years old--and I will get up and do it all over again tomorrow. Most men lead lives of quiet desperation indeed.
Blerg. Bedtime.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Thankful Thursday
I'm going to take time out from my usual sarcastic, cynical rants and post something positive for once. A running blog I read regularly had a blog post of the same title today, so I thought I would draw inspiration from that and take a moment to be thankful for the things that have happened in my life in the past week. Here goes:
1. Last week my husband finally got a bona fide, salaried job in his field, with benefits and all, and making more than he has in the past doing the same work. He has been laid off for over a year, and has been working a grunt job since March. Things have been tough for us, not just financially, but also relationship-wise. He has been suffering from slight depression and an overall sense of worthlessness. In fact, we didn't know how tough things had been for us until we experienced the release of good news after all this time. Things are looking up!
2. I spent a great week with my crazy family last week. I ate too much, drank too much, didn't get enough sleep--but it was worth it because it is going down in the annals as one of the best family visits, ever. The only thing that could have made it better is my husband's presence, but there will be other visits. Also, a trip to London to visit family might materialize in the near future.
3. My mom may have finally broken up with her emotionally-destructive and physically abusive boyfriend of 5+ years. She left him and was looking for houses last week when I was there...she wants a place of her own, away from him. Though I'll hold off believing it until it finally transpires, that's still something to be thankful for.
4. We started our 1/2 marathon training this week despite recent runninglaziness setbacks, and so far we are sticking to it. We've run 8 miles this week with 5 to go by Sunday, totaling 13 for Week 1. It hasn't been easy, but I will get there.
5. In my immediate friend realm, I am happy for friends who are expecting, and another friend who is expecting to get engaged very soon. Lots of happy events will be occurring in the coming year, and I feel lucky to be a part of it all.
Wow. FIVE things to be thankful for--that's quite a lot! All of this positivity is making me depressed however; I'm going to bed.
1. Last week my husband finally got a bona fide, salaried job in his field, with benefits and all, and making more than he has in the past doing the same work. He has been laid off for over a year, and has been working a grunt job since March. Things have been tough for us, not just financially, but also relationship-wise. He has been suffering from slight depression and an overall sense of worthlessness. In fact, we didn't know how tough things had been for us until we experienced the release of good news after all this time. Things are looking up!
2. I spent a great week with my crazy family last week. I ate too much, drank too much, didn't get enough sleep--but it was worth it because it is going down in the annals as one of the best family visits, ever. The only thing that could have made it better is my husband's presence, but there will be other visits. Also, a trip to London to visit family might materialize in the near future.
3. My mom may have finally broken up with her emotionally-destructive and physically abusive boyfriend of 5+ years. She left him and was looking for houses last week when I was there...she wants a place of her own, away from him. Though I'll hold off believing it until it finally transpires, that's still something to be thankful for.
4. We started our 1/2 marathon training this week despite recent running
5. In my immediate friend realm, I am happy for friends who are expecting, and another friend who is expecting to get engaged very soon. Lots of happy events will be occurring in the coming year, and I feel lucky to be a part of it all.
Wow. FIVE things to be thankful for--that's quite a lot! All of this positivity is making me depressed however; I'm going to bed.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I have no ideas because it's HOOOOTTTT.
We're in the middle of a heat wave in upstate New York and everyone is miserable. In winter it's so cold here for about half the year, that I pray for sunshine and/or temps above 40 degrees all of the time, and now that Nature has finally brought the heat, my ass is complaining along with the rest of them.
There is something mind-numbing about incessant heat like this. Not only can you not think, you can't even do anything to take your mind off the heat. Because the only thing that can take your mind off the heat is air conditioning. It's like HEATHEATHEATHEAT drumming in my brain. I can't run, can't do yard work, can't even sit out in the living room and watch tv. All I can do is hole up in the room with the window unit, drink iced wine, watch DVDs, and read books.
Does excessive heat make you lazy both physically and intellectually? I say YES. Before you go formulating a theory that cites heat as the causal factor for why Southerners are largely stereotyped as imbeciles, I would remind you that air conditioning is pervasive in the Southern states.You need only experience the heat minimally if you live down South. This is because if you are Southern, your home has central a/c, as does every home and public building you could conceivably visit, guaranteed, cher. (Woe to the person who must attend an outdoor sporting event in the summer.) The only time you might experience the full force of the heat is when transitioning between indoor locations, or upon first entering your vehicle, and then it's only a few minutes before the a/c kicks in. These people don't play--they know what heat does to the brain. Remember the Civil War? Katrina? Catastrophic events that were, however indirectly, caused by the excessive Southern heat and made worse by the lack of on-demand air conditioning. 'Nuff said.
But I'm not in the South anymore. Up here in New York, where the summers are (usually) temperate, it is not unusual to have seasonal window units instead of central a/c. We only have the one window unit installed right now, so I have been camping out in our bedroom every night this week with a glass of red wine and my laptop, trying to amuse myself while I stay cool. The pugs have been sleeping with us in here at night, and sheltering in the basement during the day. The flowers in our garden crumple in the heat, and the grass is drying up in spots despite our efforts to keep it watered.
Inevitably my thoughts stray as they always do to ancient peoples and how they would have dealt with the heat. Most probably, they lived near water, and could take a cooling dip in said water anytime they wished. Also, they didn't have 9 to 5 jobs, and so could move about freely and care for their children and loved ones in times of heat crisis. They had no knowledge of soap so didn't care if they were greasy and sweaty. And unlike most of us modern peoples, ancient peoples probably accepted the periods of inactivity induced by extreme heat as par for the course, and were therefore well-practiced in napping. Those ancient peoples had way more sense than we do.
Excuse me while I brave the heat to fetch another glass of red wine.
There is something mind-numbing about incessant heat like this. Not only can you not think, you can't even do anything to take your mind off the heat. Because the only thing that can take your mind off the heat is air conditioning. It's like HEATHEATHEATHEAT drumming in my brain. I can't run, can't do yard work, can't even sit out in the living room and watch tv. All I can do is hole up in the room with the window unit, drink iced wine, watch DVDs, and read books.
Does excessive heat make you lazy both physically and intellectually? I say YES. Before you go formulating a theory that cites heat as the causal factor for why Southerners are largely stereotyped as imbeciles, I would remind you that air conditioning is pervasive in the Southern states.You need only experience the heat minimally if you live down South. This is because if you are Southern, your home has central a/c, as does every home and public building you could conceivably visit, guaranteed, cher. (Woe to the person who must attend an outdoor sporting event in the summer.) The only time you might experience the full force of the heat is when transitioning between indoor locations, or upon first entering your vehicle, and then it's only a few minutes before the a/c kicks in. These people don't play--they know what heat does to the brain. Remember the Civil War? Katrina? Catastrophic events that were, however indirectly, caused by the excessive Southern heat and made worse by the lack of on-demand air conditioning. 'Nuff said.
But I'm not in the South anymore. Up here in New York, where the summers are (usually) temperate, it is not unusual to have seasonal window units instead of central a/c. We only have the one window unit installed right now, so I have been camping out in our bedroom every night this week with a glass of red wine and my laptop, trying to amuse myself while I stay cool. The pugs have been sleeping with us in here at night, and sheltering in the basement during the day. The flowers in our garden crumple in the heat, and the grass is drying up in spots despite our efforts to keep it watered.
Inevitably my thoughts stray as they always do to ancient peoples and how they would have dealt with the heat. Most probably, they lived near water, and could take a cooling dip in said water anytime they wished. Also, they didn't have 9 to 5 jobs, and so could move about freely and care for their children and loved ones in times of heat crisis. They had no knowledge of soap so didn't care if they were greasy and sweaty. And unlike most of us modern peoples, ancient peoples probably accepted the periods of inactivity induced by extreme heat as par for the course, and were therefore well-practiced in napping. Those ancient peoples had way more sense than we do.
Excuse me while I brave the heat to fetch another glass of red wine.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Philly is a nice city.
I'm in Philadelphia right now for a conference, and it's the fourth time I've been here for work, the second time in a year. Last summer I spent about a week here while on a video shoot. I've gotten to know the city a little bit in this time, and I have to say, I am liking it. It's a big city without the attitude--there's great places to eat here, lots of history, cool clubs, bands I like actually play here--I wouldn't mind moving here someday if I could find the right job.
Of course my like of Philly may have something to do with being here on the company funds. Last summer, I stayed at the Windsor Suites, where I had my own kitchenette while I was here on the shoot, and I walked to Whole Foods and bought groceries for the week. I have been wined and dined at amazing places like Amada and Barclay Prime. I just spent the last 3 nights eating well and drinking red wine and Dewar's and water on the company dime, at places I really couldn't afford on my own.
Traveling for work is no longer a novelty for me, but the dinners and drinks certainly make up for the hardship of being away from my husband and home for a few days. It sounds like a blast I know, but when I travel I get off my routine, I eat rich foods and drink copious amounts of alcohol, wake up in the middle of the night with reflux, don't get up and go running because I'm hungover, and then stand on the show floor for seven hours until my feet stab and schmooze till I want to stab people. Meanwhile, email and work piles up back at the office, and when I check emails late at night, the stress comes flooding back. All in all, it's not a party, and there's a price to pay for the time away from the office.
Still, I really love it when I get to know a city from my brief work travels. Most of the trips aren't memorable, but I try to do at least one interesting or memorable thing when I'm away. Like that time in Memphis when I visited Graceland by myself; or the amazing run I took along Puget Sound in Seattle; the Devotchka show I saw in Philly; drinking my way around Epcot in an afternoon; walking along the gold-flecked beach at the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego. Even though I'm tired, slightly queasy, tipsy, and overworked, it has been a good week. Welcome to wherever you are.
Of course my like of Philly may have something to do with being here on the company funds. Last summer, I stayed at the Windsor Suites, where I had my own kitchenette while I was here on the shoot, and I walked to Whole Foods and bought groceries for the week. I have been wined and dined at amazing places like Amada and Barclay Prime. I just spent the last 3 nights eating well and drinking red wine and Dewar's and water on the company dime, at places I really couldn't afford on my own.
Traveling for work is no longer a novelty for me, but the dinners and drinks certainly make up for the hardship of being away from my husband and home for a few days. It sounds like a blast I know, but when I travel I get off my routine, I eat rich foods and drink copious amounts of alcohol, wake up in the middle of the night with reflux, don't get up and go running because I'm hungover, and then stand on the show floor for seven hours until my feet stab and schmooze till I want to stab people. Meanwhile, email and work piles up back at the office, and when I check emails late at night, the stress comes flooding back. All in all, it's not a party, and there's a price to pay for the time away from the office.
Still, I really love it when I get to know a city from my brief work travels. Most of the trips aren't memorable, but I try to do at least one interesting or memorable thing when I'm away. Like that time in Memphis when I visited Graceland by myself; or the amazing run I took along Puget Sound in Seattle; the Devotchka show I saw in Philly; drinking my way around Epcot in an afternoon; walking along the gold-flecked beach at the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego. Even though I'm tired, slightly queasy, tipsy, and overworked, it has been a good week. Welcome to wherever you are.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Caught in a Vamp romance
On a recent work trip, I picked up the third book in the Twilight series, Eclipse. I'm not sure why I did it--probably because I've already read the first two books, and the momentum to finish is carrying me forward. The first book wasn't so bad...the second book was downright ridiculous. This third book promises to be more so. And in the fourth book, I hear there's a vampire-teeth C-section to look forward to. Excellent.
If you know nothing of these books, here's my summary: they are overwrought-but-super-cereal teenage romances that center around a sexless (so far) relationship between a vampire (Edward Cullen), and a human girl (Bella). Oh, and there's a love triangle of a sort involving a wolf named Jacob. In this iteration of the vampire world, vampires can read minds, but the only mind Edward can't read is (conveniently) Bella's. Oh yeah, and her blood calls to him--so it's both torture and ecstasy to be around her. Bella is a bland, bored, not-generically attractive, pale and dark-haired young woman, who lives with her doltish, overprotective father in rainy Oregon, and sometimes visits her kooky, childlike mother in Arizona. Is that a recipe for angst or what?
Much more fun are the "Dead" Sookie Stackhouse books by Charlaine Harris. I also picked up the latest installment, Dead in the Family, on the same work trip. I read the Twilight books tongue-in-cheek, and they produce at least two eye-rolls per chapter; I read the Sookie books with unvarnished delight, much as I did the Harry Potter books. Guilty pleasures? Maybe, but at least I don't feel ashamed to read the Sookie books, while I did try to hide the cover of the Twilight book from view while on the plane and in the airport. I mean, these books are terrible!
I wouldn't say I have a "thing" for vampires, at all, even though I have certainly consumed my fair share of vampire-themed stories in my adult life. I watched "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" from start to finish, I've read the Anne Rice books. What I do like about fantasy or SF of any kind is the ability it has to go places that regular, 3D, reality-based fiction cannot. These supernatural stories tell our own story back to us in a reinterpreted way that, I think, can sometimes resonate more than a bland old human story can because it engages the imagination. Frankly, I am bored with feel-good human drama crap that ostensibly tries to teach us the meaning of life, or hit us over the head with the comedy and tragedy of it all. I'd much rather get that same message in a world filled with demons, fairies, wolves, vampires, and shape-shifters, or alternately, one that has at least been removed from time and place, like Victorian lit or early English lit. These stories often deal with the same themes--love, loss, fear, triumph, etc--but how they get there is much more interesting.
So I'm reading vampire tripe, but I am also simultaneously reading a book about Victorian sexuality, a book on babies, and Middlemarch. I am capable of reading at a higher level, and am clearly 'slumming it' by reading these vampire books. But to my mind, every book has some value, even the terrible ones. I also realize that not everyone that reads the Twilight books thinks they're stupid like I do. Heck, I know people my own age who read them and moon over them for the "romance," which is a concept I despise. But still I read on.
Fantasy can be dangerous. People who take it literally and try to apply it to their lives only succeed in making themselves miserable. Almost always, romance is a fleeting concept designed to entrap and mislead, yet humans seek it out like a death wish. I live in the world and deal with the mystery and frustration of human relationships and confront the meaninglessness of life on a daily basis. I will read my vampire romances if I want to!
If you know nothing of these books, here's my summary: they are overwrought-but-super-cereal teenage romances that center around a sexless (so far) relationship between a vampire (Edward Cullen), and a human girl (Bella). Oh, and there's a love triangle of a sort involving a wolf named Jacob. In this iteration of the vampire world, vampires can read minds, but the only mind Edward can't read is (conveniently) Bella's. Oh yeah, and her blood calls to him--so it's both torture and ecstasy to be around her. Bella is a bland, bored, not-generically attractive, pale and dark-haired young woman, who lives with her doltish, overprotective father in rainy Oregon, and sometimes visits her kooky, childlike mother in Arizona. Is that a recipe for angst or what?
Much more fun are the "Dead" Sookie Stackhouse books by Charlaine Harris. I also picked up the latest installment, Dead in the Family, on the same work trip. I read the Twilight books tongue-in-cheek, and they produce at least two eye-rolls per chapter; I read the Sookie books with unvarnished delight, much as I did the Harry Potter books. Guilty pleasures? Maybe, but at least I don't feel ashamed to read the Sookie books, while I did try to hide the cover of the Twilight book from view while on the plane and in the airport. I mean, these books are terrible!
I wouldn't say I have a "thing" for vampires, at all, even though I have certainly consumed my fair share of vampire-themed stories in my adult life. I watched "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" from start to finish, I've read the Anne Rice books. What I do like about fantasy or SF of any kind is the ability it has to go places that regular, 3D, reality-based fiction cannot. These supernatural stories tell our own story back to us in a reinterpreted way that, I think, can sometimes resonate more than a bland old human story can because it engages the imagination. Frankly, I am bored with feel-good human drama crap that ostensibly tries to teach us the meaning of life, or hit us over the head with the comedy and tragedy of it all. I'd much rather get that same message in a world filled with demons, fairies, wolves, vampires, and shape-shifters, or alternately, one that has at least been removed from time and place, like Victorian lit or early English lit. These stories often deal with the same themes--love, loss, fear, triumph, etc--but how they get there is much more interesting.
So I'm reading vampire tripe, but I am also simultaneously reading a book about Victorian sexuality, a book on babies, and Middlemarch. I am capable of reading at a higher level, and am clearly 'slumming it' by reading these vampire books. But to my mind, every book has some value, even the terrible ones. I also realize that not everyone that reads the Twilight books thinks they're stupid like I do. Heck, I know people my own age who read them and moon over them for the "romance," which is a concept I despise. But still I read on.
Fantasy can be dangerous. People who take it literally and try to apply it to their lives only succeed in making themselves miserable. Almost always, romance is a fleeting concept designed to entrap and mislead, yet humans seek it out like a death wish. I live in the world and deal with the mystery and frustration of human relationships and confront the meaninglessness of life on a daily basis. I will read my vampire romances if I want to!
Monday, May 24, 2010
That Stupid Island Show on ABC: Lost and Fantasy Island
Last night was the inevitable, inexorable final episode of "Lost" on ABC. We started watching this show via Netflix some years back, and watched the first three seasons on DVD. In season four we started tuning in live once we were "caught up," and strangely enough, that's around the time when the show started going downhill for us. It simply got too ridiculous with plot twists and timelines to the point where I didn't feel like putting forth the effort to string together what was happening in which timeline anymore, I just let each new plot line wash over me. But if I've spent that much time on something, there's no way in hell I'm not going to see it through to the bitter end--which is exactly what I did. The show had long since lost the ability to engender any astonishment in me, and I wanted to punch that stupid squinty-eyed Kate in the FACE every week, but I kept watching.
Much more fascinating than the actual show are the people who are rabid fans of the show. As far as Lost-haters go, I am in a somewhat quiet minority. That's because when "Losties" hear criticism of their show, they become indignant and hostile, much like Republicans. They will brook no opposition to their beloved show, and they find its meandering, fantastical storyline (that includes polar bears, smoke monsters, and time travel, by the way) to be as thrilling as ever. Women especially seem to love the show, and predictably get caught up in the romances between characters. For these fans, the final episode was a happy reuniting of everyone--all's well that ends well, right? WRONG. I am ever the skeptic and so I never trust happy endings. Didn't anyone actually read the fairy tales of yore? Those things were DARK and GERMAN, and the happy ending always came with a price. Americans are a tad obsessed with happy endings, however--we all but demand them in every movie. Twist and turn us however you may, but that movie better end happily, goddammit! I for one was disappointed that everything--all the time travel, the flashbacks/flashforwards/flashsideways, Walt, the Others, babies, the Light, Jacob, the cave, the Hatch, the numbers, the French woman, Widmore's obsession, the Dharma initiative--all of that ridiculous bullshit that was at times enthralling because it was just so fuckin' weird, boiled down to some sort of "lesson" and the quasi-religious notion of "moving on." Really assholes, really?
Ok I'm getting sidetracked. Where was I going? Oh yeah. Totally by chance, I recently started getting "Fantasy Island" from Netflix. Full disclosure: I am going through this 'retro' period where I am reliving the old shows I was raised on from the 80s--Loveboat, Fantasy Island, Dallas, Falcon Crest, Knots' Landing--and I watched the pilot and first two episodes of FI with the inimitable Ricardo Montalban as Mr. Rourke, and of course his wee sidekick, Herve Villechaize, as Tattoo.
In case you don't know, the premise of the show was that people pay good money to come to FI to have their greatest fantasy fulfilled. In the original made-for-tv movie, the three fantasies were: 1. to attend one's own funeral, 2. to be hunted, 3. a WWI vet wants to relive a night of romance with a woman whom, as it turns out, he killed. It's pretty dark stuff to say the least, at least at its inception. Later on, the show got a tad more campy, but in the beginning, the visitors didn't always have their fantasies fulfilled in the way they expected. Mr. Rourke liked to throw a moral wrench in the works, and things often took a sinister turn before straightening out again.
Halfway through the pilot, I thought, 'ahhh, this show too centers around an island where people have shit happen to them and a lesson is learned'--so of course I immediately went to IMDB and Wikipedia to learn more. There I discovered that both Fantasy Island and Lost ran on ABC, and it seemed profoundly fascinating to me at the time (yes I was drinking) that ABC has now had two long-running shows about islands.
There are two points I want to make here. First, Fantasy Island is much more freewheeling and fun than Lost could ever be. But the tv viewing world can never have a show like Fantasy Island ever again--there was an innocence and honesty about that show that cannot be recaptured. It was the island show of the late 70s and early 80s, after all! Second, Lost is the island show of the 2000s is because it hinges on its own purported profundity. It promises depths, and lures us in with seeming complexity--but in the end it's all sound and fury, signifying nothing. The writers even said that they included various allusions to mythology, religion, philosophy, literature at the whim of their staff--"If a writer liked a particular book, they just put it in." Really? I guess that means you'd be a damned fool to try to figure out any logic behind that Stephen King book that appears in Season 4.
In the late 70s and early 80s, life was good, and tv programming echoed that--petty human drama was central, and while there was some moralizing, it was mild and innocuous, often added for titillation. Modern life is hard, difficult, complex, not as fulfilling, scary even--but still modern tv viewers don't really want to think, they want to perform the illusion of thinking, and Lost was exactly the kind of show to give the average television viewer that empty religious experience they were looking for. The characters crash-land, die, get involved in some kind of netherworld/limbo/purgatory experiment that is never really explained, and then gather at a church before they collectively move into the light once they've suffered enough to realize they are dead. Sadly, there are no leis or tropical fruit drinks to welcome them.
I am sure there are plenty of Christians out there already claiming Lost as parable, taking to heart each character's journey into the Light of Jesus Christ. Ugh. Is that all there is to the show, I ask you? Maybe not, but I'll be damned if I'm going to spend another minute trying to make sense of the massive knot of shit the writers left behind. Maybe when the Rapture happens, we'll all find out what Lost was really about.
I'll end with a (paraphrased) quote from Mr. Rourke. "On the island, I make the rules--all of them. And no one breaks them--only me. Get me my drink!"
Much more fascinating than the actual show are the people who are rabid fans of the show. As far as Lost-haters go, I am in a somewhat quiet minority. That's because when "Losties" hear criticism of their show, they become indignant and hostile, much like Republicans. They will brook no opposition to their beloved show, and they find its meandering, fantastical storyline (that includes polar bears, smoke monsters, and time travel, by the way) to be as thrilling as ever. Women especially seem to love the show, and predictably get caught up in the romances between characters. For these fans, the final episode was a happy reuniting of everyone--all's well that ends well, right? WRONG. I am ever the skeptic and so I never trust happy endings. Didn't anyone actually read the fairy tales of yore? Those things were DARK and GERMAN, and the happy ending always came with a price. Americans are a tad obsessed with happy endings, however--we all but demand them in every movie. Twist and turn us however you may, but that movie better end happily, goddammit! I for one was disappointed that everything--all the time travel, the flashbacks/flashforwards/flashsideways, Walt, the Others, babies, the Light, Jacob, the cave, the Hatch, the numbers, the French woman, Widmore's obsession, the Dharma initiative--all of that ridiculous bullshit that was at times enthralling because it was just so fuckin' weird, boiled down to some sort of "lesson" and the quasi-religious notion of "moving on." Really assholes, really?
Ok I'm getting sidetracked. Where was I going? Oh yeah. Totally by chance, I recently started getting "Fantasy Island" from Netflix. Full disclosure: I am going through this 'retro' period where I am reliving the old shows I was raised on from the 80s--Loveboat, Fantasy Island, Dallas, Falcon Crest, Knots' Landing--and I watched the pilot and first two episodes of FI with the inimitable Ricardo Montalban as Mr. Rourke, and of course his wee sidekick, Herve Villechaize, as Tattoo.
In case you don't know, the premise of the show was that people pay good money to come to FI to have their greatest fantasy fulfilled. In the original made-for-tv movie, the three fantasies were: 1. to attend one's own funeral, 2. to be hunted, 3. a WWI vet wants to relive a night of romance with a woman whom, as it turns out, he killed. It's pretty dark stuff to say the least, at least at its inception. Later on, the show got a tad more campy, but in the beginning, the visitors didn't always have their fantasies fulfilled in the way they expected. Mr. Rourke liked to throw a moral wrench in the works, and things often took a sinister turn before straightening out again.
Halfway through the pilot, I thought, 'ahhh, this show too centers around an island where people have shit happen to them and a lesson is learned'--so of course I immediately went to IMDB and Wikipedia to learn more. There I discovered that both Fantasy Island and Lost ran on ABC, and it seemed profoundly fascinating to me at the time (yes I was drinking) that ABC has now had two long-running shows about islands.
There are two points I want to make here. First, Fantasy Island is much more freewheeling and fun than Lost could ever be. But the tv viewing world can never have a show like Fantasy Island ever again--there was an innocence and honesty about that show that cannot be recaptured. It was the island show of the late 70s and early 80s, after all! Second, Lost is the island show of the 2000s is because it hinges on its own purported profundity. It promises depths, and lures us in with seeming complexity--but in the end it's all sound and fury, signifying nothing. The writers even said that they included various allusions to mythology, religion, philosophy, literature at the whim of their staff--"If a writer liked a particular book, they just put it in." Really? I guess that means you'd be a damned fool to try to figure out any logic behind that Stephen King book that appears in Season 4.
In the late 70s and early 80s, life was good, and tv programming echoed that--petty human drama was central, and while there was some moralizing, it was mild and innocuous, often added for titillation. Modern life is hard, difficult, complex, not as fulfilling, scary even--but still modern tv viewers don't really want to think, they want to perform the illusion of thinking, and Lost was exactly the kind of show to give the average television viewer that empty religious experience they were looking for. The characters crash-land, die, get involved in some kind of netherworld/limbo/purgatory experiment that is never really explained, and then gather at a church before they collectively move into the light once they've suffered enough to realize they are dead. Sadly, there are no leis or tropical fruit drinks to welcome them.
I am sure there are plenty of Christians out there already claiming Lost as parable, taking to heart each character's journey into the Light of Jesus Christ. Ugh. Is that all there is to the show, I ask you? Maybe not, but I'll be damned if I'm going to spend another minute trying to make sense of the massive knot of shit the writers left behind. Maybe when the Rapture happens, we'll all find out what Lost was really about.
I'll end with a (paraphrased) quote from Mr. Rourke. "On the island, I make the rules--all of them. And no one breaks them--only me. Get me my drink!"
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