To the woman who brings her dog into the ladies' room at work,
Knock it off! That is no seeing eye dog and thus has no place sniffing at my stall door. You dig? It's not restful to find a canine in my bathroom. I'm pretty sure Emily Post has my back on this.
Teed off,
Stephanie
I'm thinking of posting a sign on the door. Maybe, "Must have two legs or fewer to enter this space" or "No Bitches," though I'm guessing the latter might get me sent to Human Resources for a chat.
I'm back, and I am saddle sore. Riding a Clydesdale and then spending six hours the next day confined to a plane seat is a recipe for sore thighs, friends. Don't say I never taught you anything.
So riding a Clydesdale horse through a beautiful canyon was definitely a highlight of my LA trip. Others included the weather (sun! heat!) the smell of the air (ocean! jasmine!) and the places we visited. The Gamble House in Pasadena was extraordinary. If I thought I could have succeeded in obtaining squatter's rights, by gum I would have tried. The Getty was lovely, though I was underwhelmed by the Getty Villa. I would have happily spent a month exploring Huntington Gardens. Even the books I brought to read during the journey were beyond the usual enjoyment. Paul Auster's The New York Trilogy? Oh, man. The intro to City of Glass had my arm hairs all on end.
All in all, an amazing trip to a part of the country I'd never been before, and that I enjoyed far more than I'd anticipated. Now, I just have to adjust back to cold temperatures and overcast skies. Boo hoo.
You know what says vacation? Palm trees! I'm assuming Los Angeles has those. So since vacation=palm tress=Los Angeles I am going on vacation! Tomorrow! Try not to miss me too much. I'll return next week, full of stories, and warmed by what I understand is actual heat (and outside here in good old New England we have that popular stand by, frozen rain, falling.) Never fear. I'll probably come back if LA is anything as it was portrayed to be in "LA Story" one of my favorite Steve Martin films.
So, did you get around to reading all the hyped books of 2007? Then We Came to the End, Run, On Chesil Beach? No. Don't worry. I won't tell. My reading list is often far behind the popular tide. I have a hard time reading what everyone is reading. It's pure and simple snobbery. And I have a real problem reading anything tagged with Oprah's big gold "O" though I did read The Road after the Oprah seal of approval had been affixed to it (and how mad was I to discover the stupid sticker with her name on it peels right off? Pretty mad, given that I didn't discover that until after I'd finished reading it). I hate reading books adapted for film that then use the movie's image for the front cover. Yes, I apparently live in fear of being labeled a Philistine.
Now that we've covered why I'm behind the curve, let's discuss how to amend it. Powell's Tournament of Books. Powell's applies the much beloved NCAA basketball competition system (bracketed teams) to books. They select some bookish judges, give them two books, and make them pick which book was better. The reviews are great because often the judges explain not only why they liked said book better but maybe what prejudices they had going in, or how they view genre. It's a delicious bite-sized review system I wish I saw more of, frankly. And fun! Did I mention fun?
The idea of two books paired off in a fight to the...um...win is excellent. The execution has thus far been terrific. It's most fun when a book not expected to do well rises through the ranks in a series of surprise wins. Last year Kate Atkinson's One Good Turn got a lot further than I expected, in part because it was pitted against such heavy (weight and weight-wise) candidates. If I recall, one of the judges last year confessed she didn't finish reading one of her books. Awesome!
Following the Tournament of Books always helps me decide which of last year's literary darlings I want to read. In their first tournament Cloud Atlas emerged as the winner and it's one of my favorite books. So check it out. Today's match pits The Shadow Catcher against An Arsonist's Guides to Writers' Homes in New England. Can you predict the winner?
Easter is coming! Easter! Unlike Valentine's Day, I feel warm and fuzzy toward Easter. Not because it's more legitimate or anything. Not at all. But because it involves adorable baby animals and candy. What's that you say? Something about Christ rising from the dead? Yeah, that's not why I love Easter. Baby bunnies! And the success of advertising!
Truly, Easter reminds me of two things. The ad for Cadbury eggs that had a clucking bunny "laying" candy eggs and the jingle about brown eggs that played, as I recall, constantly throughout my childhood. The jingle went "brown eggs are local eggs and local eggs are fresh!" It doesn't sound like much, but trust me it was catchier than most STDs. Anyhoo, the brown eggs thing always comes up around Easter because growing up I only ever ate brown eggs. The local brown egg marketers had some amazing stranglehold on this part of the country. So, as a consequence, I thought white eggs only existed around Easter and were some sort of 'special' egg. Truth was, if you didn't buy your white eggs in a timely fashion then you were screwed because brown eggs may be local and fresh but they do not dye well. And dyeing eggs is part of the holy Easter experience.
So yes, to sum up. I thought white eggs were only produced in late March or early April. I am a sucker for candy and baby animals (and oddly, pastels, at this time of year). And I will be dyeing special eggs sometime soon! But not eating them afterward. Fresh or no, I don't much like eggs (unless they're chocolate).
Over a year ago our landlord died. He was in his mid-90s and not in the best of health, though he still drove to the track to bet two or three times a week (down from his once a day habit of younger years). The man was deafer than a post. I got locked out once and stood at his back door, pounding on his door. I could see him (he was ten feet away from me) but he didn't hear me. I worked that door like it was my mortal enemy before he heard me (more likely he felt the vibrations). Holding conversations, as you might imagine, was difficult. By and by, we coexisted peacefully. He didn't mind the rare late-night party and we didn't complain when our kitchen was suffused by the smell of pizza and smoke on poker nights (yeah, he was a character).
But then he died, and younger relatives moved in downstairs. I think they might be deaf because the levels at which they converse and listen to music indicates hearing loss. Severe hearing loss. The teenage boy living below me makes mystifying very loud, room-shaking noises. It sounds as if he is hurling himself against his walls. He may be. I don't pretend to understand the inner workings of a teenage boy's mind (though I imagine sex takes up a lot of room). The upshot is that it's not creating a conducive writing environment. Hell, not a conducive living environment.
I think when Virginia Woolf wrote about having a room of one's own, she knew that room should not be perched above a heavy-footed teenage boy.
I have the plague.
Sore throat, achy, no longer reliable sense of temperature, ouchy lower back and my eyes hurt too.
Did I mention the exhaustion and stupidity? The part of my brain that remembers words or concepts has been sacrificed. For what? Fuel? Its white blood cells? Dunno. Just know that I need to go back to bed now. I've been awake a whole half hour and am thus wiped out.
I hate being sick. Expect more posts after this plague passes and let's hope it's fast-acting plague, shall we?
I love to read. Ever since I mastered the whole phonetics thing and basic reading I was good to go. Rarely since has a day passed since then that I haven't been involved in reading. Except when I'm reaching the end of my first drafts, as you know. Well, this weekend I'll confess that after editing a lot of chapters and a 72 page story for a fellow writer I didn't have it in me to read. It sounded too much like work. Instead, I plopped myself down on the sofa and engaged in that most noble of exercises: channel surfing. Last night the cable gods offered me little satisfaction, but today, praise heaven, they gave me just what I wanted.
The Wicker Man. Specifically the 2006 remake starring Nicholas Cage. Sweet manna, was the movie terrible. I loved it. I only saw the last 40 minutes, and I think it best. After all, I got to see this scene:
Nicholas Cage, in bear suit, punching a woman in the face. Oh, cruel Academy for overlooking the subtle art evinced in this scene! (The music in the video is obviously not the same as in the real film clip.)
I spent most of my viewing time muttering, "This is horrible! He just keeps yelling his lines! God, it's awesome!" Sometimes, when one has been wandering the lush gardens of prose, one needs a chaser of Hollywood schlock. Palette cleansing! By the time the movie concluded I felt as though my brain had returned from vacation. Thank you, director Neil LaBute. Some might have argued the 1973 version didn't need a remake, but you, kind sir, boldly ignored that advice and created this masterpiece that shows what can happen when ladies run a society. (Seriously, what woman turned LaBute into public misogynist #1?)
I'm reading again. I feel up to it, and honestly I'm not sure it could endure another masterpiece like The Wicker Man.
It's possible to write oneself into a corner. I did that in book one by making Natalie qualified to practice law before she could be (I fixed that, after three teeth-grinding days). Today I found another corner. Actually, it's less a corner and more a tight turn. Having changed the dialogue in a previous chapter I found myself stumped at the beginning of my current chapter because suddenly the revelation happening, well, wouldn't. Humph. Moreover, the scene following lacks any reason for existing. Aces. So I did what any self-respecting author would do. I whined. Albeit, to myself.
After a few, "This is hard!"s I sat my butt down and began tinkering. I'm not done yet, but I've an idea that might make this crazy jigsaw puzzle fit together again. All well and good until I get a few chapters further in where my current rewrite creates future sorting-out issues. But that of course is just something to look forward to, for now.
Today did not start well. A bad night's sleep combined with an aborted shower (no hot water left) made me feel less than generous toward humanity. But at 1:49 PM that all changed. I entered Petsi Pie's and my brain started yelling (inside my head) "Oh my God! Heaven! Heaven! Heaven!" It was the smell. Sugar, butter, and baking. I froze up, staring at the displays because all I could think was "It's Heaven!!!" That and "I want everything but I cannot eat everything, not without repercussions. Must make choices."
After I left Petsi's with a coconut cupcake (good) and a sweet potato breakfast bun (absurdly delicious, as a product of Heaven would be) I realized that when you enter a lot of bakeries you smell nothing. The storefront is so far removed from the bakery that you don't get the aroma of caramelizing sugar making your taste buds dance. It's too bad, because while seeing lots of pretty baked good is nice, seeing them and smelling them is much better.
For all of you interested in experiencing Heaven before you die (assuming you're headed there--I make no such claims) you can find more information on Petsi Pies.