Wanna feel better about yourself? Here’s what I’ve done today:
Read twenty pages of my book. Borrrring.
Sprayed oven with cleaning kill-you-in-a-can chemicals.
Put out one box of Christmas decorations before calling it quits. I’ve decided I don’t feel up to dusting this holiday season. (Don’t worry, I’m still participating in Christmas, just not on as grand a scale as we’re all accustomed). Wondered why Pandora was so long in the making. I believe it’s one of the best things to come into my life, ever.
Had a two lively conversation with two old friends.
Ate one platter full of leftovers.
Retired to couch.
Wondered how it got to be three o’clock with me not accomplishing jack squat.
Bought a piece of Lularoe. A navy Sarah. It proved to be quite elusive in the finding.
Played the addictive game “Two dots” until I ran out of lives. That’s the only reason I’m on here now, I can’t play any more. I even watched the three musketeers video to get a bonus life.
Wonder if elves will come clean my oven if I take a nap.
Now. Don’t y’all feel productive with all your running around?
Mothers teach us all sorts of things. From the very beginning, they’re teaching us nonstop. They teach us how to walk, how to feed ourselves, how to treat the dog. As we grow older, the lessons get more complicated from the simple “No!” to how to read, write, & tie our shoes. We recognize danger, thanks to the values instilled at every turn (lots of treacherous stuff out there in the world). Before long, the complicated life decisions over which friends are suitable & what grades are passable are upon us. (Although Sevier County School Systems deem a “C” passable, the school of Jody did NOT). We might have to have several lessons more than once.
We learn when to push our luck & when to say I’m sorry. They show us unconditional love.
My mother decided to teach me about Indians early on.
The only thing that separated our house from the school was our cow pasture & pine thicket. The band practiced relentlessly throughout the summer & when we were outside together, the drums would beat ominously & I would shiver & shake with the resonating thumps. Of course I asked my momma what it was.
“The Indians are coming to get you,” she answered solemnly every time. This never failed to send me running back into the house, lest the Indians thunder in on their painted horses & scoop me up & carry me away.
That’s not all momma taught me about the Indians. Upon discovery of my belly button, I stuck my finger in it (duh) & asked what it was, like all kids do.
Now, I don’t know how many mothers will go into the facts of life right then & there, but my mother did not.
“That’s where the Indian shot you,” she explained.
My mother had effectively taught me to be terrified of Indians.
Now, for those of you who know her, know that my mother touts her Cherokee heritage regularly (she is as dark skinned as I am fair. I’m reasonably sure I fell off the turnip truck & she took pity on me). Mom has always loved the village just across the mountain. I was about five years old the first time she ever took me. I don’t remember much about the visit, but there is a photograph that was taken for posterity. I’m there, in front of a teepee, in my little blue velour short set showing my chubby knees, with my fists pressed to my eyes, quite clearly squalling my heart out. There is a somber “Chief” behind me, decked out in his finest orange & yellow feather headband, clearly at a loss at what to do with this child who seems to be sure she is facing certain death.
I don’t know what all mistakes other parents make but I’d say mom had second thoughts that day about why she told me what she had about the drums & my belly button.
It’s not easy being a mom.
Especially when you’re mine, & anything you do is liable to be written about for all the Facebook world to see.
On your BIRTHDAY!!!!!!
Happy Birthday mom. Sorry you had to work all day. Maybe someday I’ll sell all these stories from my childhood & we can put you on a boat so big you won’t even know you’re on the water. Until then, we’ll just have to keep on keepin’ on.
Pageturner’s Book Selection November
About a Girl by Lindsey Kelk
I’ll admit I groaned when this one was announced. I thought I was above reading chick lit—British chick lit, at that—in my ripe old age. But obviously, I have forgotten how much fun it is!
It’s pretty much the story of any up-and-coming girl in the city. Girl has entry-level advertising job, where she is desperate to advance. Girl is secretly in love with her best guy friend for going on ten years. Girl works her fingers to the bone with ad agency only to be made “redundant” & let go. Girl is now without purpose & is sitting on a park bench in London, all ‘woe-is-me’ when a Nazi sympathizer tries to rob her, only to learn she has nothing to rob. Not even a phone. Nazi sympathizer converts to Tess sympathizer & gives her the latest phone he’s ripped off somebody. At least now she has a phone. Girl goes home to the apartment she shares with Satan’s mistress, Vanessa, to drown more sorrows with her girl BFF, Amy, & biscuits (read: cookies. We’re in England, you knockers). The trio of besties go to Tess’s parents for a family function, girl gets blind drunk & snogs boy best friend…and more…& boy best friend morphs into a wanker afterwards. Girl’s mother is mortified that she lost her job, slept with Charlie, & got plastered in public. Girl is now rejected thrice.
But we’re only getting warmed up. Fortunately, we don’t have to endure dreary London long. We soon jet-set to Hawaii & are off to drink tropical frozen concoctions with a sex god. I’m telling you, it doesn’t get better than this. The girl is laugh-out-loud funny and completely relatable. You will not regret indulging in this. It is wholly enjoyable to any female who needs an escape. Best part? It’s a trilogy! Oh, happy days.
A Book That’s More Than 600 Pages
The Witching Hour by Anne Rice
Well, I reckon. Coming in at 965 pages in my hardbound 1990 version, with smallish print, I do believe this is the longest novel I’ve ever read.
Of course I’m proud of myself. This is like the New York Marathon for book dragons like me! Up till this point, my greatest literary accomplishment was Gone With the Wind, or maybe The Goldfinch. The heft of this book set it apart from either of those. I’ve heard wonderful things about Anne Rice’s works, & this seemed like the perfect spooky October read.
Unfortunately, it took much longer than the two weeks I allocated. More like four. But it was so worthwhile. As lengthy books are wont to do, it sucked me right into the history of these Mayfairs. Upon learning this is a trilogy, I kinda wanted to poke my eye out because I knew there would be many mysteries left unsolved. And when you read a book of this caliber, you want to know ALL THE THINGS.
Don’t let the size intimidate you. It’s sweeping in an unpretentious language. It provides a beautiful description of New Orleans. The middle third of the book takes place overseas, hundreds of years ago, so you don’t get stagnant waiting on things to happen. Mrs. Rice provides an entire rich history of these generations of women, who traded healing powers for demon worship & enormous wealth. But they all learned, one by one, you can’t outsmart the devil. And he only wants one thing: to grow stronger.
So there’s all these characters, all with these lives spanning several centuries, & it is advisable to make an intricate family tree as you read because you will find yourself referring to it repeatedly (you can thank me later). Some of the Mayfairs you’ll love, & some you’ll want to destroy yourself. None are what they seem. You’ll have favorite (if it’s not Stella, we can’t be friends). It doesn’t get too wicked & gruesome until almost the end, & by then it’s too late—you have no hopes of putting it away now. Look how far you’ve come!
This book is a representation of true talent & creativity and the snaring capability of a magnificent novel. Bravo, Anne Rice. Bravo.
This deplorable, gun-toting, educated, working white Southern republican female is having chicken-n-dumplins and sweet tea tonight with her middle-class, patriotic, white Southern Christian husband.
There should be something for everyone there.
If you’re mad about the outcome of the election, you’re probably not still reading this. But I will say this: those of us who grew up in church are accustomed to hearing the church isn’t a place you go.
Church is withIN us.
Same with the government. Government starts at home. Get educated. Get involved. Per Ghandi, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” Or if you want to get out, by all means, don’t let me stand in your way.
