I Saw You When

I used to love reading this section in C'ville Weekly when I was going to school in Charlottesville. My college housemates and I would pour over it, trying to decide if anyone was cryptically speaking to us through these postings. Anyway, if my local newspaper included I Saw You Whens, I would submit the following item.

Sweet Panera Lady
Tuesday night in Panera you came up to my table and told me you were so impressed with the way I handled my son's high-pitched public meltdown, then acted stunned when you learned he's my first. I thanked you and probably blushed and rolled my eyes. I should have said that even though I know nothing about you, I love you. I should have gotten up and shook your hand and said you have no idea how much I needed to hear that. Maybe you're a mom and you knew exactly how much I needed it. Either way. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You made my week.

Gentle Giant

I worked practically all weekend, so, as planned, I didn't even open Then We Came to the End. Nicky and I read plenty, though. He read this on the way to school this morning. It's an old favorite. While driving, I asked him what sounds the various animals make. What does the cow say? "Mooooo." What does the horsey say? "Hehehe." (He makes the cutest horse sound.) What does the bear say? "Nigh-night." Nearly all our nighttime books have bears that fall asleep ... what a cutie.

Perhaps the worst thing about working all weekend is getting up and going right back to work on Monday morning. Luckily, it doesn't happen that often. And I really do love my job. I'm just going to keep repeating that to myself.

Dam Fine

Since I'm in my office this morning, I thought I might as well make a quick post. I did start Then We Came to the End and so far it really is as Hilarious! as Stephen King promised. It's bringing back all kinds of memories of my first job as a proofreader. It takes place at almost the same time, the economic downturn in 2001, which was the year I graduated from college.

It's funny that I hardly ever, really never, think of that job, except for recently when I ran into a former coworker at Trader Joe's. She said they'd been bought out, it was such a different place, etc., etc. At the time, I couldn't even remember the names of the people I wanted to ask after. Not that it bothered me, I was just so happy that my family members and I were all showered and nicely dressed for this 11 a.m. grocery stop (I can't begin to explain how unusual this is). It occurred to me that the last time she'd seen me I was 23 years old. Ever the sentamentalist, I have never once returned to the offices I've left for the friendly pop-in.

Anyway, I'm rambling. My point is that a month ago I couldn't remember the names of all these people who are now vibrant and fresh in my mind thanks to Joshua Ferris. What a crew! Maybe I should have stayed on longer and written a memoir ...

Well, I didn't and now I'm a glorified technical writer/marketing guru. A technical writer who will be reading nothing this weekend other than a riveting piece on dam safety inspection procedures. Once I finish writing it, that is.

Have a great weekend!

In Stitches

I didn't do any reading last night because I finally started using the beautiful new sewing machine my parents gave me for my birthday in November. I started feeling like I was coming down with the stomach virus looming large around here, so, being alone for another night, I set up shop and got to work. It occurs to me that only a Kinsey would believe busying yourself could prevent illness. Turns out it works.

This was supposed to be a reusable sandwich wrap that folds out into a placemat for Nicky. Not using a pattern, the result is something closer to a travel placemat. Perhaps you could fit a small slice of pizza in there. A very small one. Hey, I could've used a travel placemat on many an occasion.

Because it's my first sewing project since pumping out patchwork dresses and handbags in a dorm basement to sell at Phish shows, I'll be generous and just say I really like my fabric and thread choice. I also like all the nifty stitches my machine produces at the touch of a button. It did come out looking a bit like a Girl Scout project, though, didn't it?

Oh well, I'm going to keep trying. If you're sewing too, check out the book In Stitches by Amy Butler. There are so many cool projects. Maybe I'll have something more refined to post on later, much later.

Some Kind of Wonderful

So I finished In Other Rooms, Other Wonders last night. After splashing around in the tub with Nicky and continuing to do the endless laundry from this week's escapades in stomach bugs and all of the sudden deciding that I'm instituting a paperless kitchen and reorganizing all my rags and napkins ... I swear, sometimes when my husband's away I end up doing the strangest things with my evenings.

Anyway, so I finally got in bed with tea that had long since gone cold (I really don't mind this) and finished Other Wonders. While I wasn't thrilled to be done with it, as was the case with Disgrace, I didn't wish it went on any longer, either. I was sated, and ever so slightly disappointed.

I really wanted to love this book, with its vibrant cover, interesting author, its nod of approval from Salman Rushdie, its comparisons to the stories of Jhumpa Lahiri, an Indian author whom I all but worship. I didn't love it, though. When I read Lahiri's stories I can taste, see, smell Indian culture. I was looking for this same immersion experience from Mueenuddin. I wanted to part with a strong notion of what it means to be Pakistani, of what knits their families together. I wanted scents and smells and tastes and beauty. The title suggests that, after all.

Mueenuddin doesn't celebrate much of his native culture. The convention of family is over and over proven a false construct. The government, the police, full of corruption. Female sexuality is used repeatedly (and disturbingly) as a weapon. Characters are punished, by themselves as well as others, for belief in true love. The feudal order is inescapable. The picture he paints is one of sorrow and gravity. Fondness for his homeland I can only sense his need to tell these stories (and Mueenuddin does need to tell -- he left his life as a successful lawyer in NYC to return to a farm in Pakistan and write about his country).

I was struck when Rafia of "Our Lady of Paris" (probably the most intimidating would-be mother-in-law I've ever encountered) says that she knows America wouldn't feed the best part f her son's soul. When asked if Pakistan would, she cries out "I don't know." Here and elsewhere I sensed a deep ambivalence about what it means to be Pakistani, or, more specifically, to be a modern Pakistani in Pakistan. Many of the characters seem to undergo the immigrant experience (confusions of class, of dress, of language, of place) in their native country amidst their own people. Maybe what I wanted from Mueenuddin's narrative wasn't missing or left out, but unavailable. Mueenuddin couldn't answer those questions, couldn't paint that picture.

Overall, I think he is a superb short story writer, making the difficult task of quick character development seem effortless. I also like the progression from stories of the peasants to westernized elites, reinforcing Pakistan's obsession with class. Even in these stories the characters are bound by their place in society. I will certainly read Mueenuddin's future works, and I'm sure there will be more given the reception Other Wonders has received.

I think I'm ready for something more frivolous. Lucky me, the spine of Then We Came to the End notes that Stephen King calls the book "Hilarious!" Can't ask for much more than that. How often does a book carry praise on its spine, and how often does that praise carry an exclamation point?

Change of Plans

I read exactly nine pages of Other Wonders this weekend. My husband was leaving on Sunday for a business trip, so I figured I would snuggle up with a book to close the weekend. The rest of the time was spent snuggling with him. Then, Nicky woke up in the middle of the night on Saturday with his first stomach bug, which lingered through Sunday. Poor little thing. So, Sunday was spent pushing Pedialyte, doing lots and lots of laundry, and Lysoling everything in my path. My parents came over to help, I made white chicken chili, and it wasn't so bad after all.

So, this is what I read this weekend. Bear Snores On. I genuinely like it and so does my son. It's pretty hard to secure a spot in our night-night line up, but I think this one has earned its place (after an intense campaign led by yours truly, who stuffed it in his Christmas stocking). It has everything Nicky looks for in a good book:

• Main characters that are bears
• Minor character that are animals whose sounds he knows how to make
• Rhymes that make his mom and dad tongue-tied
• Lots of voices for mom to do
• Nice illustrations
• A dancing interlude
• Building anticipation (how many critters will enter the lair??, will the bear ever wake up??)
• Characters that get grumpy, sad, happy (he's really starting to understand emotions)
• Main characters that fall asleep on the last page

So, that's all for now. I'm looking forward to getting back into Other Wonders, then jumping into And Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris, which arrived from Amazon on Friday. I love you, Amazon. I've been looking forward to reading that one for a long time.

Have a great week everyone!

Next in Line

So, this one wasn't on the list, but I finished Disgrace sooner than expected and had to grab something at the airport before two nights alone in a hotel room. I settled on this one because (a) I was really attracted to the cover, and (b) I've never read a book written by a Pakistani author. It was this or Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. I chose this. So far, very happy I did. I'm about 150 pages in. More to come!

Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee

Call this my penance. I needed to atone for two very average best sellers; I needed to remember what great writing is, what emotions a powerful narrative can affect, how a great writer can manipulate language. I didn't set out to read Disgrace, but when I stumbled across it, it seemed a perfect fit.

Coetzee's gifted writing is, as always, undeniable. In that respect, this novel served its purpose. The message, though, is so bleak, so without redemption, that I found myself dreading even developing this post. This is not a story I want to revisit.

Let it suffice to say that in Coetzee's post-apartheid South Africa, the sins of the past are inescapable. Future generations are left without even a proper language to create a narrative of their own. For this reason, and for so many others, they are as seemingly powerless against nature as the dogs Bev Shaw ushers out of this world.

I do not wish to examine David Lurie, his lurid relationship with Melanie, or the desperate situation of his daughter Lucy. As the mother of a young child, I cannot bear the thought that I could one day lack the ability to offer my son any solace or comfort, as David does. I cannot bear the thought that I might one day have to watch from the sidelines as my son exists in sorrow and fear, in an emotionally and physically dangerous situation like Lucy's. I do not wish to think about not being able to protect him.

I finished Disgrace, relieved to close the back cover, as the plane thudded onto the runway in Providence, Rhode Island. Across the aisle, a father protectively snuggled his young son, just two months older than my Nicholas. The boy stirred, turned to face Dad, closed his eyes once more. The father kissed the boys head, just barely parting his hair, now damp with sweat. I know the warmth, the slight clamminess, that met those lips. A gentle reminder that I believe in the future, in the promise of my child, and in the hope that he will exist in a better, more mindful society.

*I wrote this on a plane, 1 day before the earthquake in Haiti. Thinking of the tragedy in Port-au-Prince, I just can't shake the thought that the Haitian people have endured far, far more than their share of hardship and loss. I cannot imagine the grief and fear and discomfort being experienced. I think of parents, mothers trying to care for their children without water, without shelter. I think of parents searching for their children ... my heart breaks for them over and over again.

In light of this, my aversion to Coetzee's narrative seems extremely sheltered. My resentment for the discomfort I experienced reading it seems self-centered. I know nothing of tragedy, nothing of what the Haitians are experiencing, nothing of what has been experienced for generations in South Africa. After enduring so much, I can only imagine it would be intensely difficult to maintain any degree of optimism. I can only imagine, because I know nothing of it.

One of the commentaries on the cover of Disgrace calls it "an uncomfortable but necessary book." Now, I agree.

Your Days are Numbered

I keep saying this to my kitchen. I say, "Your ugly days are numbered, Kitchen." The space has beautiful bones, and it's wonderfully roomy, but, like most of this new-to-us house, it's painted in what I've come to call communist cream. It's not a bright, dazzling white, and it's certainly not warm and earthy. It's drab, drab, drab, and the color I imagine they use for the insides of hospitals and other public facilities in communist countries. It's state-issue cream. The kind of color I can only imagine painting my walls if forced to. Then there are the cabinets, which are painted a very drab celery and cranberry. How these colors relate to one another I do not know, and can only fathom that at some point a very heavy, very colonial window treatment tied the whole lot together. In the absence of said window treatment, however, this color scheme appears little more than "touched", and by that I mean crazy.

Anyway, I'm rambling. My point here is that I've decided my kitchen's ugly days are numbered, and that in this new year my kitchen will undergo a great transformation. I'm not talking new appliances or countertops, all of that is fine. Just the paint. While I haven't yet informed my husband (though he can probably see the ruthless glint in my eye as I stare down the ugly communist cream each day), the plan has been set in action. Paint chips are lining themselves up in my mind, vying for attention. Spring I think. My kitchen gets to slump around in its ugly clothes and slobby slippers until spring.

I have my eye on other things as well, this blog being one. "What I am going to do with you, Blog?" I say. "Have you become just one more thing I can't get around to? Forgotten and needy like so many of my plants? Crumpled and forlorn like my drycleaning?" Though I haven't been actively using it, I have been thinking about the future of this little blog. First thought is cut your losses. After writing all day, I don't generally have the stamina to develop anything of note, plus I don't like to have it bleed into my personal time--my valuable time with my family, my precious hour or so a day with a cup of tea and a good book in bed. I love that that time is gloriously laptop-free. Plus, this blog is also a wonderful diversion, a perfect proscration tool. Since procrastination is strictly off limits in 2010, this is another strike against poor blog.

But on second thought, it occurs to me that perhaps what I need is a clear blogging purpose. I have plenty of time to discuss the comings and goings of my days with others, and I run these little things over and over in my mind during workouts. Frankly, I get a little sick of my own thoughts on the day-to-day. My cooking lately is no subject worthy of documentation. I've been questioning myself, what would I want to track, what could I use an outlet for? The home renovations? Those could take awhile. Then my reading occurred to me. It's the one thing I do completely alone, and, while my husband keeps track of what I'm into and my father and I often trade books back and forth, I think I miss writing about literature. I think back to all my letters to authors over the past couple years. Yeah, I could probably use another outlet. I think it will also be a great way to remember what I want to read, because I often forget. Maybe I'll even tell some people about it. Maybe I'll even get some good recommendations.

So, the blog gets a second chance. It will need a new name, a face lift of it's own for sure. And there will be accountability tracking, blog! Better look sharp.

My reading list for 2010 (so far and in no particular order):

Disgrace, J.M. Coetzee (in progress)
Summertime, J.M. Coetzee
The Big Necessity: Adventures in Human Waste, Rose George
A Good Fall, Ha Jin
Changing My Mind, Zadie Smith
Nothing to Envy, Barbara Demick
No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July
The Painted Drum, Louise Erdich
The Farming of Bones, Edwidge Danticat
Big Oyster, Mark Kurlansky
The Road, Cormac McCarthy
Say You're One of Them, Uwen Akpan
The Mambo Kings Sing Songs of Love, Oscar Hijuelos


Happy 2010!