Business of Happiness - July 24, 2011

Thirty days ago a friend offered a challenge: Each day for thirty days, take a picture of something that makes you happy. 

The challenge was based off of a class experiment from Stanford University wherein all of the students were charged with the exact same task, and at the end of the thirty days, the "happinesses" were analyzed.  I think it was actually some kind of marketing experiment (and since the challenge was offered to me by a marketing professional that makes sense), but I'm not going to analyze my thirty days from that line of thought.  I'm not even going to try to analyze them at all.  The non-definition of "happiness" aside - What qualifies as happiness?  Is it mere joy?  Pure elation? - this experiment for me was more than just determining what gives me pleasure.  It was more about finding pleasure, period.

My thirty days started the Sunday after I buried my mother.  To say that I was consumed by grief would be wrong; my emotions surrounding that event are much more complicated than that.  However, the challenge definitely came at a time when I was confused and struggling to figure out exactly what I felt, and of all the conflicting emotions in me, I can safely say that happiness wasn't one of them.  At first I balked at the notion of even completing the challenge.  To think that I could find something each day to be happy about (whatever happy was) seemed ridiculous.  But something inside of me, that little niggling part that loves a challenge, no matter what kind, couldn't resist giving it a shot.

I thought it was going to be difficult to come up with something every day.  I thought I'd have to manufacture my happiness, and for the first few days, maybe I did a little.  I had to search.  I had to really think about what to claim for my happiness each day.  However, as the month wore on, it became easier.  Some days the item or event presented itself with a giant neon light of real pleasure.  Others I had to settle for something smaller and just pleasing.  Either way, I always managed to find something.  And in finding those "somethings," I found something more: happiness is as much created as experienced.

Initially I expected to slog through the challenged; I would complete it, but I wouldn't take anything from it.  It was less than two weeks in, however, before my seach each day became a pleasurable experience.  I wanted to find something to be happy about.  And I realized that it didn't have to be the big things.  Sometimes it's the little things like a cat napping beside you or a new favorite color of nail polish that really do get you through, that really do bring happiness into your world.  I learned not to expect happiness to find me, but to search for it, enthusiastically and hard, if need be.  At a time when I needed all the happiness I could get - in whatever way I could get it and whatever way I could recognize it - this challenge took on a life of its own.

As my thirty days started to come to a close, I became a little sad.  The every day hunt for happiness was ending.  True, I could still just take that moment each day to savor the little things that come my way, but there's something special about publicly celebrating it.  It makes the search more real, and it makes the pleasure experienced more real, too.  So I've decided that instead of ending at thirty days, I'm going to make this a year-long experiment: 365 days of happiness.

The first half of 2011 was bad for me.  It felt like everything was out of my control, and everything tht happened was negative.  I'm not suggesting that searching for a little bit of happiness each day for the next 335 days is going to change my collective luck, or the world's efforts to bring me down, but a little happiness each day - sought or stumbled upon - surely can't hurt.

Alone - June 25, 2011

Five small letters, really.  But when you string them all together into the word "alone," it starts to mean a lot, clear context put into the definition of "separate; solitary; without aid or help."

I've spent most of my life "alone."  When I was in 2nd Grade, I became a latch-key kid, responsible for getting myself home safely, starting my homework, and going about the latter third of my day without supervision or companionship.  Even when my parents got home, I was generally relegated to my bedroom to wait until suppertime (and then to return there afterwards) or at the very least alone in my thoughts on my couch.  In college I had one roommate for six weeks, another two for an entire year that was broken up significantly by overnights with their fiance and boyfirend, and then I lived alone for two years.  The few years between then and moving to Kentucky, I was living with my mom but our schedules didn't really coordinate to where we spent a lot of time in the apartment together, and even when we were there, we were in separate rooms for any number of reasons. 

I get how to do alone; I'm an expert at it.  But, it sucks, and now more than ever because in the last couple of weeks I've realized that there's a vast difference between being independent (which is what I've just generally considered myself - and what I considered my definition of alone to be - my whole life) and actually being alone.  Being independent means that you can take care of yourself when the need arises.  Being alone means that you have no one to turn to when taking care of yourself gets too hard.  Or at least being alone feels like that.

At my mother's funeral, after we processed back up the aisle at the end of the service, I asked the minister what I was supposed to do.  He said I could either greet people as they left, or I could go to the basement where a luncheon was going to be served and greet people down there.  I knew some people wouldn't stay for the lunch, and I didn't want to miss thanking anyone for being there, so I stayed, gretting each person as they moved to the back of the church.  And I did it by myself, left there by my mother's sister who did not speak to me at all except to say goodbye as she left at the end of the day.  It was while standing there, taking full responsibility for closing out my mom's life with some "thank you"s, hand shakes, and hugs that I realized just how alone I am.

I have family, that's true, but I was an only child who really only had one parent.  And that parent is now gone.  The other family (some at the service and some not) might have stood with me if I'd asked, but I didn't.  That was me being independent, thinking that I could handle things on my own.  I could, of course, but not without getting that first niggling sensation of being really truly alone.

In the weeks since the funeral I've thought about this a lot because the feelings of being alone, that really truly alone, have begun to sink in.  After the friend who accompanied me back to Nebraska returned home, I welcomed the respite, but not for as long as I would have anticipated.  I wanted people around me.  I wanted the silence around me to be broken by something other than the TV.  I wanted someone to listen to me as I remembered the backstories behind the last boxes of pictures I brought back with me.  I wanted someone to suggest dinner, to eat with me.  I wanted anything, but any in-person contact I've had with anyone since getting home has been at my instigation.  No one is offering to take care of me (I guess I can't expect anyone to), but now I notice it more acutely.  Maybe those people were just giving me my space, allowing me to having the grieving time I needed.  Or maybe they just didn't know well enough to ask, to insert themselves into that void.  I'm not blaming anyone, and I can't say I haven't done/wouldn't do the same if on the same outside position.  But, either way it doesn't change the longing I've suddenly felt for something more than what is real.

I'm not sure that I'd know how to let someone take care of me after all those years of living so independently when I told myself over and over that I was enough, but I find myself wanting that caring more, and that's the cruel part.  Now that I want someone there, no one is.

Mixed Emotions - June 12, 2011

My mother died yesterday.

A lot of people I knew wouldn't even be able to function this soon after a loss like that, let alone blog about the experience, but I find that writing helps me process emotion, and over the last 24 hours, I've felt that if there really is a "right way" to grieve, I'm probably doing it wrong.

Don't get me wrong - I loved my mother.  But she and I were not particularly close in that "best friends, tell each other everything, she's the first person I called with any big news" kind of way.  Maybe it was because she was raised stoically (I don't really know; I never asked), or maybe it was because she was working so much when I was a child (she held two jobs for most of my life).  Whatever the reason, we didn't have a close relationship.  So though I am sad at the loss - several times today I've thought "it's weird that I've been in town this long and haven't even called her" even though I know why I'm here - and though I've cried at various points both during the trip back to Nebraska and since arriving, I've also found myself laughing and joking and trying to have a good time despite the circumstances.  And that feels odd if only under some kind of social construct that exists in my mind to say that I should be truly mourning and laughter and enjoyment of food and company somehow negates my love for my mother.

A friend of mine offered to make the trip to Nebraska with me even though when she left Pennsylvania, and we then left Kentucky, we didn't know how long we'd be here.  And having her along has been great because even in those moments of sadness, I have her to think about, to "live for" in some respects.  Today, after we'd picked up mom's few remaining belongings from the nursing home, we were driving back to town, and I was emotional.  Seeing the bed mom had passed in, and knowing that the only physical pieces of her left were in four storage boxes headed for the homeless shelter thrift store, I was a little choked up.  But needing to think of something else, I pointed out a roadside sign that I've passed numerous times in my life: an historical marker of the Oregon Trail.  Melissa slammed on the brakes and pulled a U-turn to get a picture of the most awesome computer game ever come to life.  And it made me laugh.  Hard.  We took pictures, put funny captions with them and posted them on Facebook.  Maybe that's not normal for a grieving child, but I was so thankful for that moment of hilarity.

Maybe it's because I've been mentally preparing for this moment for a little while that I can put some of that grief aside; it's grief that to some extent I faced when I made the decision to stop treatment and put her into hospice care.  The loss is still real and will continue to get more real, I guess, as time goes on and I really can't just pick up the phone, but I find myself not lost in it, and that's a comfort, even if it's maybe a little odd.

March 08, 2010 - 5K Training...Day...No effing clue!

Wow!  Now you have to give me some credit for chutzpuh.  I posted on Day 1 and then just never came back.  But I didn't completely make a promise and flake out.  I did train for about three weeks straight then got busy then got sick then apathetic then sick again, and now we've rounded back to committed.  At least back to Day 1 of Recommitted.

I headed back to the gym today determined to pick up where I left off.  I knew that starting all the way over with only 20 days left before the 5K would just be pointless.  And if I can't even run for 90 seconds at a time 20 days out, what's the point anyway?

I completed the day's training.  I can't say it was easy, but my ass hasn't seen the inside of a gym in almost a month and I was legitimately worried about my head starting to pound somewhere in the middle of the run (hello turning 30 and the onset of migraines!), but I made it.  At this rate I'll be able to run for five minutes at a time on race day which isn't great, but it's something.

A part of me wonders why I should even go through with the facade of "running" the race when there's a good chance that I'll technically run less than half of it.  Granted it's a run/walk, but I didn't fork over $25 to do something that I could do for free outside my front door, even if I am getting a t-shirt out of the deal.  A friend is even driving down from Pittsburgh to help cheer me on, and I feel bad because it doesn't seem like that big of an accomplishment.  I'm not going to be able to run the whole thing, so I won't win.  I won't break any land speed records.  I'll just simply cross a line at some point.  Kind of seems anti-climactic.  Yet, I keep telling myself it's a first goal.  Part of the accomplishment will just be lining up that day and the other part will be crossing that line, no matter what happens in the middle. 

Then...I pick a new line.  And I commit to being more consistent in my training.

Random thoughts:

1.  Lesson learned at the gym today: If you're forced to put your iPod in your bra while running, for all that's holy, don't put the volume wheel against your skin.  Nearly made myself deaf at one point somehow!

2.  At my little apartment building we all have individual rolling garbage cans.  First, I hate how people put their trash in mine because they're all clearly labeled, but more than that, I hate how other people's cans end up next to my building and mine ends up next to theirs and even more than that, I hate how our trash cans get out of alphabetical order in the line out back of the building.  Yes, I have issues.

3.  If you're looking for a good book in the wake of the Alice in Wonderland craze, I recommend Alice, I Have Been by Melanie Benjamin, the "true" story of Alice.

January 04, 2010 - 5K Training...Day 1

And it begins...

With only 83 days left until the 5K (notice the little "countdown of doom" widget in the corner?) it's time to start preparing in earnest.  Ok...at all.

I went to the gym today with nervous excitement.  I even snuck out of work a few minutes earlier just because I couldn't handle the wait anymore, and let me tell you that is saying a lot. I was looking forward to running.  Clearly I've either been hit on the head or been invaded by a body snatcher.  Either way, I was almost giddy in the car.  Don't get me wrong.  There was also a little bit of an "I could throw up at any moment just thinking about what I'm attempting to do" thing going on as well, but mainly it was excitement because if there is one thing I love, it's a challenge.

In the same way that I find out all of my information (remember when there was a such a thing as a card catalog and encyclopedias...when you actually had to go to a library when you had a question you wanted answers?), I went to the internet and found a site called "Couch to 5K."  Perfect!  It has a nine week training program, which is two weeks less than I have, leaving me room to repeat a week if necessary, and looking ahead I'm predicting that's gonna happen around Week 5.

Week 1, however, is not what most people would consider very strenous.  But when you're obese and running for essentially the first time since the damn mile run twice a year in 9th and 10th grade, it's a little more daunting.  Today the goal was, as it will be twice more this week, to start with a brisk 5 minute walk followed by 8 repetitions (or about 20 minutes worth) of 60 seconds of jogging and 90 seconds of walking.

By the time I got changed into my workout clothes, I was feeling a little more nervous than excited and decided to ease myself into things with fve minutes on the bike.  Finally I struck out on the track and realized two things immediately.  First a crowded track sucks, and second, I don't really enjoy running (or even walking really) in a continually clockwise pattern.  I don't know what that says about me, but I guess I'll have to get used to it because the track runs clockwise and Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and guess when I've chosen to get in my three training sessions a week.

It wasn't as hard as I thought it was going to be.  The fact that I didn't have to be revived with oxygen and/or fluids at the end is pretty much a success in my book.  My calves started hurting about halfway through, and I definitely could have walked faster than I was running during the last lap, but I made it through.  Success.  And as I kept reminding myself when I felt bad for not going faster or craving my next round of walking...it's a start.

Random thoughts:

1.  People at the grocery store: If the self-checkout lane says "1 to 15 items" that does not constitute a cart load.

2.  Three years in Kentucky, and it still cracks me up when they cancel school because it's cold.

3.  Despite the comment above, I'd like to say "DAMN, IT'S COLD!!"

January 01, 2010 - Book List Part 3

Wish I could say that I was just so busying partying like it was 2009 that I just didn't have the time to post the final part of my book list, but the truth is I just forgot.  Here it is!

September, Part 2:

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman, 320 pages (*** ½, I didn’t know until I picked it up and saw the Newberry Award sticker that this was a “kid’s book,” but I think that’s a misnomer in the same vein as Harry Potter being a kid’s book. It’s not as in-depth as Harry Potter is (though there’s only one volume, so it’s hard to be as involved as HP), but the characters created are just as fantastical and yet believable. A baby escapes the house where his family has been murdered, crawling into the nearby graveyard where he is taken in by a childless couple who’ve been dead several hundred years, and through the power of the Gray Lady is given the Freedom of the Graveyard, allowing him to interact with the souls residing there, as well as the outside world when it comes calling, and it does, at various points throughout Bod’s (short for Nobody) life. I’ll admit that I got choked up at the ending.)

As Nature Made Him: The Boy Who Was Raised as a Girl by John Colapinto, 279 pages (***, In the late 1960’s, a circumcision went horribly wrong, and on the advice of one of the foremost sexual psychology experts in the world, a couple made the very difficult choice of raising one of their twins boys as a girl. The book chronicals the child’s experience from the beginning, culling memories, medical records, and medical journal articles for all sides of the story. But mainly the author relies on the narrative provided by the child affected, as he finally broke his personal silence, revealing himself to the world. The personal side of the story is just as fascinating as the medical protocol established because of it.)

Holding Out by Anne O. Faulk, 528 pages (*** ½, This is a reread from several years ago, but I saved it because it was so good. When the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court fails to be impeached by the U.S. Congress for abuse of his wife that leads her to suicide, Lauren Fontaine gets angry. Then she vows to get justice, enlisting the women of the United States to embark on a sex strike (borrowing from the Greek legend of Lysistrata) until the men who let Larry Underwood off see the error of their ways. The book is humorous, intelligent, and great look at just what sisterhood can do to change “feminism” from a theme of victimization back to power.)

The Good Nanny by Benjamin Cheever, 256 pages (** ¾, An interesting look at the power of guilt, suspicion, and racism and what the consequences of all three put together can be. A hard-working couple from NYC move to the suburbs, but in order to continue with their professional lives, they must hire a nanny to look after their two girls. The nanny appears too good to be true, and as such, the parents start to get suspicious of her, as well as resenting the affection the girls heap on her. What happens because of that is what takes this book from whiny to thought-provoking. When you feel threatened, what are you capable of causing to happen?)

Word Freak: Heartbreak, Triumph, Genius, and Obsession in the World of Competitive Scrabble Players by Stefan Fatsis, 384 pages (** ¾, As a child I used to play Scrabble with my parents and then make them leave the board as it was upon conclusion so that I could take graph paper and make crossword puzzles out of the completed game. If ever there was a word freak, it was me. Yet, having read this book, I realize now that I am completely normal and sane, as opposed to some of the characters, real-life people, that Fatsis introduces you to. The history of the game and the personal biosketches of the competitors are compelling, but the almost mathematical formulas used in constructing high-level competitive games and the long lists of words that you will only ever encounter on a high-level competitive game were tedious in their descriptions. As interested as I was in the subject of the book, it took a lot for me to slog through it.)

October:

Angels and Demons by Dan Brown, 592 pages (*** ½), I’ll give Brown one thing: he can write a page-turner. I read The DaVinci Code a few years ago, so I was out of order, but it doesn’t really matter. The stories aren’t dependant upon each other. However, they are very reminiscent of each other. And now, knowing TDC is the second one, I can see some of the claims by people that it’s a retread. It is. You can see the same race to prove/disprove religion, the benevolent/helpful figure that turns out to be evil, or at least to have his own agenda. There’s even another guy in a wheelchair. I wish I’d read Angels and Demons first because I think it’s the better of the two in a lot of ways, not the least is that I like the main character, symbologist Robert Langdon, a lot more in this one.

A Reliable Wife by Robert Goolrick, 320 pages (****, A must-read! The staccato and sometimes disjointed sentence structure and thought proceses of the characters might have thrown me off except for the fascinating story that Goolrick weaves. Robert Truitt, a rich man in a northern Wisconsin town, advertises for a “reliable wife” in a newspaper, and Catherine Land arrives, ready to claim the title of Mrs. Truitt and everything that entails. That Catherine has a scathing past and a scheme of her own isn’t really surprising, but the way the story unfolds will keep you guessing. Add on top of the page-turning suspense the undercurrent of sexual tension, frustration, and consummation, and it’s a book that’ll make your blood pulse!)

The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown, 528 pages (***, I’m hesitant to grade the newest Dan Brown “race for the truth” novel this high, but it’s another pretty consistent page-turner, and there was one moment around page 375 when I gasped, a huge piece of the puzzle connecting in my mind before it was revealed. But something is missing from this book that seemed present in the other two. The symbols and the chase are similar in their predecessors, but the ending left me feeling cheated somehow. A “that’s it??” moment. Still, I’m giving the book extra credit just for being based in Washington, DC, one of my favorite cities period.)

Addition by Toni Jordan, 272 pages (*** ¼, Grace, the main character, has been obsessed with number since she was “8-ish”, and numbers rule her world. The number of bristles in her toothbrush, the number of books on any shelf, the number of forks, spoons, and knives she keeps on hand. When she walks, she counts. When she talks, she counts. Her world is regimented and segmented and ruled by the numbers surrounding her. Until she steals a banana from the cart of the man behind her and ends up falling in love with him. Grace’s stream of consciousness, both before and after meeting Seamus, is a fascinating look at the mind of an obsessive-compulsive.)

The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff, 384 pages (** ¾, Take Cooperstown, NY and all of its baseball/Last of the Mohicans lore, change it’s name to Templeton, throw in a Loch Ness like monster, and a potentially pregnant grad student who’s been inseminated by her advisor, and you get a lot of different monsters in Templeton. As Willie, the main character returns home, lost, she discovers that the father she’d grown up knowing about (and it was one of three possible men) is not really that person or persons at all. On a search to discover her father’s identity by using clues from her own family history, Willie unveils more than just the story of herself, but the story of Templeton. I was intrigued and wanted to get to the conclusion, but the story drug a little. The saving graces were the diary entries, letters, and accounts from Willie’s ancestors.)

Handle with Care by Jodi Picoult, 512 pages (** ½, I knew how this book was going to end after the first
ten pages. Why? Because while Jodi Picoult is a good writer, she is not original. She changes characters, locations, and situations, but the general themes rotate throughout her books. It’s like spinning a wheel, and for this book you land on the “sick child, courtroom, other child in emotional crisis, twist at the end” combination. And the quote-unquote “sucker punch” at the end of the book comes nowhere close to the one at the end of My Sister’s Keeper. Read that one instead.)

November:

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, 560 pages (* ¾, I put off seeing the movie when it came out because I wanted to read the book first. I finally got around to it, and I was very disappointed. The concept is imaginative and intriguing. The excution left me confused, annoyed, and a little robbed. I felt as though I’d seen this before, and I think it’s because JK Rowling has already patented the traveling back in time to watch yourself in another era. I wanted to be moved by Henry and Clare’s story, but I was really just left with an “eh” feeling.)

The Bone Garden by Tess Gerritsen, 370 pages (*** ¼, The end of the mystery that pervades the book (Who is the West End Slayer?) wraps up just a tad too quickly, with not enough hint ahead of time for my taste, but the rest of the book is completely engaging. And that’s saying a lot for a book about a serial killer, extreme poverty, grave robbing, and autopsies!)

New Moon by Stephenie Meyer, 576 pages (***, A re-read in preparation for the movie, which will probably only result in my being disappointed by the movie since in the two hours since I finished re-reading I’ve already yelled at a commercial, “That didn’t happen!”)

The Race by Richard North Patterson, 336 pages (*** ½, When I was eleven I decided I wanted to be President. This novel, among other things, is proof to me that while I might do an excellent job in the position, there’s no way that I have the stomach, the mind-turning, soul-selling ability to get it. Corey Grace, a senator from Ohio (imagine a Republican Barak Obama only white), decides to run for President, pitting him against an overly ambitious senator from Pennsylvania and a televangelist who labels himself as God’s candidate. The book is incredibly insightful into current politics and what it takes to win. The truth of it all makes you want to shower upwards. There’s a heavy influence on the role of racism and homophobia in the Republican party and politics in general as Corey deals with the “demons” of his past and present. A few crazy terrorist actions, clearly existing only as plot movers, are what keeping this from getting a better grade.)

December:
Love the One You’re With by Emily Giffin, 339 pages (** ¾, Giffin’s books are easy to burn through, but this one took more time for me to get into any than any of her others. Ellen, the main character, suddenly sees an ex-boyfriend while crossing a street, and that chance encounter leads her to question the decisions she’s made since their devastating (at least for her) breakup. Faced with the temptation of what could have been versus the picture-perfect present that feels a little too stifflingly perfect, Ellen faces a choice between Leo, her past love, and Andy, her husband. I didn’t really feel all that sympathetic for Ellen and wanted to yell at her quite a few times. It’s one thing to wonder “what if”; we’ve all done it. It’s quite another to actually jeopardizes the life you currently have to seek the answer.)

Skipping Christmas by John Grisham, 177 pages (****, A perennial favorite! A must-read every holiday season! Don’t ever watch the movie version with Tim Allen and Jamie Lee Curtis. It doesn’t even come close.)

The Penny by Joyce Meyer and Deborah Beford, 243 pages (***, A teenager’s life is changed when she stoops to pick up a penny, starting off a chain reaction that affects not only her life, but the lives of those around her in a myriad of ways. She learns forgiveness, self-worth, and strength, as well as God’s work to get her to each of those places. The religious overtones of the book were not as good as the real meat of the story, almost like a gauzy drape over the top. But the real struggles of Jenny as she tries to overcome abuse and forge a friendship with an African-American girl in 1950’s St. Louis is much more compelling.)

A Cup of Comfort for Christmas edited by Colleen Snell, 307 pages (*** ½, I try to read at least a little bit of this book each year to get myself in the Christmas spirit. Though it didn’t accomplish that this year, it did make me cry to the point of getting a headache. I’m a huge sap, and I love the holiday and the spirit of giving that naturally comes with it. This book just personifies the big and little ways that the Christmas spirit can work its magic in all of us by sharing stories from readers about particular Christmas memories. If you want a good dose of the holiday spirit, or just a good cry, definitely pick this one up.)

Random Thoughts:

1.  I have no desire to cook today whatsoever.  None.  Lunch was an english muffin with peanut butter, and even that was late because I just didn't even want to use the toaster.

2.  I'm watching The Biggest Loser: Season 3 marathon on Bravo, and I didn't realize what a crappy host Caroline Rhea was until now.  God bless Alison Sweeney!

3.  Two more days before I return to work and have to balance that along with eating well and starting the 5K training.  I need to write down a plan of attack or this is never going to work!

December 30, 2009 - Book List...Part 2

As promised, here is the second section of the books I read this month.  Hopefully something strikes your fancy.

June:


Case Histories by Kate Atkinson, 400 pages (** ¾, One of the reviews said it’s one of the best who-dun-it stories in a long time. I’m not quite inclined to agree with that because for all of the emphasis on the crimes that are being investigated by the main character, a former police officer, there’s not a whole lot of real crime solving. You get the conclusion at the end, which up until the last 40 pages or so I had no clue what it would be, but it all feels a little more like dumb luck than good detective work.)


The Office of Desire by Martha Moody, 336 pages (** ¼, As this novel went along it got better. In the beginning it felt very disjointed even though all of the characters work, laugh, and love in the same small medical practice office. There’s a saving of souls, a tender death, a gruesome suicide, and covered-up homosexuality running rampant, but even with all of that, it felt like the book didn’t really “get going” until about the last 100 pages. And the end left me just feeling blasé. Still, I did like the author’s writing style, and she offers some very good musings on the character’s situations and life in general.)


The Man of My Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld, 304 pages (* ¾, Maybe I’ve just hit a little bad streak, but nothing I’ve read lately has lived up to my expectations. The synopsis of the book suggests that the plot will follow the ups and downs of Hannah’s search for the man of her dreams. It doesn’t at all, really. Moreso it shows the myriad of ways that she can sit back and not do anything when opportunity presents itself, self-sabotage when she actually lucks into something, or just get sucked into a fantasy of what’s to come with no real reason to believe it ever will. And who does she end up “in love” with at the end of the book? You can read it to find out, but I don’t really recommend it.)


The Spy Who Came for Christmas by Dave Morrell, 248 pages (***, Did you know that the Three Wisemen were really spies? At least that’s a theory that Paul Kagan, the spy who steals a baby on Christmas Eve and takes refuge with the crippled son and just-beaten wife of an alcoholic espouses. I’m not a big spy novel fan. I don’t even enjoy most James Bond movies, though Pierce Brosnan did a lot to at least get me to watch. But the book was a dollar, and I figured “what the heck??” And it was really good. A page-turner, in fact. It almost makes me wish there was a series. The Spy Who Came for Columbus Day could be big.)


Working Stiff by Grant Stoddard, 304 pages (** ½ to ** ¾, I’m a little bit iffy on the grading of this one. I guess picking up a book with the description of how a woefully virginal English boy gets sucked into a world of kinky sex because he’s being paid to write about it and expecting to not be disgusted by parts of it was expecting a lot, but it didn’t meet all of my expectations as being particularly insightful, or even just raucously funny. In the end I felt more sorry for Grant than enlightened. Not so much for the crazy, sometimes slightly frightening, always awkward situations that he puts himself in for a paycheck, but because he says that he’s more of the type to cuddle afterwards and call the next day, yet as time goes on, it seems that he’s willing to settle for anything but that, even in his personal relationships. The whole book I just couldn’t help thinking, “Oh, I could never do that!” But for an eye-opener “that really HAPPENS?!” kind of read…you might want to give it a shot.)


July:

Shadow Baby by Alison McGhee, 256 pages (**, Too much imagination hindered this book for me. The main character, Clara winter (and she lowercases her last name), goes through life making up stories about the people in her life and the people she knows were in her life once, including her grandfather, and the twin sister that died at birth. The people she’s surrounded by most, her mother and an old man, are word economists to the T, so you’re left mainly with Clara’s interpretation, or outright fabrication of things. And the stories change to suit her needs. I wasn’t really invested in the book until the last 50 or so pages.)


Harry Potter & The Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling, 652 pages (***, I’ll admit that this is a re-read in anticipation of the movie release mid-month. Apart from the one scene that I literally gasped at while reading the first time, I didn’t remember much of the book. And re-reading it, I was reminded of how dependant one book in the series is on the others. Rowling does a fantastic job of weaving the important details through the series, but it forces you to remember things, and if you haven’t read the book immediately preceding/in the last two years, some things might leave you scratching your head for a moment, trying to play the game of “Memory.” But still…a fast, thoroughly enjoying read.)


The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell & Dustin Thomason, 464 pages (** ¾, The excitement of the novel gets lost a little in the complicated riddle that is the Hypnertomachia, a Renaissance text the main character obsesses over while trying to unlock its secrets. The story, once all of the layers are removed is a pretty good “who done it?”, but it gets weighed down by the prose and the minutiae of the riddle-solving. It felt as though I needed a degree in Renaissance literature to get all of the clues or at least stay in it enough to understand when the solution was found. That said, the ending was great. Maybe predictable, but I felt at peace with the ending of this one.)


Once Upon a Day by Lisa Tucker, 368 pages (*** ¼, A girl with the naivete of Brendan Fraser ala Blast From the Past arrives in St. Louis to find the brother that walked away from the “Sanctuary” that their father has kept them sequestered in for nineteen years. As she searches for him then finds him, and the truth about their father/mother/and past, she grows up quickly but not without stumbles. The book was very engaging, and I couldn’t help getting caught up in the mysteries that surround Dorothea and her family. I almost wish the book had gone for the slightly more painful ending, but I wasn’t disappointed in any part of the book. That’s saying a lot given the last several books I’ve read.)


Secrets of a Shoe Addict by Beth Harbison, 368 pages (*** ½, Minus the somewhat pat ending, this was, quite possibly, the best book I’ve read this year. Laugh out-loud funny. I mean, laugh OUT-LOUD. Especially not to be missed is the date one of the women goes on, with a guy and his marionette.)



August:

Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult, 480 pages (***, Jodi Picoult is a really good writer. Her style is fluid, her observations about life are dead-on accurate in surprising metaphoric ways, and she crafts a pretty good story. My problem is that I sort of feel like all her stories are the same. There’s a really long – usually around 350 page – buildup and then bam…everything gets resolved with a big twist at the end. Maybe it’s nice to know you should be looking for something, but it feels formulaic. And this book felt much the same to me as The Pact in terms of plot. I liked The Pact better, minus the inconsistencies in detail that the author, herself, didn’t seem to catch.)


Accidentally Dead by Dakota Cassidy, 352 pages (***, Despite the author’s penchant for spelling out words phonetically or exaggeratedly or punctuating every other word to try to emphasize a point (Jay-suess, cooooool, This.Is.Not.Good.) and the main character’s penchant for swearing, the story of a dental hygienist who, on her first day at work, accidentally gets turned into the undead by a patient suffering the ill-effects of anesthesia flows pretty well. I read it in a day and had a warm fuzzy feeling at the end. I was rooting for the characters and liked the end. I did get the feeling while reading this, however, that the author had spent some serious time with Twilight while writing it, so if you didn’t like that series, you probably won’t like this.)


Oxygen by Carol Casella, 320 pages (***, This was on its way to a good solid 3 ½ stars before a twist near the end that, while it explained why the main character’s patient died while on the surgical table, seemed too out of the blue and too sensational. Still, the author, who is an anesthesiologist in her “real life”, has a great writing style. Her language is incredibly descriptive without being over the top. And she infused her main character with a sense of grief and guilt that was very believable. It’s a fairly fast read with lots of small chapters, so I’d definitely recommend it.)


The Elevator by Angela Hunt, 352 pages (** ¾, I’ve read a few other novels by Angela Hunt, and normally I love them, but this one felt like there were some things missing. The basic premise is that three women, all with a secret, get trapped in an elevator as a hurricane bears down on Tampa. Hunt is a Christian author, but it felt like any sort of faith-based content was left out until almost the very end, and even then it was the least I’ve seen in any of her books. I don’t want to be hit over the head by it, but it felt like there should have been more. The ending also felt incomplete to me. But I give it a decent score because it was a fast, engaging read as the mysteries played out on the pages.)


The Baby Merchant by Kit Reed, 336 pages (*** ¼, A very fast read that grips you and doesn’t really let go. Sometime in the future (could be nearer than we’d like to believe) “the crop” has dried up, leaving people who waited too long to have children scrambling for babies. Enter the titular character who rescues over-worked mothers by stealing their babies and giving them to wealthy couples. The book follows the baby merchant as he makes one last delivery in an effort to save his own mother’s dignity though he understands quite well that she never really loved him. It also follows the “supplier,” the mother whose baby he’s intent on taking. It’s a very interesting story focusing on just what makes a parent.)


The Shack by William P. Young, 256 pages (** ¾, It’s very hard to give a grade to a book that so many people have read and claimed to have an extraordinary influence on their lives. Admittedly that’s one of the reasons that I read it at all. A father who is grieving the loss of his daughter, who was abducted and murdered years before, is sent an invitation by “Papa” (his wife’s name for God) to spend a weekend at the shack where the daughter’s bloody clothes were found. When the man accepts the invitation he’s greeted by three individuals (or is it just one?) who try to teach him about God’s love in ways that he has not realized it before. There were parts (and admittedly they were strange parts, parts where even I thought “huh?”) where I choked up, but most of the book I spent feeling confused, not quite getting the lesson that I was being taught. Was that my bias and filters or the product of an author trying to espouse God’s intent for the world at large? I don’t know. It’s one you’ll have to read for yourself to judge.)

Barbie and Ruth by Robin Gerber, 288 pages (** ½, The book is supposedly about the Barbie doll and the woman who created her, Ruth Handler, but Barbie is really just a minor character in what appears to be a rehash of Handler’s autobiography, which Gerber quotes quite a bit. I wanted more about Barbie, but she comes only as a chronological accomplishment in the founding, building, and then trials of Mattel, which Handler founded with her husband, Elliot. The animosity of Barbara, Ruth’s daughter and Barbie’s namesake, toward her smaller version is glossed over, but you get the impression that it could be a book in and of itself. Interesting trivia though…Ken is named after Handler’s son (so Barbie has been essentially dating her brother for forty years), who turned out to be gay in real life. No wonder Barbie and Ken never married!)

September, Part 1:

American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld, 576 pages (***, I want to give this fewer stars but I can’t. After I got past the first sixty or so pages which were torturous for some reason, it really grabbed me and pulled me in. My biggest problem with the novel, which is a biographical retrospective of the main character, the First Lady of the United States, is that it is, intentionally, a novelization of Laura Bush, complete with 9/11 references. The only part that deviates from the script that becomes increasingly more “real” as the book goes on is what saved it in the end. I won’t spoil that for you. I will add, however, that if George W. is really anything like Chuckie B., the main character’s husband, it’s no wonder that I don’t like him in real life. He’s a real ass in the book! And I don’t want anyone to be President if they’re afraid of the dark!)


Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, 208 pages (*** ¼, It’s a classic that everyone’s supposed to read, and I’ve tried to get into it before but never managed to get past more than a few pages. But it’s the book for the book club this month, so…. In a future that’s undetermined date-wise, Montag, the main character is a fireman whose job is not to put out fires, but to start them. Anyone caught reading a book has their home destroyed, the idea being that if you keep the ideas from people’s heads, you keep them from being confused. The startling allusions to our own time (though Bradbury wrote it in the 50’s) is what makes the book. You can draw direct comparisons from Montag’s world to ours, and it’s indeed unsettling. The only thing keeping it from getting a full four stars was the disjointed sentence structure that made it hard for me to concentrate while reading.)


November 22, 1963 by Adam Braver, 200 pages (****, Fantastic! A mixture of fact and fiction surrounding the infamous day in Dallas, Braver gets inside the head of Jackie Kennedy as she struggles to deal with her husband’s assassination while also fictionalizing the thoughts and feelings of those around her in the moment: Kennedy’s chief of staff, an ambulance driver/mortuary assistant, a man present for the autopsy, Abraham Zzapruder, and the people at the White House charged with arranging a presidential funeral. It’s hard to distinguish what’s real and what’s from the mind of Braver, but none of it seems as though it doesn’t belong. It was a page turner that I couldn’t put down.)

 
Random thoughts:
1.  Today the hairstylist I've been going to the past few times and who has told me (or intimated) that he is straight, came out to me.  Then he promptly told me that he was giving up the "demon homosexuality" for New Year's.  I wanted to tell him I don't think it works that way.  I also wanted to tell him that straight men just don't do as good of hair.  Fact.  I'd rather he stay sinful and fabulous if it means I don't have to hunt for a new stylist!
 
2.  Three days into the Biggest Loser Wii fitness program and I am SORE!!
 
3.  Some people are just too anti-germ for their own good.  I wanted to lean over a toilet stall divider today and ask the mother who was freaking out about her daughter touching the toilet just how many fatalities she's heard of attributed to germs from a public restroom.  The only part of me to touch a toilet seat is my ass, and it's not like it then goes into the kitchen and cooks my food.