why i wanted to read it: i went to the library to get a couple of books (because i don't already have a lengthy to-read list): forman's if i stay and jennifer smith's the statistical probability of love at first sight. i found the first with little trouble, but the second title was hiding and would not be found. i spotted this one and snatched it up, thinking it might be cute.

what i liked: so little.

childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling, or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags (p. 116).

ellie watched as the little girl handed her father a postcard with a picture of the sun rising over the ocean. but the mother had corralled the boys out the door and was calling sharply for the other two to join them. the dad shrugged helplessly at his daughter, whose chin trembled as she clutched the postcard to her chest.

"she can just take it," ellie found herself saying, and the man spun around with a look of surprise. his daughter beamed at him, then skipped off with the card in hand, a memory that might only make it to the corner, or the end of the trip, but that would--with any luck--be carried with her at least a little farther than that (p. 121).

no matter how long it's been or how far you've drifted, no matter how unknowable you might be, there were at least two people in the world whose job it was to see you, to find you, to recognize you and reel you back in. no matter what (p. 342).

what sucked: so much. that it was four hundred four pages of trite crap. seriously. this is the kind of crap that makes breaking into the publishing business such a pain in the ass. four hundred pages? i don't mind lengthy novels so long as they're packed with awesome. and no, not every page has to be so, but there sure as shit needs to be more than two pages. hell, that's barely half of one. and that's not even awesome. that's the best this book's got, though.

having said all that: maybe i'm being a little harder on it than i ought to be. but the author? she works in the industry as an editor. if i'd sent in something of the same caliber, it wouldn't get more than a half-second's glance... it'd go into the slush pile, and when the editorial assistants got around to looking at everything else that got tossed there with it, they might give it two seconds, and then it'd go in the trash.

maybe i'm a little frustrated. it's just that i can write better than this. and it makes me a little annoyed when others' work, which is considerably less, gets printed. also, i stubbed the same toe on the corner of some brick twice in thirty minutes. and maybe i've been a little too spendthrifty lately. these things do not a happy gal make.

but still. it's crap. too little conflict, too little chemistry between the main characters (who aren't all that likable), too much cheese. way, way too much cheese.

i used to really like the name graham. and now i'm gonna think of this lame dude from this lame novel.

if i stay

why i wanted to read it: because it comes before where she went. i should've read this one first. i would have, except when i sought out more of ms. forman's works, i only saw the second. i could've looked harder. but i wasn't feeling like hunting.

what i liked: unlike the other, where the sentences appealed more than the story did, in this novel, i wasn't quite as touched by the word choices. but the story is sweeter.

remembering adam would be like losing him all over again, and i'm not sure that i can bear that on top of everything else (p. 181).

i'm feeling not just the physical pain, but all that i have lost, and it is profound and catastrophic and will leave a crater in me that nothing will ever fill (p. 195).

there were a few others here and there, but none so strong that i felt compelled to mark the page so that i could put them here.

then again, i showed yall quite a few from the second book, and maybe i'm just not feeling as generous this time around.

what sucked: there's a spot where the story sort of lulls, but that's all i've got, really.

having said all that: of the three forman books i've read, i like this one the best. also, i'm glad i read adam's tale first. makes me like him more here for having done that. makes me like mia more, too.

where she went

why i wanted to read it: because i kind of liked the gayle forman's other book.

what i liked: and before i know what i'm doing, before i can argue myself out of it, rationalize what a terrible idea this is, i'm walking toward the box office. i don't want to see her, i tell myself. i won't see her.  i only want to hear her (p. 37).

the tremor in my hand has become so normal, so nonstop, that it's generally imperceptible to me. but as soon as my fingers close around mia's, the thing i notice is that it stops and suddenly it goes quiet, like when the squall of feedback is suddenly cut when someone switches off an amp (p. 56).

my mom liked to say that everything i'd done--from my mere existence, to becoming a musician, to falling in love with a girl like mia, to going to college, to having the band become so popular, to dropping out of college, to dropping out of the band--was a surprise...

"you working at the plant," she said, staring at my solemnly. "this doesn't surprise me. this is what i would've expected from a son of mine" (pp. 60-61).

"not in new york. the diner pies are such disappointments. the fruit's almost always canned. and marionberry does not exist here. how is it possible that fruit simply ceases to exist from one coast to another?"

how is it possible that a boyfriend ceases to exist from one day to another? "couldn't tell you" (p. 72).

i'm pretty sure there's not going to be another postscript with mia, and i'm gonna have to live on the fumes of tonight for the rest of my life, so i'd like a little more to show for it than parking lots and arthritis and aborted apologies (p. 113).

"the faculty here will coddle you because of what you went through. i, however, am of the opinion if we do that, that car crash might as well have killed you, too, because we will smother your talent" (p. 123).

"i suspect deep down he's doing this because he thinks by giving me a shot at a career, he'll help me fill some void... but he doesn't have to give me the career. that's not what fills the void."

and it's like, mia, don't you get it? the music is the void. and you're the reason why (p. 126).

"bullshit," mia says... "quitting's not hard. deciding to quit is hard. once you make that mental leap, the rest is easy."

"really? was that how you quit me?" (p. 182).

letting go. everyone talks about it like it's the easiest thing. unfurl your fingers one by one until your hand is open. but my hand has been clenched into a fist for three years now; it's frozen shut. all of me is frozen shut. and about to shut down completely (p. 189).

i've blamed her for all of this, for leaving, for ruining me. and maybe that was the seed of it, but from that one little seed grew this tumor of a flowering plant. and i'm the one who nurtures it. i water it. i care for it. i nibble from its poison berries. i let it wrap around my neck, choking the air right out of me. i've done that. all by myself. all to myself (p. 190).

and the music, it's like, i dunno, fresh bread on an empty stomach or a woodstove on a frigid day (p. 201).

her hands were freezing, just like they always were, so i warmed them just like i always did.

and it was while i was warming her hands that i thought about how lucky it was that they looked okay. because without hands, there'd be no music and without music, she'd have lost everything (pp. 214-215).

what sucked: maybe this was intended and maybe it suits the characters, but it sort of plodded a long in places. then it got pretty good. then it got really cheesy and went back to plodding along.

having said all that: i did like it. it's not a bad story. so much of it's told with some well-crafted sentences. there's poetry, even, really in the author's prose. the characters are likable, too. it's good. not great. but worth reading.

just one day

why i wanted to read it: i like the cover. and it's sort of strategically placed, so that i would pass by it on pretty much every visit to the bookstore. i picked it up a couple of times, but i never felt compelled to keep it. and then, the other day, i saw it again and decided what the hell. 

what i liked: "oh, so you're saying that i'm an accident?"

his smile stretches like caramel. "absolutely."

i rub my toe against the curb. i think of my ziploc bags. i think of the color-coded schedule of all my activities that we've kept tacked to the fridge since i was, like, eight. i think of my neat files with all my college application materials. everything ordered. everything planned. i look at willem, so the opposite of that, of me, today, also the opposite of that.

"i think that might possibly be one of the most flattering things anyone's ever said to me." i pause. "i'm not sure what that says about me, though."

"it says that you haven't been flattered enough" (pp. 84-85).

i feel like the whole day has been an electrical shock, paddles straight to my heart, bringing me out of a lifelong torpor i hadn't even known i was in (p. 126).

but still, that whole day, being with willem, being lulu, it made me realize that all my life i've been living in a small, square room with no windows and no doors. and i was fine. i was happy, even. i thought. then someone came along and showed me there was a door in the room (p. 179).

he looks at me, and then, reverting to the voice he'd used with kendra, says, "if homegirls wanna see me as ghetto trash--" he stops and switches to his lispy, sassy voice-- "or big-ass queer--" now he switches to his deepest shakespeare voice-- "i shall not take it upon myself to disabuse them" (p. 210).

and the people we pretend at, they're already in us. that's why we pretend them in the first place (p. 237).

i am helpless. i am a void. a disappointment. my helplessness, my dependency, my passivity, i feel it whorling into a fiery little ball, and i harness that ball, somehow wondering how something made of weakness can feel so strong. but the ball grows hotter, so hot, the only thing i can do with it is hurl it (p. 255).

that day with willem, i may have pretended to be someone named lulu, but i had never been more honest in my life (p. 256).

avenue simon bolivar and rue de l'equerre, the cross streets of humiliation and defeat (p. 311).

what sucked: i haven't decided how i feel about the ending. it's a little too unreal for my tastes, but at the same time, there's a second book scheduled for release in october, and i'm curious to read it. still... there's a whole lot of suspension of disbelief here. and i typically reserve that for the works of science fiction. then again, it's (yet another) teen fiction novel, so perhaps i should go a little easy on it...

having said all that: i liked it well enough. had a hard time putting it down. it's a quick read. light. fun. and for all it's improbability, there are certainly scenes that ring true.

they're just numbers

so i try to tell myself.

i've written about this before, but it's been on my mind lately, so i'm doing it again. i'll try to put a different spin on it this time. it won't be a big one, of course. it can only go so far, so wide.

yesterday, i emailed another cousin in colorado (i've lots of them there--my maternal grandmother's father and his three brothers literally set up shop there when they came over from austria). she and her husband are expecting their first child in january.

her husband's birthday is september twenty-seventh.

that's a date that sticks with me.

as does december twenty-eighth.

today, i reread cecelia ahern's novel love, rosie. alex, the man rosie's loved all her life, marries his second wife on this particular day. his first marriage crashed and burned, of course, because rosie is the woman he's loved all of his life, but neither of them are brave enough to accept this... so he first marries his college sweetheart... and then he marries his high school sweetheart, all the while trying to ignore the fact that he's pretty much always longed for his childhood sweetheart. that book, by the way is equal parts adorable and annoying. but i love alex and rosie, despite their pigheadedness. you should get to know them.

i've written about him before, the only guy who's really mattered to me. he doesn't now. i'm pretty sure if were to see him, i'd be like what the fuck were you stuck on this guy for? but... i see certain numbers and i am reminded of him. of feeling a certain way. and that... that is what i miss. not him. but the possibility of him.

when i was younger, like almost every other woman in the world, i would imagine my wedding day. i've since gotten to know myself really well, and so i don't delude myself with this stuff anymore, but once upon a time, i entertained the possibility of normal.

his birthday was september twenty-seventh.

mine is march twenty-ninth.

halfway between the two is december twenty-eighth. the year i knew him, that day fell on a saturday. the following year it was a sunday. good days for getting married. and i felt, not too long after i met him, that if i were to get married i wouldn't mind being married to him. i was almost thirty, and i'd begun to realize by this point that perhaps that wasn't quite the right path for me, but i found myself toying with the idea, anyway.

first there was yesterday... and then today. the dates always make me a little nostalgic.

so, to distract myself a bit with other things, i went to wikipedia to see what else happened on december twenty-eighth. i won't give you the years. and i'm sure as shit not giving you an encyclopedia. a few of'm will do. and maybe, the next time i see december twenty-eighth, i can reference these instead of that:

westminster abbey was consecrated

the planet neptune was discovered,
though galileo referred to it as a fixed star

iowa was recognized as the twenty-ninth state

the endangered species act was passed

woodrow wilson, stan lee, maggie smith, edgar winter
and denzel washington were born

jerry orbach died

and it's the fourth day of christmas, referring to the four gospels

and the next time i see september twenty-seventh:

the norman conquest began

pope urban the seventh died, 

thirteen days after being chosen... the shortest reign

lancaster, pennsylvania was the united states capital... for just one day

mexico gained its independence from spain

the first ford model t was built in detroit, michigan

the tonight show debuted nationwide

meatloaf, gwyneth paltrow, lil wayne and avril lavigne were born

general braxton bragg and babe didrikson zaharias died

and it's world tourism day

i don't want these dates to mean anything personal to me anymore. i don't want for march twelfth and seventeenth, september twenty-seventh, october twelfth and december twenty-eighth to matter anymore. i want them to just be days--ordinary, unmemorable days.

and if i can't have that, then i'd like it very much if karma could stop shoving them in my face.

primroses on street corners

my day started off okay. i had colorado peaches for breakfast. and oh, they're yummy.

one of my favorite managers has come back to our store to manage it, and i've felt pleased and blessed where work's concerned ever since i learned of her return. or at least, i've tried to focus on this.

i've a job i usually enjoy. i get to help parents dote on their children, which is kind of nice. for instance, a young woman came in this afternoon looking for batman merchandise because they were going to do their son's room in all things batman. and i found a beacon light, an alarm clock, headphones, sheeting... she was quite pleased with her purchases. and i was quite pleased to have helped.

but by the end of my shift, i felt like my coworkers do little more than tolerate me. not because they want to do so, but because they must. i felt so unappreciated.

this is what a tank does. a tank, for those of you newer readers, is what i call a depressive episode. and i've been swimming about in a tank too wide and too deep for too long lately. i can't find my way to the surface for more than a second or two at at time. and then i plunge again to the bottom. and contrary to what some of you might think, it's not by choice, this sinking.

when i'd gotten off work, i found a text from a friend: what's wrong, poppet?

so i told her.

and one of her replies is that i'm the strongest person she knows.

only one other person has said this about me: my mother.

it's just that i don't feel so strong.

and apparently i'm too negative. too pessimistic. and according to another friend, i should consider that there's always someone worse off. this from a woman who's recently married and newly pregnant. and half my age.

so. worse off...

one. i could've been placed in an institution for babies born with cerebral palsy. i'm quite certain i wouldn't've found a reason not to end my life when i'd first considered it at eight had this been so.

two. if it weren't for the braces doctors placed on my hips in infancy, i would've never learned to walk. heck, movement of any kind would've been excruciating. always.

three. my eyes could've remained crossed. or i could've gone blind in one of two surgeries to fix them.

four. maybe i wouldn't've been smart enough to avoid being placed in special education classes. in which case, i'm quite certain i wouldn't've found a reason not to end my life at ten years of age.

five. my eyelids could've remained wonky and droopy. or worse, the muscles could've been so weak that i couldn't've lifted them to see out with no way to correct it.

six. i could have fangs. when my adult canine teeth grew in, i hadn't quite lost my childish ones yet, and the new ones came in over my baby teeth.

seven. my knees could give out on me daily. this happening at work would be awesome. i tended to scream fuck at the top of my lungs whenever this occurred. were it to do so now, all the little kiddies would be curious. or terrified. and all the mommies would be offended. and i probably would no longer be employed after the first incident.

eight. one of those other four surgeries could've had some sort of debilitating outcome.

nine. my parents could turn me out at any time for being a waste and a leech, in which case i'd be living under a bridge somewhere, attempting to beg for change on a street corner every day.

ten. i could've grown up in a family of longhorns... those idiots who chose to attend texas university. ugh. the horror. to have to wear that godawful burnt orange. to praise a damned cow. to idolize a band that dresses like it's in an episode of hee-haw. to sing a fight song that sounds a lot like i've been working on the railroad.... (which is now stuck in my head). worse still, i could've been forced to go to college there. EW.

the point of all this is that i'm aware of how awful things could be. and these are just a few potential outcomes. i can imagine all kinds of possibilities, most of which are too heinous to mention here. yet, instead of some friend calling attention to them, she could offer up instead a hug and a smile and say, it's okay; i like you because... sometimes it helps to be reminded of what makes you good. because sometimes it's hard to see it.

i'm well aware of the ways in which my life has been blessed. i know it. every day.

but there are ways that it lacks. sometimes that lack seems to be quite great. i could use a friend to distract me. maybe doing small things like giving out some flowers or sending a care package is just enough to brighten a bleak mood.

so... to my friend who called me poppet, i love you and thank you for being there.

and to another friend, i sent you something lovely. thank you, too, for being a gracious and welcome recipient. and patient. :]

and to god, for giving me things like primroses on street corners... beauty where there should be none. it's little things like this...

i miss my puppy

his name was nicholas.

and he really belonged to my older brother, but when jon brought nick to live with us, i kind of claimed him as my own. 

nick was a french mastiff. also known as a dog de bordeaux. this particular breed was featured in the film turner and hooch.

hip dysplasia is a common ailment in dogs like nick. it got to be so bad that he he couldn't walk. couldn't get up. and eventually, we had to let him go. and this was more than a decade ago. but even now, sometimes i find myself being a little too cautious at night when opening the patio door, because he used to sleep butted up against it.

yesterday, one of my friends (thank you, minn) emailed me a link for this video:

i miss my nickel.

he was pretty nifty.

he would shred towels. and our backyard? he tore up the gardening. not because he didn't like it, but because he wanted to sleep in a particular spot (and it was rarely the same spot). he'd leave giant shoelaces of slobber over everything. and when he got out, we'd panic because big dogs like him tend to get pretty volatile and threatening around other dogs.

but oh, he was funny. and fun. 

random quarter: the (sort of) thirty-one days in july edition

one. ten random facts: a) i've never been stung by a wasp, though i was certain the one flying about my living room moments ago was going to get me; b) i love applesauce; c) i've never been to denmark; d) i wasn't a fan of shakespeare until i was about thirty and a professor at the university of texas at san antonio taught me to love him; e) i'm not a fan of admitting that i ever attended classes at any of t.u.'s campuses, though i must admit that particular branch had some of the finest professors i've ever known; f); the only time i've liked burt reynolds was in smokey and the bandit; g) i've never liked john wayne (but in his defense, i'm not one for westerns); h) at the moment i sound a little bit like the aflac duck; i) i find it incredibly challenging to not use foul language; j) i have trouble sleeping.

two. nine things for which i am grateful: a) family; b) friends; c) employment; d) days off; e) netflix/apple tv; f) microwaves; g) televisions; h) the internet; i) the mute button.

three. three goals i want to achieve by the end of the year: get back down to a size eight (well, really, i'd rather be back in a six, but that kind of sounds unrealistic); finish my novel; find an agent.

four. my biggest inspiration growing up was my older brother. he's the one in the gray cut-off sweatshirt.

five. five of my favorite things: a) eleanor and park; b) star trek; c) pottery barn kids' darth vader backpack (the old one. not the new one they'll soon be stocking in stores; d); carbonated, caffeinated beverages; e) texas a&m university. (and some of these things are up for grabs this month. see picky presents.)

six. if i could meet anyone dead or alive, at the moment, i would probably wanna meet jenny lawson. she seems pretty cool.

seven. a favorite memory from school... i'm assuming school here means kindergarten through twelfth. my junior year, after practice, we'd go to fudrucker's to eat and hang out.

eight. a vlog:

nine. i don't know that i would call them favorite, but the apps on my phone that i use most often (aside from four at the bottom of my screen) are for facebook, the internet movie database and cinemark.

ten. my favorite television show growing up was probably the cosby show.

eleven. i wish i were better at controlling my emotions.

twelve. of the travels i hope to take, at the moment, i'd most like to venture up california's coast.

thirteen. my family.

fourteen. three things i can't live without: fiction, film and football.

fifteen. my favorite keepsake: the antique icebox my great uncle restored and my great aunt painted.

sixteen. hobbies: writing, reading, watching movies, watching the aggies win.

seventeen. one of my favorite people.

eighteen. a favorite celebrity: johnny depp.

nineteen. my bag's contents: wallet, keys, cell phone, pen, a scarf from one of my mother's friends who passed away a few years ago.

twenty. why i blog (and then some).

twenty-one. work: my least favorite four letter word.

twenty-two. three things on my bucket list: spend a week in ireland; spend a week in austria; spend a week in greece.

twenty-three. fall. football season.

twenty-four. my best friend is my younger brother, and if you're clicking when i bother to create a link, you will have read about him already. (see number thirteen.)

twenty-five. five favorite films: star wars: episode v--the empire strikes back, the lord of the rings: return of the king (the director's cut), star trek (the one with chris pine, karl urban, simon pegg, john cho and anton yelchin), serenity and steel magnolias. i find it interesting that four of these five are science-fiction.

melissa at two miracles is challenging folks to blog every day in july. join in here.

the thirty-second question

this post is one of many for a creative nonfiction project i began several years ago. i call it the griffin inquisition. i've asked my friends and family to pose questions, things they want to know about me that would require more than a yes or no for an answer.

the most recent addition comes from my friend, melissa.

why must you always wear oversized sweatshirts?

well, first of all, i don't always wear them. at the moment, i am clothed in a gray t-shirt with red letters across the breast warning that vader is coming and advising one to look busy.

busy is typing up this here post while watching a really bad chick flick known as the prince and me. for some bizarre reason, i like it.

second, if i had the dedication and determination to have a figure similar to yours, you can bet your ass i'd be walking around in tanks and cut-offs all the time.

at the moment i weigh one hundred sixty-two pounds. for me, that's a whopping figure, the most fat i've ever had on my body. my friends and family keep badgering me about how i should do something about it. i don't even wanna know what my body fat percentage is. the last time i was on a get healthy kick, when it began, i believe i weighed about eight pounds less than i do now, and that percentage was thirty-three, which is pretty unhealthy. 

three decades ago, i was about twenty pounds underweight. easily. and my doctor kept telling me that he'd rather i be twenty pounds overweight. that weighing more was less of a health risk.

and now i'm probably thirty pounds overweight. easily.

but the reason for the sweatshirts, when i do wear them--which is, admittedly, often--hasn't changed too much.

i have never liked my body. ever. not as a whole. and i know that each of us has one thing or another that troubles us about our physiques. i have about thirty of'm. scars, mostly. i don't like looking at them. i don't like knowing that they're there. why they're there. though i have to admit, when i'm not attempting a healthy lifestyle, i don't mind them quite so much. probably because i'm more bothered by the excess pounds.

in addition to the scars, there's the shortage or surplus of weight to consider. nowadays, sweatshirts help to take my mind off the fat tire situated above my hips and the doughnut that is my belly.

when i was in high school, they helped hide the length and thinness of my frame. my peers were less apt to ridicule me for my scrawniness, my seemingly anorexic state, if they couldn't see it. i wasn't anorexic, by the way. i was much less sedentary than a lot of them. if i wasn't swimming--which is a huge if, by the way--i was out walking, making up stories and clearing my head. if i wasn't walking, i was riding my bicycle. i did this for hours every day.

now, i spend quite a bit of my time on the couch, reading or watching a movie. or sitting on a stool at pappadeaux's, writing.

so, i wear them to hide, basically.

but also because they give me comfort. when i'm down, it's like i'm wrapped up in a blanket. so they help me feel better, too, i guess. usually. it almost always works.

a good example of it not doing so is here.

five things you shouldn't say to someone with bipolar disorder

one. lighten up. sure. as soon as we can remember how to conjure a patronus to banish the dozens of dementors and their blackness. do you think we don't prefer the sun? do you think it's so easy as stepping outside?

two. oh, i'm sick of hearing about how your head hurts. one of the pleasantries of this lovely disorder is that sometimes those who suffer from it are hypersensitive to noise. and the more noises there are, the more unnecessary they seem to be (like the associate who was walking around pressing on the cellophane with which she'd just wrapped a small item. for five minutes. back and forth to the cash registers with snap, crackle and pop for company. pair this with the talking and the shopping and the children and the music and the phones ringing and the sheer volume of it all...) the more it makes the affected person's head hurt. so in addition to the bat shit crazy he or she may be battling silently (or no), he's also suffering from piercing physical brain pain.

three. if you'd exercise... yes, we're well aware of the benefits of exercising. the trouble is, at times we just don't give a shit about anything at all. even ourselves. especially ourselves.

four. maybe you should take vitamins. see number three. but replace exercising with vitamins.

five. maybe you should medicate it. see number three. also... sure if i want to feel like a giant void. my brother died? for weeks i couldn't cry. well, maybe that's because the grief hit you later, you say. sure, except i cry at the drop of a hat, thanks. hell, the thing could still be on your head and i could cry. practically all i've done this week is cry. and i'm not complaining about that. really. i'm not. because i'd rather do that than rage. plus, i always feel better after a jag. anyway. when something like that happens, crying's necessary. and i couldn't. for weeks. also, i don't write. and i am nothing, NOTHING without my craft. also, it can be expensive. even with health insurance.

having said that, i imagine refusing to medicate is kind of like refusing to vote. if you're not going to try to live a physically healthy lifestyle, then i guess it's perceived that you shouldn't really bitch about your brain being fucked.

how about i won't bitch about that, if you won't say this shit to me. thanks.

sometimes i'm not even aware of the time

oh... bipolar how i loathe you.

i would count the ways, but i think yall would get tired of reading about them. so i'll just give you one: it's a time suck.

i love how smart i am. really. my brain's got some wicked power, especially when it comes to crafting a sentence (though i do occasionally throw in a typo, just for fun.)

once upon a time i worked for a newspaper. one of my jobs was editing letters to the editor. i was very careful not to change what had been written unless grammatical stupidity was involved.

you know. like when someone writes your when he meant you're. or it's when she meant its.

(to the editor of the conroe courier: i meant its green, not it's green. one's possessive. one's not. but thanks for printing my shit.)

i've never written a letter to the editor, by the way. usually because i can't be bothered. but the greedy bastards demolishing my state's fine forests are really pissing me off. so i wrote one. and my mother helped me reign it in and whittle it down to three hundred words. (it wasn't too much longer than that--maybe a hundred words or so. but i know how precious inches are, and i do tend to get verbose when i'm on a tear.)

i won't give you the whole of it here. just my favorite paragraph:

twice, the people residing west of the city, near the manmade lake, feared the rains that made the waters rise would flood their pricey homes. the san jacinto river authority would wait until the last possible second and open the gates. and the water rushed to the east, and the neighborhoods where the interstate meets magnolia parkway would be underwater for weeks. the only things that have kept our homes from being lost entirely or from not staying underwater longer or from flooding at all are the tree to the west.

yeah. singular tree. because for some reason, i didn't catch that missing s until after i submitted it. and the editor, so careful to tweak my language elsewhere, missed it, too. even though i'd sent him a follow up email immediately after i'd sent the first, calling attention to it. i was gonna correct it here, but then i'd be quoting myself erroneously. and i can't have that.

anyway. it was a good letter. i was pretty proud of it. i went to bed last night in a good mood.

i woke up this morning in a good mood. of course, i had to read about the goings on of the texas legislature. but even after reading about that, i was alright.

and then one of my friends posted something on facebook about how stupid the state of texas is and how it should secede already and attached this article.

and i said something about how i liked it, but then i saw that bit about secession and argued that not all texans are stupid. just perry and his cronies.

and one of her friends had to point out that it's satirical.

so yeah. there's where the wicked brain power jumps to the dark side. so much shit goes over my head. and when my brain flicks the bipolar switch--i'm never prepared for that, by the way, even after all these years--all the sudden i'm beating myself up because i'm slow-witted, and i just proved her point, and it's not just perry and his cronies, it's me, too, and this is why people don't like me, and how can i be so smart and so stupid at the same time? how can my brain be so strong and yet so weak? and eventually i'm crying and rocking and trying to tell myself that this isn't me, it's the madness. and this is why people don't like me, so reign it in.

and fifteen minutes pass before i get control of myself. reading this post's update helped.

i'd been playing a game of hearts when this occurred. i remember looking at the clock: thirty-seven minutes past eleven. and the next time i look--which seems to me to be merely seconds later--it's eight minutes before noon.

and now it's half past. and i need to go get my slow-witted, yet genius self in the shower so i can go tweak a story that may never see the light of day, excepting the snippets i post here.

after i distract myself with this:

. . .

i made my mom laugh. she said something about how i sure do have a way with words.

 one of the servers said i was beautiful, which was really nice. really. i wish i could think of myself as thus.

but that bit about it being a time suck... i didn't accomplish a damned thing today, unless you count getting fatter. or surviving a wretched mental health day.

random quarter: the characters edition

one. lizzie hexam. our mutual friend by charles dickens.
the brave, devoted daughter of jesse hexam (p. xxv).

two. eugene wrayburn. our mutual friend.
a briefless barrister, of a gloomy, indolent, unambitious nature (p. xxv).

eugene to his friend, mortimer, regarding lizzie: that lonely girl with the dark hair runs in my head. it was little more than a glimpse we had of her that last time, and yet i almost see her waiting by the fire to-night. do you feel like a dark combination of traitor and pickpocket when you think of that girl? (p. 162).

three. clare abshire. the time traveler's wife by audrey niffenegger.
an artist whose life takes a natural sequential course (back cover).

four. henry detamble. the time traveler's wife. 
a dashing, adventuresome librarian who involuntarily travels through time (back cover).

henry, upon meeting clare for the first time: this astoundingly beautiful amber-haired tall slim girl turns around and looks at me as though i am her personal jesus. my stomach lurches. obviously she knows me, and i don't know her. lord only knows what i have said, done or promised to this luminous creature...  i realize that a massive winning lottery ticket chunk of my future has somehow found me here in the present, and i start to laugh... i see clare running across washington square, jumping and whooping, and i am near tears and i don't know why (pp. 5-6).

five. rosie dunne. love rosie by cecelia ahern. (THEY'RE MAKING A MOVIE!!! maybe it'll be better than time traveler's wife's movie was.)

to alex, you are invited to my seventh birthday party on tuesday the eighth of april in my house. we are having a magician and you can come to my house at two o'clock. it is over  at five o'clock. i hope you will come. from your best friend, rosie (p. 3).

six. alex stewart. love rosie.
to rosie, yes i will come to your brithday party on wensday. form alex (p. 3).

seven. liza weiler. right before your eyes by ellen shanman.
outspoken playwright... too close to the spector of failure (back cover).

eight. george doren. right before your eyes.
suspiciously gallant wall street prince (back cover).

liza, upon meeting george for the first time: george, the unfortunately handsome jackass with whom we'd first make contact at dinner, had perceived in me an admirable foe and was attempting to ply me with liquor while we verbally stabbed each other (p. 1).

nine. victoria jones. the language of flowers by vanessa diffenbaugh.

ten. grant hastings. the language of flowers.

victoria, upon meeting grant for what she believes is the first time. he withdrew a single tiger lily from a bucket. 

"take one," he said, handing it to me.

"no," i said. "i don't like lilies." and i'm no queen, i thought. 

"you should," he said. "they suit you."

"how do you know what suits me?" without thinking, i snapped the head of the lily he held. six pointed petals fell, the flower's face examining the hard floor (pp. 35-36).

eleven. augustus waters. the fault in our stars.

augustus, attending a support group with his friend isaac, who is about to lose his sight to cancer. when asked about his fears, he replies: "i fear oblivion." he said without a moment's pause. "i fear it like the proverbial blind man who's afraid of the dark."

"too soon," isaac said, cracking a smile.

"was that insensitive?" august asked. "i can be blind to other people's feelings" (pp. 11-12).

twelve. remus lupin. the harry potter series by j.k. rowling.

thirteen. severus snape. the harry potter series.

fourteen. james potter. the harry potter series.

fifteen. sirius black. the harry potter series.

the marauder's map: "mr. moony presents his compliments to professor snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business."

snape froze. harry stared, dumbstruck, at the message. but the map didn't stop there. more writing was appearing beneath the first. 

"mr. prongs agrees with mr. moony, and would like to add that professor snape is an ugly git."

it would've been very funny if the situation hadn't been so serious. and there was more...

"mr. padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor" (harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban--p. 287).

sixteen. katherine powell. lovers and dreamers (nora roberts' dream trilogy--daring to dream, holding the dream, finding the dream).

seventeen. byron dewitt. lovers and dreamers.

byron, regarding kate: katherine powell was not his type. 

skinny, abrasive women with more attitude than charm didn't appeal to him. he liked them soft, and smart, and sexy. he admired them simply for being women, and delighted in the bonuses of quiet conversation, hardheaded debate, outrageous laughter, and hot, mindless sex... he wasn't remotely attracted to kate (lovers and dreamers--p. 286).

eighteen. margo sullivan. lovers and dreamers. 

nineteen. joshua templeton. lovers and dreamers.

twenty. brenna o'toole. tears of the moon by nora roberts.

shaun gallagher, on brenna: she had little hands, shawn thought. a man might think of them as delicate if he didn't know what they were capable of doing. he'd watched her swing a hammer, grip a drill, haul lumber, cinch pipes. more often than not, those little fairy hands of hers were nicked and scratched or  bruised around the knuckles...

she did, after all, have a trim and tidy little body. the sort a man could scoop up one-handed if he had a mind to. and if a man tried, shawn imagined brenna o'toole would lay him out flat. 

the idea made him grin. 

still, he'd rather look at her face any day (p. 9).

twenty-one. cameron quinn. seaswept by nora roberts.

anna spinelli talks to cameron about a young boy  named seth: "my concern is seth, mr. quinn. now we can discuss this, or i can simply move forward with the procedure for his removal from this home and into approved foster care."

"it'd be a mistake to try that, miz spinelli. seth isn't going anywhere."

her back went up at the way he drawled out her name. "seth delauter is a minor. the private adoption your father was implementing wasn't finalized, and there is some question about its validity. at this point, mr. quinn, you have no legal connection to him."

"you don't want me to tell you what you can do with your legal connection, do you, miz spinelli?" with some satisfaction he watched those big, dark eyes flash. "i didn't think so. i can resist. seth's my brother." the saying of it left him shaken. with a jerk of his shoulder, he turned. "i need a beer."

twenty-two. brianna concannon. born in ice by nora roberts.

twenty-three. grayson thane. born in ice.

when brianna meets grayson: he'd been expecting a nice homey woman with graying hair tucked in a bun. "i woke you," he said foolishly.

"we usually sleep here in the middle of the night. come in by the fire." she walked to the parlor, switching on the lights. after setting the candle aside, blowing it out, she turned to take his wet coat. "it's a terrible night for traveling."

he wasn't shapeless under the mac. though he wasn't as tall as brianna's uneasy imagination had made him, he was lean and wiry. like a boxer, she thought, then smiled at herself. poet, pirate, boxer. the man was a writer and a guest (p. 15).

twenty-four. maggie concannon. born in fire by nora roberts.

twenty-five. rogan sweeney. born in fire.

when maggie meets rogan: he knocked and, though he received no answer, shoved the door open. he had a moment to register the blast of heat, the sharp smells and the small woman seated in a big wooden chair, a long pipe in her hands.

he thought of faeries and magic spells.

"close the door, damn you, there's a draft."

he obeyed automatically, bristling under the sharp fury of the order. "your windows are open."

"ventilation. draft. idiot" (p. 41).

attachments

why i wanted to read it: because i loved the author's other book, eleanor and park.

what i liked: two journalists, beth and jennifer, are using their office computers to send personal emails to each other, which goes against company policy. lincoln is supposed to warn them when they're in violation. but he kind of likes reading what they write. and he kind of likes beth.

jennifer to beth: have you heard her sigh? it's like a balloon dying (p. 64).

so i hung up on her, and mitch--who had wandered into the room, but didn't know what we were fighting about--said, "i wish you wouldn't talk to her like that. she's your mother."

and i couldn't tell him, "but she thinks you're going to leave me, and she's already taking your side in the divorce" (p. 65).

beth to jennifer: he always sat in the corner. and i always sat one row across from him, three seats down... he never looked at me--or anyone else, to my relief--and he never took off his headphones... the week before finals, i showed up at the union at my usual time and found chris sitting in my seat. his headphones were around his neck, and he watched me walk toward him... he said, "hey."

and i said, "hi."

and he said, "look..." his eyes were green. he kind of squinted when he talked. "i've got a ten-thirty class next semester, so... we should probably make other arrangements."

i was struck numb.

i said, "are you mocking me?"

"no," he said. "i'm asking you out."

"then i'm saying yes."

"good... we could have dinner. you could still sit across from me. it would be just like a tuesday morning. but with breadsticks."

"now you're mocking me."

"yes." he was still smiling. "now i am."

the first year was strange. i felt like a butterfly had landed on me. if i moved or even breathed, i thought he would float away... i never knew when i would see him or when he would call. a week might go by and i wouldn't talk to him. then i'd find a note slid under my door. or a leaf. or song lyrics written in a matchbook (pp. 67-70).

jennifer: so, what's tomorrow's indian hills story about?

beth: there isn't one.

there better be. you're on the morning budget for fifteen inches (p. 94).

beth: i don't know if i even believe in that anymore. the right guy. the perfect guy. the one. i've lost faith in "the."

jennifer: how do you feel about "a" and "an"?

indifferent.

so you're considering a life without articles?

and true love (p. 157).

jennifer: he just asked danielle if she blacks out all the dirty words in her harlequin romances (p. 247).

jennifer: remember when my midwife told me to talk to the baby, that it could feel my emotions and intent? ... the baby could feel what i wanted... and for the first six or seven weeks, the message i was sending was, "go away." go away, go away, go away. and it did (p. 261).

what sucked: it's good. but it didn't draw me in quite so well as her other story. and lincoln's character never really felt realistic to me. (notice there're no quotes from him).

having said all that: i liked the girls. they made the story fun. it was cute. fairly quick to read.

for father's day

when i was a kid, i really only saw my father on the weekends. usually sundays. i would sometimes hear him talking in the morning with my mother before he left for work, before she'd come in to get us up for school. maybe, maybe he was home for dinner at night. maybe i saw him on saturday. if he was here, he was in his office, usually with the door closed. on sundays, he'd get my brothers and i out in the yard under the guise of quality father-children time. he'd get us started raking and sweeping and then he'd go inside, situate himself on his maroon leather recliner with his bag of popcorn or his half gallon of blue bell or his mixing bowl filled with cereal and his diet coke and watch television. and if it were fall, it was football, but only if the cowboys were playing. otherwise he'd flip through the channels until he found a film that was just starting.

and we'd bitch and moan about how he said he was gonna do yardwork with us, and then left us there to do it ourselves.

it never occurred to me, then, how taxing my father's job was. how that one day was his respite from all the bullshit with which he had to deal.

he wouldn't like that i called it bullshit.

partly because he wouldn't see it that way, but more because he hates it when i cuss.

i used to hate being the daughter of a school superintendent. probably as much as he hates my foul mouth. maybe more.

"hey jenny! tell your dad that we shouldn't have school tomorrow!"

twelve years of public school. roughly one hundred eighty school days in the year. six periods in a day. i heard that crap in almost every class. my teachers looked to me to be some stellar student because my father was their boss.

i tried to skip class. once. one time i wanted to be that girl who said screw this shit. i'm not sitting through boring driver's education. (i was that anomaly that didn't want to drive a car.)

so i didn't go.

and my teacher called my father wanting to know where i was.

my father had driven me to school that day.

i had driver's ed first period. so he'd practically just dropped me off.

i got spanked for that. for ditching. for lying about it.

when i left my books in my locker because i didn't care to complete an assignment and i was failing the class (which my father knew because my teachers would tell him so), he'd haul my butt to school, unlock the doors, shut off the alarm and make me get my shit. and then my mother would practically stand over my shoulder to make sure that i got it done.

i got caught shoplifting. the manager gave me two choices: she could call the cops or she could call my mom. and headlines flashed before my eyes: superintendent's daughter caught stealing. uh, you can call my mom. thanks.

i think i got spanked for that, too. for being stupid.

it sucked having a super for a dad.

or so i thought.

there's another superman film in theaters again. another reboot. with another actor trying to prove his worth. i don't need to see that. i live with superman.