When I was in seventh grade, I had a teacher who could be described as a feminist…or as close as you could be to one in the hills of Tennessee in the early 90’s. She made us watch “Not Without My Daughter” starring Sally Fields. Long story short, Sally is married to a Persian man who wants to take his family to his homeland for a few weeks for a vacation. Sally has her reservations, but eventually caves. Once they get there-Surprise!- he reveals he isn’t leaving, which was his plan all along, of course. She has to wear the head scarves and submit to his every will or risk beatings and all the worst things imaginable. She tries to leave and finds it impossible to take her daughter. High drama.
So this book is set in the same type of environment: strong women trying to escape brutal, illiterate, powerful men. And they will do ANYTHING for a few moments’ reprieve…including, but not limited to, dressing like a man. And who can blame them? These girls are frequently sold-that’s right-SOLD to the highest bidder (often their first cousin) for a sum of a few thousand dollars or some desolate dusty desert land by the time they are fourteen. Earlier, if they achieve puberty. And many of them try to hide that little nugget from their family in fear of what comes next: you are treated as a brood mare. Worse, actually, as most brood mares get plenty of rest and all they want to eat. And if you don’t magically produce a son in the first few offspring, your husband takes a second wife and you get to live with her and whatever passel of young’ns she brings into the picture. You aren’t allowed to go outside, except in the company of your husband, or gain weight, or drive, or make eye contact. You can’t show your wrists or ankles or heaven forbid anything else in fear of being labeled a whore. So who wouldn’t want to grow up as a boy instead? You can wear pants and climb trees and yell as loud as you want and get served first at the table. You can go to school and have a job and not answer to anyone. To them, this is freedom.
And all of these things I have taken for granted. “Too much education can potentially make a girl less attractive to a spouse, as she may develop plans to work or simply become too opinionated.” HEAVENS TO BETSY!! That is a definite problem. You can’t dance, either. “Dancing falls into the same category as poetry for a woman-it equals dreaming, which may inspire thoughts about such banned topics as love and desire. Any woman reading, writing, or citing poetry is a woman who may harbor strange ideas about love and romance in her head, and thus is a potential whore.” Boy, would I be in trouble. And we know why they don’t want you having romantic thoughts–so their sorry men don’t have to be nice, there are no standards to live up to. They teach their women that in Western civilizations we walk around naked in the streets and have sex with a thousand men. They justify their shroudlike covering thusly: “A woman is a very beautiful thing. In order to protect something beautiful, you should cover it. Like a diamond. You cannot just put it on the street, because everyone would just come and take it.”
“Do you understand that it is the wish of every Afghan woman to have been born a man? To be free?” One of the women followed in the book, Nader, has a team of protégées that she is training in Tai Kwon Do, and she tells them if they are lucky, no one will want to marry them. This could not be more true. Marriage to the wrong man is the kiss of death. And there are so very many wrong men. Women playing sports is strongly discouraged, so they must play and train in secret. “Too much physical exercise could be dangerous for women. Men who watch them could get too excited by catching glimpses of female bodies in motion. And the (more important) male athletes may become too distracted to engage in competitive sports at all if women were on the field. And what might the point of winning or even playing honorably, if women are not cooing on the sidelines?”
*Deep breath*
Number one, I find it humorous in a disgusted way that they even use the word honorably to describe anything about their culture.
Number two, I’ve never cooed in my life. Pigeons coo. Phoebe coos. Amy does NOT coo.
And neither do many of these women. “Those around her used to argue that biology would overtake her one day, when she married and had children. She would agree, just to make them stop talking, knowing it would not happen.”…”When one gender is so unwanted, so despised, and so suppressed in a place where daughters are expressly unwanted, perhaps both the body and the mind of a growing human can be expected to revolt against becoming a women. And thus, perhaps, alter someone for good.”
Our endearing author wants to try it. “‘Okay, so make me into a man, then,’ I say. “If you think a person can switch. Teach me.’…She has watched me several times, she explains. Although I have been styled and persistently trained in discreet, womanly behavior, people still stare at me as I stride by, taking big steps in my all-black coverage. They watch me not only because I am a Westerner, they look at me because I walk around as though I am ‘the owner of everything’. I arrive everywhere without a husband or father. And when we speak, I look her in the eyes, seeming neither shy nor emotional. I do not giggle-my laugh is more of a hoarse kind. And like a child, my face has no makeup and my wrists and hands carry no jewelry. She looks at me again, quickly, before she turns back, striking an apologetic tone. She asks that her next words not be translated, as they may be too insulting. But Setareh has already burst out in low laughter, gently passing the message along: “She says you are a man already. There is nothing she can teach you.'” I guess we do come off as a little unladylike to these shadows of humans. I, for one, would rather be a man than a shadow. They don’t understand why someone who has the opportunity to travel anywhere in the world-or DO ANYTHING in the world- would want to come to Afghanistan (I share in this troublesome enigma). They also find it strange her father would allow it, as all decisions made up until marriage are made by their fathers. They want to know what her purpose of life is, if it’s not to get married and have children. “You might as well have been born a man. What is there now to make you a woman?” This is spoken by one of the sisters to one of the girls raised as a boy. You can see that sometimes the women can be harsh and judgmental.
Which brings us to the subject of divorce. Of course Afghan women aren’t allowed to divorce…at least not easily. It’s explained that “women have less brainpower and may haphazardly ask for a divorce for no good valid reason.” Indeed! You wouldn’t want to divorce a perfectly good man who only beats you severely twice a week and whose mother keeps the food under lock and key. “An Afghan women who wants to leave her husband will be obliged to also leave her children behind. Making divorce nearly impossible for most women is exactly the point- otherwise, the thinking goes, women could just divorce men left and right, taking the children with them. Women are too emotional, rash, and impulsive-particularly when they are menstruating. They cannot be trusted to make rational decisions. So, for their own well-being, the logic goes , children should always remain with the father to avoid being carted off to a series of new husbands whom their whorish mothers may decide to marry at a whim.”
Oh, dear. Now, while some of this does bring to mind some women I know, the same cannot be said of these poor prisoners of Arab husbands. Our protagonist, Azita, her parents have been married 37 years. By all accounts, her father is a forward thinking (read: former communist) man, who had the foresight to send Azita to get an education, therefore paving a way into the Parliament. When the author asks her mother the secret to such a long marriage, the answer is immediate. “She looks at me like I am clueless. ‘It’s very hard to get divorced here,’ she says, throwing her hands up in a gesture of ‘What else did you imagine?'”
“By law, women are allowed to drive in Afghanistan. Just as they are formally allowed to inherit property and divorce their husbands. They just don’t, most of the time.
Nader wore a head scarf while driving once, just to please her brothers and to humor what they insist God requires from her. It nearly got several people killed, herself included.”
This book is a worthwhile, entertaining read, and I recommend it to anyone who needs a little perspective, a little broadening of the mind, perhaps a little compassion or reasoning of why we press on in these wars against terrorism. Although much of the crimes against women are blamed on society and tradition, the only way to stop them is education. It is the key.
And if that won’t work, a good tooth-rattling sock to the jaw from a marine never seems like a bad idea, either.
This should be required reading for all high school students. We can all use a reminder that we are truly in the land of milk and honey.
This time last week, I was prone in the bed, down with the flu.
I don’t mean I was cool with it, I mean I was unable to be up and about. I was down. Typically in my life, when using that term, it’s been to describe the ailments of some sort of livestock. Indeed, I felt like a cow ready to be put out of misery.
You see, I’ve never had the flu. I am one of those disgustingly well people everyone loves to hate. I suffer from an occasional bout with allergies, which have abated since my unvaried use of antihistamines. Drugs are amazing. But I have mistakenly believed that the flu was when you were throwing up, congested, feverish, and in the bathroom with the other. While this is partly true, if you have the misfortune of having both the flu AND the stomach flu, mine was of the coughing and elevated temperature variety, which is plenty bad enough.
It started on Tuesday. I blamed my bad decision of leaving the window open the previous night during the thunderstorm. I had a little cough. Nothing serious, just a short *cough, cough* into my fist every now and then. By Wednesday, it was a little more frequent with a little more force. My attitude was disintegrating, as I evidently picked a fight with Shug over dinner. Thursday afternoon found me with my head on my desk, hoping I had the strength to get home and an ache in my back to accompany my fairly strenuous cough. And I felt a little warm. Luckily, I was off on Friday, so I could potentially recover and rest after I went to the grocery store and cleaned house.
Ha.
I had wild ambitions to make it to Sam’s to stock up on sandwich meat and pork chops, but I made it to my closet before I changed my mind. Food City it is. And I wasn’t putting makeup on, either. To complicate matters further, it was Midnight Madness, so I knew the blue hairs would be out in force. Nonetheless, I wasn’t to be deterred and steered my buggy into their midst.
I wandered into the pharmaceutical aisle and picked up some new antacids but shied away from the Sudafed and Dayquil selections. I’ve heard they only mask your symptoms and make it take that much longer to get well. I contemplated again going by the clinic, but that would be $50 plus prescriptions, plus who knew what I would contract sitting in the waiting room with sick people? If I wasn’t better in a few days, I’d go. But I wouldn’t be happy about it. I’ve heard the way they test you for the flu, and it does not sound pleasant. I got my shopping done as quick as possible and was back home in an hour, carried the majority of it to the porch, brought the cold stuff in, and lay on the couch to recover. It certainly was warm. I put on shorts, but began to chill, so I covered up with my alpaca blanket, a constant companion of mine throughout the frigid Tennessee winters for several years now. It wasn’t long till I felt sweaty behind my knees and the best thing I decided I could do would be to power through. Mind over matter and all that New Age cockammamie crap.
So I put up the remainder of the groceries, and swept, and cleaned the bathroom sinks, and put up the laundry I’d started the night before (four loads, if anybody I keeping up with my Superwoman capabilities). I thawed sausage to make stuffed peppers for supper, which was already seeming a bit daunting of a task. The worst part was my coughing was so severe, I would either pee or toot with every spasm. And my back and ribs were really starting to hurt.
Well, I managed to make supper, but I didn’t eat but part of one pepper (unheard of), and I didn’t wash dishes, which is a sure sign I was on Death’s Doorstep. I wouldn’t eat off my floors any day of the week, but you can bank on all my dishes being clean. I also passed on a glass of wine. It was so hot. I began to google my symptoms, which were all unanimously pointing to The Flu. Not a cold, due to my lack of sneezing and drippy nose. The elevated temperature accompanied with chills were incriminating evidence, indeed. But I didn’t feel like I’d been hit by a truck. If you get hit by a truck, you die. There’s only fleeting terror, then death. With the flu, you have times to ponder all the times you should have used hand sanitizer but didn’t so now you get to lay around and sweat for dayyyyyyssss. I felt wimpy, like I should just get up and keep after it, which the internet strongly advised against. But that’s my go-to treatment: Act like I’m fiiiiine.
Fine people don’t wake up in the middle of the night, moaning uncontrollably from the pain in their back from the strain of coughing so violently.
So Saturday, after coming to on wet (not merely damp) sheets, without an appetite, I tried again. Johnny washed dishes while I slept in (bless him) so I decided to flip my closets. I assure you there are few tasks I like less. I’m confronted by all the clothes I have outgrown but refuse to part with. And socks. Whyyyyy do I have so many socks? Nice Wigwam ones that I don’t have the opportunity to wear now that my hiking has drawn to a mere once a year trek, if we’re feeling froggy. But I obediently put them in the bag to determine their fate again in six months. I also have a lot of shoes for someone who declares not to be shoe crazy. And my spare closet space is rapidly shrinking, I have noted, and addressed it to my roommate, also known as my husband. “My spare closet space has gotten a lot smaller,” I said accusingly to him on a trip to the kitchen.
“That’s because it’s not a spare closet, it’s my closet,” he corrected me.
Oh.
Well.
I guess I need to compress things into the library closet.
I finally finished with what I aimed to and laid on the couch with a cold washcloth across my forehead. I wish I hadn’t used that vegetable medley mix that had been in the freezer for eons. Oh! Did I still have that little plastic bag of purple beads the wisdom teeth extraction people gave me? I burrowed around for a minute or two and emerged triumphant. It smelled a little funny, but it served its purpose. How wonderfully frozen it was. I laid on the couch in shorts and a tank top with the frozen beads on my neck. Johnny promised to bring me a thermometer back since we can’t find ours (a dinosaur with mercury, no less), and set off for Knifeworks.
A few hours later, I was trying to make sense of the directions. Evidently you press the button after placing it in your mouth, not before, and it probably takes longer than 30 seconds to get a reading, but you tell your kid it’s only 30 seconds so they won’t argue with you. I have no children, and I’m the argumentative one, and it seemed like an awful lot of trouble to just get a reading on how freaking hot it is inside your head.
Turns out, it was over a 100 in my head, once we finally got there. I shuffled back to the couch, wishing someone would bring me a lemonade slush, like the kind you get at the fair with the red plastic straws with a tiny shovel end that I always cut my tongue on. Always. A fresh glass with ice in it would also be nice, but honestly I was too weak to ask for it.
The fever came and went, with chills, and I started feeling well enough to eat. So I ate my leftovers from the night before, took an antacid, and went to bed.
I woke up at 9:30, which is the latest I’ve slept since probably my hangover days. Even though I had again sweated through my sheets, I felt well enough to fix breakfast. Well enough to fix it but not eat it, turned out. I wasn’t even going to pretend today. I went back to bed, and the next time I woke up, it was 1:30. I had to get the roast I’d thawed the day before in the crock pot before it ruined, so I forced myself out of bed to do so. Then I Googled how long the flu lasts (3-5 days) what to do (drink plenty of liquids and rest), when to go to the doctor (if you cough up blood or if you seem to get better only to get sick again), and went straight back to bed.
I rose again at 4:30. I made myself read some of the book club book so the weekend wasn’t a complete waste. Johnny made the comment (8 times) that his neck was hurting.
“You’ve really got problems, don’t you?” I finally growled at him from the confines of my couch.
He narrowed his eyes. Yes, I’m mean when I’m sick, but he had showed me exceedingly little sympathy in the way of my illness over the weekend, even after seeing the proof on the thermometer reading. “I remember being sick once,” he said. “It wasn’t pretty.”
I don’t remember any such thing. I remember him suffering from allergies a time or two, but not The Flu. He is a good match for me, in this aspect, because I am no nurse. It’s another reason I’m fortunate not to have children. They would die from lack of medication, my primary first aid being the words “Suck it up.”
So anyway, we went to bed around nine Sunday night (no, I didn’t eat any roast), and I woke up Monday feeling able to function. I went on to work, croaking my way through the day, sounding like a smoker of 40 years. The owner of the company had been down with it too, and had gone and got treated with Tamiflu on Sunday. Our estimator self medicated with Mountain Dew (of the variety not available at gas stations), old antibiotics, and something that starts with a D that supposedly helps the lingering cough.
By Tuesday afternoon I was nearly back to my old self. I’m still coughing a little, but I believe the worst was a week ago. Evidently the flu has been prominent in our community as of late, my friend who works for 911 dispatch was telling me they’ve been carrying people by ambulance that are suffering from it. And one passed out in the Walgreens drive through! Obviously, I didn’t have that serious of a strain, I’m glad I made an acquaintance with one of the milder types, because it was bad enough. I’m also pleased to report that my decision not to go to the doctor and get loaded up with a bunch of crap has seemed to get me better faster than anyone. 🙂 Making it through was kinda like coming out of a matinee and it’s not dark outside and you’re like, “Oh! Hey everybody!! You’re still here! And I am too.”
I have a skewed system of favorite holidays. Thanksgiving has been my favorite for a few years, because it’s low maintenance. Oh, I cook. I cook my ass off. I cook for Johnny & I only, after some drama with his momma a few years back. In the interest of remaining Switzerland for him, I don’t visit my family, either. For the first couple of years running here, then rushing off to there definitely dampened my spirit-especially since I had two days of retail hell to look forward to immediately afterward. But now I stay in comfortable clothes, and the wine is open by eleven, music -just a little this side of loud- throughout the dining room and kitchen, and I’ve got the turkey in the oven. We may eat at two or we may eat at six. Last year, we had some friends stop in to help devour what I’d prepared and I felt like a normal adult, doing the thing. It’s the one time a year we eat at the table.
My next favorite holiday is our anniversary (I get lilies delivered to work and dinner wherever I choose). Then my birthday (again, because I don’t have to cook), then…then… St. Patrick’s Day. Not Christmas. I love Christmas, I love the meaning and I love decorating for it but I don’t love how people tend to buy just to be buying and the general bustle and dread that surround all the festivities. I don’t enjoy it. Can’t we just decorate and eat and laugh and have a good time? Why must you feel you have to give? That’s hardly the point. Most of us don’t NEED a thing. I’d like to have the money wasted to pay my water bill or something. And don’t get me started on Valentines Day. Actually, yes, lets do, because I planned to expound on that a month ago and never made time.
I hate to be all hatin’ on Valentine’s Day…but the fact of the matter is…I loathe this particular holiday more than Ask a Stupid Question Day (September 28th, although after a life in retail I would have sworn this was every day), International Day of the Nacho (October 28th. I mean, I love nachos and all, but really???), and CAPS LOCK DAY on June 28th combined.
Just kill me now. So, anyhoot. I hate it because in school, all the girls would get carnations sent by their secret admirers or boyfriends while they were all safely wrapped up in the letter jackets. I had no boyfriend, I had no letter jacket that smelled of Abercrombie and Fitch, I had no dismal carnation. I did, however, get a dozen red roses delivered by my momma with balloons, thankyouverymuch. I let my classmates believe whatever they wanted to, there was no incriminating card.
I digress. So then I was in my twenties and all us girls would hit the trendy bars, the jazz clibs, the ultracool understated underground 4620. The appletinis were on point. And I remember looking around, couples behind their candlelight, sharing cheesecake and whispers and just want to vomit. These are the same couples who would probably be fighting and throwing hairdryers at each other two nights later, but tonight they were wearing rose colored glasses and holding one by its stem after being purchased from the Asian lady with her overflowing basket of assorted colors and weaving her way through all the tables and couches.
That’s really the root of the problem for me. These men get a holiday where they’re coached through media on what to do. Buy the flowers, buy the candy, buy the expensive dinner. As I told my husband from our first Valentine’s Day forward: “If you buy me flowers, make it a Monday. When you send me a bouquet, it better be on our anniversary. If you buy me an overpriced dozen on Valentines Day like every ordinary man on this continent, I will never forgive you.” And wonder of all wonders, he actually listened.
I never thought I’d be married. I was always awkward, always with sweaty palms and frizzy hair and clothes that were last season and jewelry that was not a precise match. My attitude was off putting and I hadn’t seen the movie, but I had read the book. I was that girl who rode horses and wore braces for a year too long. So Valentines Day is a money racket, with Christmas close on its heels.
But lo, Saint Patrick’s Day. I hear dentists like it, too. Of course, there’s a lot of money to be made on it for them, due to the drinking of the green beer. Supposedly the food dye is harmful to your enamel and who drinks all night and then brushes their teeth? So you pass out and the dye eats into your teeth and there you are. And if that doesn’t happen, the likelihood of getting into a fight and getting your teeth knocked out is a possibility. So the dentists capitalize. I don’t blame them. But it’s fun! I love green! I love drinking! St. Patrick, among other things, drove the snakes out of Ireland while he was fasting. I gua-ran-tee you if a snake bothers me (while I’m fasting Facebook or fasting not a thing) I would drive it away. Probably headless. It’s said that the early settlers from Ireland chose the hills of Tennessee reminded them of home. And from what I’ve seen of Ireland, this appears to be true. We’re green, maybe more wormy green than emerald, but still.
I plan my outfit days before and when I was at Co-op I was a sight to behold. I would post a picture here, of me sitting on a pallet of fertilizer in all my finery, but it’s not very flattering. And I’m currently feeling abnormally fat today, after my binge of thin mints. So all week I had been thinking of what I would wear. My green boots are a little snug, so I was thinking my new green shoes
Aren’t they beee-yoo-ti-ful?
With some leggings, of course!
And the rest:
Some of those were collected on previous March 17ths and some are from Mardi Gras. My leprechaun socks aren’t in the picture because they’re dirty.
Here’s my not-so-over-the-top accessories
But on Friday, March 17th, 2017, I got up, pulled on my honeybee leggings, a pink shirt, a black sweater, and slipped on some camel colored flats before heading out the door. I was on Chapman Highway before it struck me. I had neglected my green. Aaaaalllll my green.
This has never happened before. When I was six, I wore my green polo shirt with the green alligator and green pants and a green bow to accessorize. A tradition was born. And I had neglected it today. I tried not panic, attempted to formulate a plan as I hurtled toward work. No one would notice. No one else would be in green either. No one would know.
But I knew.
So, as usual, I told on myself once I got there, and, as predicted, it was no big deal. Nobody else remembered, either, though Brian claimed to be wearing green underwear. I wasn’t going to check. I presented my arm to be pinched, squinching my eyes closed against the betrayal of my heritage. My hair is red, but my eyes are blue.
I texted Shug, a written version of a wail. My whine had the desired effect.
And a cry to Whit, my partner in lots of crimes:
Then, at lunch, it dawned on me.
I will never be without green. Ever.
Head slap.
But Shug did indeed take me out, where I reveled in my green (not all of it, we didn’t go completely crazy) and drank a mai tai (green if you use your imagination), followed by a red wine sangria (not green by any stretch of the imagination but I didn’t care after the main tai).
And so concludes another day in Appalachia, not so far removed from Ireland.
I’m finished, I’m finished at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m finished at last.
I can scarcely believe it’s true. Weeeeeeeks I have struggled with this book.
Here was my first problem: I bought it on a whim, slightly intoxicated, while on vacation in Florida at an utterly charming and whimsical bookshop called Sundog Books. The proprietor was friendly, even though it was nearing closing time. I felt encouraged to stay, to linger, to peruse. I chatted with a local, thinking we were going to form a long distance book club, only to find out she was drunker than me when pressed to tell me her media handle. She had no Goodreads or Facebook account. So that ain’t gonna work. Anyway, the book is beautiful, the cover persuading me. I hadn’t given full price ($28.95!!!!!!!!) for a book in years, so I felt due. I was on vacation!!! Seize the moment and all that. I had it in my head this was a book about the military of days gone by, so I looked on here and Amazon for a synopsis. And opinions. Because the one star reviews are always honest. But I must have somehow skimmed over them, because I paid for the book and it rode in the backseat the duration of our vacation and journey home.
It sat in my library, beautifully silver in tone, for months. I finally picked it up and began. Ugh.
The “protagonist”, I use that term because it’s the one everybody else has decided the main character, Josie, is. She’s depressing, jittery, and paranoid. She made ME want to run away. I had envisioned a beautiful rendering of Alaska, but it was only the descriptions of The Chateau that haunt me now. The rust, the smells, the overall appearance of a rattletrap decrepit RV.
If you don’t like the book by the first 50 pages, you aren’t going to. It doesn’t get any better, you don’t get any answers. You only get weighed down with endless questions.
But he threw me a bone every now and then, hence the two star rating. Here’s one: “Courage was the beginning, being unafraid, moving ahead, through small hardships, not turning back. Courage was simply a form of moving forward.”
There are minor terrible things that happen throughout, so regularly you begin to forget that there are happy books in the world. The desolation is complete, even in the creatures. “{the eagle} lifted off, its shoulders seeming tired, the movement of its wings far too slow and labored to create flight, but then it was up, rising like it was nothing, flight was nothing, the planet was nothing, nothing at all, just another place to leave.”
I am happy that I waited a bit before beginning, as that there is an element of fire that provides a bit of real drama to the novel. I understood the urgency of evacuation, of the real danger when the wind shifts, the description of the arid tang hovering around in the yellow air. Those are all accurate.
I did love the meeting of musicians in Cooper, when Josie becomes an impromptu composer. “These people didn’t know what they’d just done. What they were capable of. These GD musicians. They never knew their power.” Anyone who has ever been stirred by music knows this to be true.
“one by one the guests passed out as the best man, knowing his duty, kept the fire fed.” (I don’t know what that has to do with this review, but it conjured a lonely image in me, which is all. this. book. is. about).
This book is raw. It impresses me that he was able to write these small truths that we all struggle through. “You have a wonderful awkwardness.” Yes. Well.
All Grown Up <<<your link to buy. Why can’t I DOOOOO this like everybody else???
Book of the Month finally got one right.
So I loved this. It’s written in a conversational tone and you feel ~or I did, anyway~ like you’re having mimosas at brunch on Sunday with one of your single girlfriends. It’s refreshing in a way that it makes you feel okay to be in your thirties and not have your shit together. Usually chick lit is about girls in their twenties that don’t have their poop in a group and that’s okay~nobody expects them to. They only ask that you remain bright and opinionated and slightly slutty.
In your thirties you get to be mad about it.
“Her life is architected, elegant and angular, a beauty to behold, and mine is a stew, a juicy, sloppy mess of ingredients and feelings and emotions, too much salt and spice, too much anxiety, always a little dribbling down the front of my shirt. But have you tasted it? Have you tasted it. It’s delicious.” That’s me. That’s SO ME.
{I changed my rating to five stars but wanted to include this. It deserved five, just because fours are seen as So. Much. Less. It’s not fair} It’s kinda written in short story form, which may have been how it started out, like a piece at a time for magazines, which works, but it felt almost condescending as she related how her father died a half dozen times throughout. It’s not something easily forgotten. Or how her mom went to stay with her brother. That was slightly irritating.
I would say don’t read this book if you’re looking for a deeper meaning, but you can find it if you choose to do so. I’m guilty of gliding along on the surface, enjoying books at their face value, but when someone points out the obvious parallelism, I’m like, “Oh yeah. So that was the point of that storyline.” Then I feel stupid. Which is why I was reluctant to join a book club. And why I don’t contribute to discussions on here. Leave me to point out the obvious with some bland, “I liked it!”.
There are no resolutions in this book either, but I don’t look for a sequel. That’s kind of the point with these drifting, loose end books.
She feels about art the way I feel about the written word. We are both failures at our true loves, Andrea and I. I get it: “I go to an art opening with Nina after work. I don’t stay long, because it is one of those days where it is hard for me to look at art. Sometimes it is hard for me to look at art because so much art is terrible and I can tell it is a lie, that the artist is lying, and I begin to hate that art/artist for wasting my time.”
This author ain’t lyin’. She ain’t makin’ it pretty, either. And I love her for it.
Jane Steele well, there’s supposed to be a picture there. That’s your link to buy, by the way.
The book ends with these wise words (don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare spoil it for you!): “We tell stories to strangers to ingratiate ourselves, stories to lovers to better adhere us skin to skin, stories in our heads to banish the demons. When we tell the truth, often we are callous; when we tell lies, often we are kind.”
That resonated with me, as I’ve always had a passion for the truth, and also why so many people can’t stomach me. Which is fine. I’m not gonna tell you I think your baby is cute (unless it really, really is. And they have to be something truly spectacular for me to remark upon it), or that you’ve a nice steed, or that you look good in that dress unless I really mean it. Naturally, this earns me more than a few enemies, as people are coddled and stroked and told all manner of lies all the livelong day.
I went into this book thinking it was going to read like Jane Eyre had metamorphosized (WordPress doesn’t recognize that spelling, but I googled it to make sure I was correct) into Stephen King. Unfortunately, that is not the case. All of her are murders are SUPREMELY justified, if I do say so myself. From the writer’s synopsis: “She has no strong objection to pretty frocks, good whiskey, large estates, expensive horses, or marriage to a brooding Byronic hero.”
“Reader, I murdered him.”
How can we not find this endearing? After all, she’s admitting to us her sins, and that is to be admired. Nothing wrong with the truth, I’ve always been told. Perhaps this review would best be told in quotes from the novel, as I didn’t particularly love the book, I did enjoy the writing. “I have always been wicked, but I was not always universally loathed.” “In short, my mother and I–two friendly monsters–found each other lovely and hoped daily that others would find us so as well.
They did not.”
“–and though I was wary of my cousin, I was not afraid of him. He adored me.” (this proves to be a near fatal mistake). “What sort of game?” “Trading secrets,” he rasped. “I’ve loads and loads. Awful ones.” I found that bit humorous, as he was thirteen and this was England in 1936 or something. Looking back, it’s more like an omen.
“I wondered over the unsettling notion of words running dry.” ~That sounds awful to me, indeed!
“…did I allow myself the highly literary indulgence of losing consciousness.”
“There is no practice more vexing that that of authors describing coach travel for the edification of people who have already traveled in coaches. As I must adhere to form, however, I will simply list a series of phases for the unlikely reader who has never gone anywhere: thin eggshell dawn-soaked curtains stained with materials unknown to science; rattling fit to grind bones to powder; the ripe stench of horse and driver and bog.
Now I have fulfilled my literary duties…”
“Ye’ll learn a plentiful heap o’ facts, if all goes well.” “And how if all goes ill?” “Then ye’ll not need to worry yerself–“he coughed “–as it’s prodigious difficult to trouble a corpse.” This intelligence was punctuated by the stomping of boots as the coachman returned to his high post, a friendly cry of, “Damn you, Chestnut, you bloody useless sack o’ glue!” and we were off again.
“If you don’t remember the others, remember me.”
Oh, there are twists and there are turns, designed to pull the most cautious reader into a ensnaring trap of war and lust and greed. I liked it just fine. I just wish it wasn’t quite so correct in language, as it takes awhile to get to the heart of the matter, due to all the lace and flowery overtures. If you like this type of thing, by all means, read this. I give it a 3.5
“So often the way…with books.”
You may or may not have noticed I’ve taken a brief hiatus from this blogging thing for a few weeks. As some people post every day day, I may have taken liberty with the word brief. Well, whatever, I’m on here now.
Here’s the thing: I dearly-as in truly, madly, deeply- love to write. But this blog sucks the enjoyment from it. I feel the need to have a topic, which was never an issue on Facebook, then the pressure of pictures-not just any ol’ snap-as-you-go shot, but a thoughtfully plotted and executed image that thoroughly summarized whatever the devil I’m waxing poetic about. Then the links. Dear Lord, the links. I’m an Amazon Affiliate, which means I get about half a cent from every dollar you spend on Amazon if you click via one of my oh-so-convenient links. You don’t have to buy what I’m advertising, but make your way to checkout from starting where I put you.
I haven’t made one red cent yet, so y’all ain’t bought nothin’. And they’re firing me.
Here’s the latest thing I want, in the event you feel sorry for me and want to buy me something to make me smile. http://amzn.to/2mfTTYp See, I don’t even know how to do it, it’s supposed to have my words there…oh, bother.
I applied for Google Ads on the day I set this website up and they’ve been suspiciously mum on the subject. I think I got lost in the shuffle but I’m too lazy to contact them about it.
Then there’s the email. My well meaning readers have been asking where to sign up so that they don’t miss a word. That’s real sweet! However, it presents a new burden-I mean, pain in the as—I mean, challenge. You’d think it would be simple enough. And I suppose it is, if you know what you’re doing. Before doing anything, I have to figure out how to do it. Enter the WordPress forum, the bane of my existence, where they use all these technical terms for everything. Once I’ve waded through that (and screenshot the most helpful instructions) I understand I need to get a “plug-in”. Translation: App. I like the free ones, so MailChimp it is. Then you set up your account. No problem, other than time consuming. Then you select a template and transfer your stuff over. This is where I began my downward spiral. I need a new logo, a smaller one, more pictures, but then to understand where I want “negative” space not to overwhelm the reader. Then my message, with title, in the desired font and size. I didn’t get very far, after I realized this was just for a test audience, that was compiled of emails I add. And then they only send it to a selected few of those. I never understood that part, either.
Without going into further boring details, I gave up after learning that I needn’t have acquired an email service, as I already had one, but I didn’t even click into that mess to see what I lacked.
So I am reminded of all these inadequacies when I manage to open my blog (Another feat in itself, as my computer restarts after so many days of inactivity, therefore logging me off. So I have to Google how to get back in to my own website.) You can see where I have become frustrated.
So here I am, reading all weekend to hopefully make goal of 60 books this year. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but when was the last time you knocked out over a book a week? Yeah. And all I want to do when it’s this cold is eat. And I’ve done quite a bit of that this weekend, as well.
So that’s where I’m at.
I’ve given up Facebook for Lent, and let me tell you, I sure do feel lonely without telling y’all every little aspect of my day and flittering random thought that floats through my brain. It’s a wonder I haven’t exploded. In place of Facebook, I have been devoting a few hours to TV. It’s a fresh new diversion for me, and I’ve recently been familiarized to Swamp People. If I understand correctly, they were the predecessors to Duck Dynasty. And I luuuuurve DD. I like Swamp People. I like Troy. I kinda like ‘a way he talks, ya? Some people might believe he’s a mite slow, but I would hazard to say he’s one of the most brilliant people around. He’s built an empire, after all. So I finally know what all the cries of “Choot ’em, Lizzabuth!” are about. 🙂 Choooooot ’em, indeed. They’re terrifying, all those gnashing teeth and swamp mud splashing everywhere. And why izzit the alligators are perpetually male? There must be plenty of females around, for the abundance of new generations. Surely some of what dey choot are of the fairer sex.
I have just returned from a rescue mission for Shug and his newly acquired POS Ford. I should enclose a picture, but I don’t want y’all waving and attracting attention in the event I’m ever caught dead in it. He took it directly to the shop within days of it being relocated here from Newport. That should tell you something. In the few short days it was here, it did manage to lower our property taxes by three percent. And several complaints from the neighbors. I jest. Anyway, after spending several weeks at the local mechanic’s, it was returned here to the Plantation to haul wood and a source of transportation to the monthly Campout. It idles pretty high and sucks gas like the Arabs are giving it away, but I attribute that to just being a pickup. It broke down yesterday in the bottom, and Shug had made plans to go get a new battery for it, even though it had tested good. Uncle Dale talked him out of it and they charged it and set off again. Then arose problems with the chainsaw. Johnny finally declared it a day and began to drink beer from the comfort of the couch instead of the woods. Today he went off with the agenda of acquiring a battery and having the alternator checked. I sat here, typing away, anticipating a call that he was broke down at the light.
Sure enough, about ten minutes after he left, here his face was on my android, explaining that Advanced’s alternator checker was down (seems there’s problems all over in the mechanical world. And yes, that is the technical term) and that now his not-so-trusty truck wouldn’t crank, their little charger wouldn’t bump it, and could I please bring Patsy and the jumper cables?
Why, sure, I would just love abandoning my blog after being away from it for so long to come to your aid on a truck brand that I loathe. (Actually, I didn’t mind much, I just want to know if he reads these or not).
I could not tell you how many people Patsy has rescued. As I begin to tick them off on my fingers, it prompts stories of how I knew the people, or came to be their acquaintance after my services were rendered. I still to this day have no idea how to hook them up, but the people in need generally do. With the exception of my good friend Brenda, who required a boost after a hearty meal at Holston’s a few short months ago. Here we were, two curly headed short women, freezing to death in the parking lot of our favorite restaurant, while no doubt Yankee men strode by without so much as the tilt of their head in our direction. Finally a cook on his smoke break came to our aid. Psssh. And I wrote him a glowing recommendation on their Facebook page and they never even responded! Well, he’ll get a star in his crown if I have anything to do with it.
As I’m dressing for my Mission: Rescue Shug it occurs to me my little hometown has no less than four car parts stores and although my astute husband has stated he’s at Advanced Auto, methinks it’s best to ascertain that that is indeed his location. “Across from Food City or next to Zaxby’s?” I text. “Food City,” came the reply.
Let the record show that the business in question is an Auto Zone.
But nonetheless, I managed to get the toolbox open on Patsy (always tricky business) and withdraw the often used jumper cables, which Shug attached, and within seconds, the ol’ Ford fired to life from the lifesaving juice of a CHEVROLET. 🙂
We returned home, although I gently suggested the shop.
I do believe I’m due a snack.
Perhaps some Nabs.
Nabs, you say? You’ve never heard of them? Oh, allow me to introduce you. Dear Reader, Nabs are the fancified way of saying peanut butter and crackers. In all actuality, they’re the shortened form of Nabisco, which is the abbreviated version of National Biscuit Company. Who knew?!?!? I did, after Googling it. What did we ever do without Google? After all, it isn’t something you could look up in the encyclopedia, if you even knew where to start. My coworker is from Southwest Virginia, and evidently that little pocket of Earth calls peanut butter and crackers Nabs.
But nowhere else. Even Amazon doesn’t know what they are, as they provided this object: Nabs
I was thoroughly confounded last week when she announced that was what she was having for lunch and then pulled out a lowly pack of crackers. And yogurt, if memory serves. So I got my lesson for the day, and now you have yours.
I believe that’s all for now, I have exhausted myself imparting my struggles with you, and am now entitled to a hot dog.
This is the first time in many years the thought of spring doesn’t fill me with dread.
Spring doesn’t mean EXACTLY the same thing in Co-op circles as it means for most people.
For the majority, spring means warmer weather, maybe thinking about planting a garden, or putting in a pool, going to the lake, planning barbeques.
Spring at the Co-op means an absolute onslaught of people, demanding grass and vegetable seeds, fertilizer, herbicides, pesticides, you name it. Spring means a season of calves brought in thunderstorms by heifers, the constant nuisance of flies, and the persistant worry of when the rain’s coming-will it be soon enough? Can it hold off till you get this last field spread?
Old men and new farmers haggle over buggies and sprayers and sod drills. They raise Cain that the price of chemicals are cheaper by three dollars the next county over. They gripe and complain about being subjected to “all these changes” and “you about can’t make a livin’ anymore, with you a-robbin’ us blind!”
Yes. Clearly, I’m the one to blame.
There’s the warehouse screaming on the radio to quit sellin’ Kennebec seed potatotes, how many times do they have to tell us we’re out till Houser gets back from Tenco? The phones are ringing with people wanting to know when the farmers market is starting and why won’t the damn tire shop won’t answer the phone.
It’s wanting to go pee so badly but having to wait until one of your regular/ favorites is before you and you can whisper to them to hold on, or perhaps while running to the back to check and see if some wire came in-because the warehouse is too busy to answer you- you can nip through the restroom. It’s calling your supervisor in tears because some jackass threw a 5# bag of $30 dog food at you because you were taking too long to ring up a prepay ticket for $30,000- more than you make in a year-to one of the locals so he won’t have to wait on a ticket and blend sheet five times a day.
It’s ordering merchandise in the 8:30-9:30 hour, that sweet moment between madness when everybody is out in the sunshine, weeding and working before it gets too hot. You know you’ll have to use some newbie to hopefully stock your shelves once it all comes in, because there’s no hope for you to get a “break” to do it. And it won’t be dusted and fronted but it might be in the right place.
You’re never fast enough, or smart enough, or friendly enough to suit 75% of shoppers.
It’s frantic phone calls to Lavergne, where is the 10′ tedder you promised would be here today, or what do I do for a horse that has an eye infection, or is the generic Roundup ever going to be available this year? It’s 500 baby chicks delivered three times a week waiting to be squeezed to death by some little snot nosed kid whose parents had the misguided notion that poultry are pets.
It’s standing on your feet on concrete for ten hours and smiling at every person you see and wishing them good luck on their endeavor and praying you’ll have the energy to do it again tomorrow.
No, I don’t miss all that. That’s the definition of spring to me.
Be kind in your journey, today and all days.
I love American Pickers, in case you didn’t know. I hope they stay current on their tetanus shots.
We watched the entire season (except the season finale) of Alone yesterday. The History channel makes this cable business worthwhile. If we forget to DVR the last episode of Alone Thursday night, I will potentially inflict harm to something. I don’t know what yet.
There is a bottle of Texas Pete on the coffee table. Johnny has forgotten about it, but will remember when he reads this.
Why are they called coffee tables, reckon?
I googled a lot of stuff today. It started with Excel taking my numerical data out of cells and replacing it with the date. I was all for blaming a poltergeist but turns out it’s programmed that way. Weird. Then we came across a social security number that started with “003”, which sounds fake, or George Washington’s social, but with the aid of Google I learned that that is what people who are born in New Hampshire are branded with. Also, the 000’s, 666’s, and 900’s are not used. Neither are some 700’s, because they were retired after something happened with the railroad. (??)
I mean, you just never know what you’re gonna get with me.
I celebrated 8 months at my current job today. That’s quite the feat, considering I didn’t think I’d make it eight days.
Sometimes I’m not sure I’m gonna make it eight hours…..today was one of those days. But at least I can use the copy machine almost flawlessly these days.
Almost.
I also had my second Leggings Transaction today. It went smoothly. I wasn’t even scared. I feel so much lighter with my least favorite purchases gone from my life. I should probably sell some books.
I’m sitting at Food City waiting for my first ever swap meeting. I’m a bit skittish. However, I have Annie safely tucked in beside me. I’m sure there are some perverts or sex trafficking conartists who seek out especially girly Craigs List ads to prey upon young women.
My social media adept cousin set up this rendezvous for my sunny leggings I had aimed to wear with my UT orange. Turns out the only color that looks worse on me than white is yellow.
We’re meeting at the grocery store because, for my part, it’s well lit and busy. I reckon the lady’s son works here and she gave him the cash for the goods. He sounds young, pimply, and harmless. So I backed in out here by the highway by an old red Ford pickup. I’m early. Before long, here comes this stocky teenager loping across the parking lot towards me with purpose. This is it, I think, ready to hop out with my reject lularoe and a winning smile. I bet he embarrasses easily, and it’s probably a pain for him to pick up his momma’s purchases all the time (I could tell she was experienced from the way she made arrangements via text). Maybe he gets a dollar or two to do her bidding. Maybe she upped the ante since it’s Superbowl Sunday.
Just as I’m reaching for the door handle, I see he means to go to the passenger side of Patsy. Since I was backed in, and so was the rusty Ford, this meant he wasn’t my guy. I blushed, thinking of how that would have went. “Hey, I’m here with your mom’s new leggings,” I would have chirped. He would be all wide eyed and backing away with his hands and eyebrows up.
I’m too high strung for this kinda work.
Advancing now, and almost upon me, is a tall, dark headed teenager. I avert my eyes. I’m not gonna make the mistake twice. But this is it. I flash my most charming put-everyone-at-ease smile. Hey, I’m a salesman. Or I used to be.
I force the leggings on him as he fumbles for the twenty.
My first transaction is complete! My feet were sweating. But I did it! And I didn’t get stabbed!
Now if I could sell all the rest of my impulse purchases so effortlessly. Y’all interested?
Not sure if you’re even allowed to solicit business on here, but why not? I paid for this website.
Well, I gotta go bake a buffalo chicken casserole to eat whilst I watch Brady get his butt kicked. Hope they’re watching his inflation. Ego and ball, I mean. You can see where my loyalty lies to this day.
Since the Broncos aren’t there, goooo Clydesdales!!!
