Score!

I finished another book, with just a few hours to spare before the year's end. It was recommended by my brilliant cousin—who is brilliant for many reasons, only one of which is her excellent taste in books.

The Night Circus, by Erin Morganstern. I highly recommend it for pretty much anyone, but particularly for those who like Shakespeare, and old legends and fairy tales. The atmosphere and imagery is beautifully dark and tempestuous—in a magical rather than depressing way, and it doesn't insult your intelligence like so many recent books do. The best comparisons I can make to it are Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell and The Prestige, only not quite so dark as either of those. 8.5

It is also worth noting that the audiobook is read by Jim Dale, who is quite good (he does the American versions of the Harry Potter books). I listened to part of it and read the rest on paper (I've actually owned a copy of this book since it was first published, and several people recommended it to me, but none of them were the sort whose taste I completely trusted ... until my cousin). Both the audio and print were good experiences.

Here's to 2014! May we all have a blessed year.

Another Year In Reading: 2013

This post is the annual reading event—what books I read this year. Because I know everyone in the world is dying to know.

I think this year, even more so than other years, I've spent a lot of time almost finishing books and then deciding they're not worth it. Like the biography of Winston Churchill. Interesting man. Biography boring as heck. I actually would have finished the one on Thomas Jefferson if the library had allowed me to renew online. First world problems.

I have to also include the caveat here that a large chunk of the following list falls in the audiobook category. Reading books is still one of my chiefest pleasures, but alas, it seems what everyone has been telling me all my life is finally becoming true—at some point you don't really have much time to read anymore.

And when it comes to the nitty-gritty and I have to make a choice, kissing a handsome man is going to take precedence over reading a book.

But, for what it's worth, here it is:

The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck. This book is amazing. If you haven't read it yet, you are missing out. 'Nuff said. 9.5

When You Reach Me, Rebecca Stead. Surprisingly good for a Newbery winner. It sort of fit the formula, but not really. When I started it I thought I was going to have to tell the people who recommended it that they were lame. Not so. 7

Empire, Orson Scott Card. I'm not really familiar with a lot of political fiction books, and this is one of them, so it was pretty interesting. His scenario for the near future is not even very far-fetched, except for a few things. 7

Hidden Empire, Orson Scott Card. Another 7

Mysteries of the Middle Ages, Thomas Cahill. People question Cahill's reliability as a historian, but however speculative or romanticized they might be, his books are definitely some of the most entertaining reads on the topic. I didn't enjoy Middle Ages quite as much as How the Irish Saved Civilization, but it was still quite fun to read about such interesting characters as Eleanor of Aquitaine and Francis Assisi. 5

Picking Cotton: Our Memoir of Justice and Redemption, Jennifer Thompson Cannino and Ronald Cotton. I'm giving this a higher rating because it's a true story and one that I feel is very powerful, but it wasn't particularly well written. Around 1990, Jennifer Thompson was a college student in a small town in North Carolina. A man broke into her house while she was sleeping and raped her. She barely escaped with her life, and when the police brought her in to identify who did it, she identified the wrong man. He went to prison. 11 years later a DNA test proved his innocence. Eventually the two of them met and became good friends. 6

Ready Player One, Ernest Cline. So many people raved about this I wasn't sure what to expect, but it was so interesting! It's classified as young adult, but I'm not sure today's young adults would necessarily enjoy it as much as people in their 30s—all the references to 1980s culture could be off-putting. It is a must-read for Geeks. 7

The Blithedale Romance, Nathaniel Hawthorne. I'm still not sure what I think of Hawthorne. This haunting tale is based around a group of transcendentalist socialists, and the point was obscure. 6

Catherine the Great: Portrait of a Woman, Robert K. Massie. One of the more intriguing biographies out there. It really helped me understand a lot about Russia and Eastern Europe, particularly the dysfunctional political games. 7

Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro. Go to Goodreads for this. I don't know why, but this book is really hard for me to talk about. 7

Unbroken, Laura Hillenbrand. Wow. I feel like this story was at least three stories packed into one. The story of an Olympic runner. The story of a WWII fighter pilot. The story of a man wrestling to move past PTSD after years of imprisonment and abuse. 8

Be Different, John Elder Robinson. I first-hand look at life with Asberger's. Not a whole lot I didn't already know (except what I can never know, as a person who will never experience it), but a decent read. 5

Thinking in Pictures, Temple Grandin. I really enjoyed this book, but there didn't seem to be any focus to it at all. Grandin began by describing her life as a person with autism, but then she went all over the place, from the humane slaughtering of animals to all kinds of other issues. Maybe that was the point. Either way, I recommend it. 7

Garden of Beasts, Jeffrey Deaver. Again, not the sort of thing I usually read, this book is about a man who goes from hired thug in the States to appointed political assassin in Nazi Germany. A really strong piece of historical fiction. 6

Seriously, I'm Kidding, Ellen Degeneres. Who doesn't love Ellen? Read it for a nice laugh. 5

Call the Midwife, Jennifer Worth. Another book that wasn't as cohesive as I would have thought. Most of it was on-topic (stories about midwifery), with several asides into the author's personal concerns. It is a memoir, so that's understandable, but it didn't always come together. The stories, though, were so very interesting, and she does a good job of providing atmosphere and putting the reader there. 6

Gaudy Night, Dorothy Sayers. Meaning to read this for years. Every bit as good as I expected. Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane are delightful. 7

The Prisoner of Zenda, Anthony Hope. A very fun romp. 4

The Six Wives of Henry VIII, Allison Weir. I have mixed feelings about this book. It was good, but it could have been trimmed way down. Far too much description of clothing. But it included a lot of great information, most of which I didn't already know. 6

The Blind Side, Michael Lewis. Again, this book could have been better. It is good but disorganized. I guess it is probably because he was trying to tell a story about football at the same time he was trying to tell a story about a man, and the transitions are awkward. 6

Superfreakonomics, Steven Leavitt. I like what this guy does, because he's pretty much debunking myths about stuff people assume are causal relationships. 5

Why We Get Fat, Gary Taubes. Some useful information, but I disagree with his recommendation that people switch to diets that consist of nothing but protein and fat. 4

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking, Susan Cain. This is a good book, but it's pretty much pop psychology. I like that she doesn't suggest that extroverts have to realign their world around introverts. There are enough facebook memes about that already. 6

The Red Tent, Anita Diamant. So, everyone with a religious background knows that Jacob had twelve sons. People who have actually read the Old Testament also know that he had a daughter named Dinah. This book is a fictional account of her life, and it sucks. I could talk for hours about how disappointed I was that the author took the direction she did. Way too much sex, way too much misogyny masked as feminism, and she didn't even get her facts straight. She creates a fictional world that has little resemblance to what people know of the world of the Old Testament (even laying aside religion and the Biblical record); the women have their own counterculture that is completely separate from the men. They are ritualistic idol worshipers and the men are dirty, abusive pigs. 1

World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie Wars, Max Brooks. This book is fascinating. I love the fact that the author chose to tell the story in interview format, and that all the stories are so different. 8

The End of Your Life Book Club, Will Schwalbe. Sentimental, dull, and very pretentious. This sort of thing would have been appropriate to have been kept as a blog for family and friends. Nobody else cares. 3

Submergence, J.M. Ledgard. I may have missed something with this one. I really like the way it is written, and I can see what he was going for, but it falls somewhat short. Maybe I didn't devote the right amount of concentration to it. Good but not great. 5

Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, Seth Graeme Smith. If I had known before I read it that he also wrote Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I probably wouldn't have bothered. As it was, a coworker recommended it, and he seems to have good taste in general. I was interested in how someone would work a vampire backstory into Lincoln's life, and the audacity of the idea is the only good thing about the book. I lost interest after chapter one, and I'm surprised I even finished it.2

For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ernest Hemingway. There's a reason this is a classic. So many musings on so many different things. War, freedom, life, death, love. Hemingway was a messed up dude, but he sure knew how to write. 8

Friendship

It can be hard to be a single person in a family church. I am thinking specifically of a conversation I had with my mom a few years ago about how hard it was for me to make friends. I was trying to explain the difficulty, and I didn't think she was getting it, so I asked her, "Who did you generally make friends with when you were my age?" Her answer was simple and immediate: the people who had kids the same age as her kids. Thank you, Mom, for making my point.

This isn't a radical concept. People tend to make friends with those they have things in common with. When you are in a particular phase of life, most of your friends tend to be in that same phase.

So, that means the only people I can be friends with are other single people, right?

For a long time, it seemed that was mostly true. Relief Society presidents would only assign me visiting teaching companions who were also single ladies, and we mostly visit taught only single ladies. The young moms with children were only interested in being friends with people they could organize play dates with and trade babysitting. The older moms were busy with their teenagers, or they were empty nesters who didn't see anything interesting in a young woman who didn't have any experience trying to take care of an elderly parent or struggling with a wayward adult child. I am by no means criticizing people for wanting to find things in common with their friends—particularly the young mothers whose sanity often involves a support group of other women in similar situations. It takes more effort, and sometimes people just don't have room for that in their lives.

So it was true. Almost all my friends were other single people, who, believe it or not, live extremely busy lives in spite of not having husbands and children to care for—and who had just as hard a time as I did avoiding the "woe is me, I'm so lonely and single" conversation that is as fascinating and repugnant as binging on holiday treats.

Then something weird happened when I moved into my current ward. Not only did people stop treating me as if my identity depended solely on my marital status—I stopped thinking of myself that way as well. I'm sure in certain lists and meetings had by church leadership, I am lumped into that group of "single sisters" and mentioned as one who should be informed of events for Single Adults. I even go to those events quite often (side note: they are populated mostly by people who are decades older than me and who wonder what the heck I'm doing there). But they are not my source of community.

I had a couple tell me it was easier to be my friend than try to find married friends, because they had to like both of them, whereas it was easy to like just one of me. The Relief Society president assigned me to visit teach three sisters who were all married with three small children.

Therefore, today I am sincerely thankful for the wonderful people in my life who are willing to think outside the box enough to accept and be friendly towards someone whose life is foreign to their own. I am thankful for people who see that I am a person who can be interested in their chatter about their kids or their crafts or their ordeals trying to fit into their clothes. I am thankful for people who might notice that I never have a husband with me when I go places but who choose to see that I have a brain and a heart and can still contribute to a happy social situation. I hope I can always be that kind of friend as well.

Hot

(Hawt? That's how the bf spellz it--he says it means "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." I'm still a little confused, either because he's a lot more brilliant than me, or because he wants me to be confused. Either way, it always makes me laugh hysterically.)

When it's cold outside, I'll do a lot of things to keep warm. I won't talk about all of them, but I will talk about dancing.

I realized a while back that I do not have a natural talent for dance. The graceful genes passed me by, and most of the time I'm ok with that. Until I see myself dancing in a mirror (or, even worse, a video--ouch!). Then I want to hide in shame. Or take dance instruction.

I did social dance at BYU and wasn't bad. Then I did Irish dance my last semester. It's hard to tell how good I was, because I always had to dance the guy's part. Way to remind me of the time in high school when a friend called me Gargantua.

Tonight I went to a class called BodyJam. It's at my gym. It is not Zumba. And it was really fun. I told the instructors afterwards, and they were very flattering.

"Oh, this was your first time? Really? But you must have done dance before."

"Nope. I'm a runner. Not a dancer."

"But you looked so good!"

Aww, shucks.

I think one of the weaknesses of our culture is that it encourages us to lie to people while thinking we're telling the truth. I'm sure it never crossed their minds that they were stretching the truth in order to make me feel good, and I'm sure they are inherently honest ladies. Because, really, the most that can be said for me is that I didn't fall down.

But. I'm going back next week.

Failure

My boss, who is great, likes to remind me when I mess something up that mistakes are learning experiences. And he really believes it. It is very inspiring to me. I know a few other people who are like that as well, and I've been working hard to take a leaf out of their book.

It's been a challenge for someone as self-critical as myself, but it's really doing a lot to change me in good ways. When I can accept mistakes for what they are--experiences that help me grow--I am much less critical of myself and much more able to set aside my worries about my imperfections. It's hard to live a happy and productive life when you're preoccupied with everything that you could have or should have done better. You stress people out.

So, this weekend was an exercise in that area. I wrote previously that I was going to run a half marathon, and yesterday I did it.

I wasn't able to run the whole thing. I hurt my ankle somewhere around mile 8, and by mile 10 the pain was too much. I started walking, with a heavy limp. But I kept going. Until the end.

Initially I was really disappointed in myself. I had a goal to finish in under 2 hours, and I had trained to be able to do it. I felt like all my hard work was wasted.

On the positive side, though, I can look at my finish time and recognize that even though it wasn't what I wanted, I still finished in less time than it took me to run the first (and only other) half marathon I did. And in that one I never stopped to walk.

Accomplishment? I think yes.

Setbacks. Mistakes. They're learning experiences.

Now I just need to let my ankle rest up and heal for a few weeks, and I'll be at it again. No reason to be disappointed. Just a good reason to keep going strong.

Happy

I went to a baby shower several weeks ago (I know—gag! Yay me for being a good friend, right?). The interesting thing about this baby shower was that the theme, as listed on the invitation, was "Happy is what happens when all your dreams come true."

How sweet to say something like that in relation to bringing a baby into the world. But not. This is a quote from Wicked—and I'm pretty sure it was meant to be ironic.

Or am I completely off base?

Because I don't believe that statement at all. I think happy is not what happens when all your dreams come true. I think happy is a lot deeper and more meaningful than that.

It is deeply hurtful to tell someone who is not happy that it's as simple as just waiting for your dreams to come true, or the opposite of that—just choosing to be happy. As if making the choice to be happy is like making the choice to put croutons on your salad.

Happy comes from suffering deeply.

Happy comes when you understand what it is to be not happy—so not happy that you might even want to scream and cry and throw yourself off a bridge.

Happy doesn't just happen, and it doesn't have anything to do with dreams.

I think the truest definition of happy is what happens when you can completely forget that happy is something you want for yourself.

Falling in love makes you boring.

Because all I want to talk about is how brilliant he is. But nobody else really cares ... so I stop myself mid-sentence and say things like--

"I like grapes. Grapes are good."

or, even better,

"It's really windy outside today" (as if any person who is with me doesn't already know darn well it's windy).

Such is life, I guess. It's a first for me, though, and I'd rather be dating him and be boring than be the most charismatic person on earth.

Another "problem" I'm currently facing is what to do when my former "skinny clothes" are now too big. I don't even think I look very different.

In conclusion, sometimes life stinks, but other times it's just really, really good.

Accountability

When your boss' boss' boss tells you in the walkway how great you look and asks how you've lost all that weight (um, it wasn't that much) and you tell her you're planning on running another half marathon, that means there's no getting out of it. I better sign up for real.

And if the Mayberry Half goes as well as I think it will, next stop is the Charleston Shrimp and Grits Marathon in January. Doesn't that sound fun?

The Look

"I look handsome, I look smart. I am a walking work of art. In my dazzling ..." new fire-engine red skirt. With a ruffle over the left knee.

I ran a 10K this morning before work, completing it in what, for me, is record time. Then I got dressed and strutted into the office, feeling all that and a bag of ridge-cut chips. With sea salt.

Then I realized that the sticker was still on my skirt.

Oh, What Do You Do In the Summertime?

Summertime in North Carolina is enchanting. It stays green, it isn't cold, you can go to the pool after work, and you can eat peaches. I think I should have put that last one first. A really good peach makes me want to sing opera. I have to be careful about that, as well as not dripping on my keyboard, when I'm in the office.

I found a centipede in my apartment. Or it found me. I was very dutifully beginning to wash my dishes when it sprung on me. Only I didn't know it was a centipede. At the time it was just a fast and sinister-looking bug.

See this photo.

It was the middle of the night, too, or I would have called Entomologist Brother and asked him what the heck it was, why it was in my sink, and should I be worried.

It turns out that there is really only one sinister-looking bug that answers to the description, "big bug lots of legs" when you search with Google.

According to Wikipedia, centipedes can sting, but it doesn't hurt as much as a bee (but who wants to be stung by a sinister-looking bug with that many legs?). And they prey on spiders.

I clearly need to rethink my room mate discrimination policy. My spider population has grown undeterred. But if a large spider population equals a large centipede population, I'm going to have to draw some lines. I can't have a complete ecosystem living with me.

The centipede spent the night trapped under a cup in my sink, and this morning when it was clearly still living and thriving, I managed to set it free by initially sliding a sheet of paper under, but the crease in the paper allowed it to escape, so I dropped the paper and retreated. Then, gathering my courage, I trapped it under the cup again, this time on the floor, and steered it to the front door. Home invader successfully evicted.

I also have a tentative plan to go with some friends to a beach famous for being a habitat for sea turtles. This is fantastic.

Sistersss

The earth-shattering news is that plane tickets are purchased, so now there's no way they're getting out of coming to visit me! This August is going to be epic.

Twenty Years

One of the most awkward questions for a reader is "What is your favorite book?"

I don't mind it, but I always feel a bit deceptive answering it, because who can pick a favorite among a thousand? There are some books you hate, some you are indifferent to, some you love, some you admire, and some that change your life.

As an aside, I really hate it when people are all like, "My favorite book is the Book of Mormon." Okay. Um, while technically it is a book, it's really not. Books and scriptures are not the same thing. All you're really saying when you tell people that is your favorite book is that you're not much of a reader and you want to impress them with your spiritual superiority. It's obnoxious.

I usually just tell people my favorite is Jane Eyre, because it is one I've read a lot and both love and admire. But if I answered with the book I've read the most times, it would be The Blue Castle, by L.M. Montgomery. It's a bit embarrassing to tell people that, to tell the truth, because in spite of its thematic depth and archetypal genius, it's so sentimental (and the editing is frightful ... it's enough to give an editor a ghastly headache). However, I just looked at the jacket and saw where I had written my name and how old I was when I got it, and I realized that I have had it for twenty years. And I've read it at least once a year since I bought it with my babysitting money at the Bookstop (well, with the exception of the 18 months I was serving a mission).

There is something bitter about this, because I have realized there comes a time when you know a book so well it loses its magic. I don't have it memorized, quite, but I recognize all the lines by sight. I can recite almost all the dialogue to myself in reasonably good order. Reading it gives me less pleasure than making it into a movie in my mind (which I do with most books I like), so what's the point of reading it ever again?

It is the end of an era, I suppose. There's no other book like it in the world, so I don't have anything to go to now for the special kind of comfort it gave me for so many years. I'm a grown woman now, have been for quite some time, and I don't necessarily need syruppy fairy tales for comfort and reassurance, but it's a sad thing to outgrow something that has been so instrumental in forming my character.

I've lost something I will never get back.

My dad, who knows me well, once suggested I read a short story in his favorite science fiction journal. The protagonist is a writer, and he lives in a future in which people, in essence, back themselves up in case of accidental death. All their memories are stored in some sort of database, and if they die, their organs are replaced and they are brought back to life and their memories are re-booted. But this writer decides that he has written such a brilliant book that he wants to be able to experience it as a reader for the very first time. He deliberately neglects his routine back-ups, and when he finishes the book, he kills himself. When he is restored, he has lost three years of his life, and his girlfriend is furious with him. He doesn't understand what is going on and what he was thinking in putting all his affairs and relationships in jeopardy for, until he finds a copy of his book.

There are so many things I've wanted to be able to go back and experience again for the very first time. Not enough to do something as drastic as the writer in the sci-fi story, but still... particularly when faced with the loss of a much-loved book, wouldn't it be nice?

Goin' to the country, gonna eat me a lotta ... strawberries

Around here, people are really into locally grown produce. Farmer's markets, local produce food trucks, and berry patches are all over. I think they're trying to be trendy everywhere, but if so, it's really caught on in my state. I love it.

So, I went to a strawberry patch this morning with some girlfriends. It was delightful. The idea was proposed to go make jam out of all the surplus strawberries we ended up with (because among the four of us we probably had about 17 pounds of strawberries).

We made jam. Lots of it. Then we made strawberry ice cream. Lots of that. Now, there are still enough strawberries left to make a strawberry pie. And I must say I think I'm rather good at making pies. Except when I'm not.

This is going to be exciting.

Hello.

There hasn't been a lot to blog about lately except books, and to be honest, I haven't had the mental energy to review them. It's a pity, because I've read a few interesting ones.

However, I think it's about time to post something, so I will. And it will be completely trivial.

I went to the craft store today, and not only did I manage not to gag, I actually enjoyed myself. I think the Church is going to force me to like crafts. That is perhaps okay. But I still draw the line at scrapbooking.

I wonder if it's weird to like fake flowers and butterflies as much as I do? Because I really, really like them.

Finally, my awesome friend told me about a game she played last night, for which one of the questions was, "If your life were a movie, what would it be titled?"

I already pretty much revealed what mine would be called when I blogged about my autobiography. But she posed the question to some of the coworkers, and one of them came up with a title and all the specs. Who would play him at various stages of his life, who would write the soundtrack, who would direct it, etc.

For the record, if there were a movie about my life I would want it to be directed by Terrence Malick, Gus Van Sant, or Peter Weir. Music would be by Craig Armstrong, Alexandre Desplat, or Philip Glass, with songs in the background by people like Jeff Buckley, Laura Marling, Regina Spektor, and maybe even some Scala and Kolacny Brothers (even though that's all a little trendy). And the necessary Simon and Garfunkel number. The child me would be acted by any cute little girl with red hair, and the adult me would be Romola Garai, even though we don't look much alike. We're taking artistic liberties.

How about you? What would your life movie be like?

Easter

I consider myself a very healthy person, and I thank Heavenly Father for my health often. Especially because there are many people I care deeply for whose health is a serious concern.

But lately I have not been well. I won't go into particulars on the blog, but it's been rough. I can't really say how rough, either. There's nothing really to compare it to. But there are two things this experience is explicitly teaching me, and I'm sincerely thankful.

One is that there are a lot of people who care about me. I have a tendency to be too self-deprecating, and I constantly question how valuable my friendship is to people. If I had it my way, I would be always the giver in a friendship, but that is wrong on multiple levels, because that means that sometimes I attract more needy people than I can handle, and it keeps me from being real with people who aren't needy. And even when I am real with them, I'm so apologetic about it it's weird. So, during the time that things were escalating, there were several people who made me feel cared for. Not by doing anything huge. A friend in another state randomly sent me a facebook message. A few people at church pulled me aside and asked if I was really okay. Even if I sorta lied to them, I appreciated being asked. The list could go on. I mean, really, I am surrounded by people who are good and kind, and I am learning to accept that it's okay to be the one who needs that on occasion, even as I recognize that sometimes these people who are going out of their way to express love and concern for me are struggling with their own issues. It's a beautiful thing to see the Atonement in action as we all try to be kind to one another during our own pain and heartache.

The second is that I think when all is said and done, the privilege of having a resurrected body is going to be so glorious I try to comprehend it and get overwhelmed. Having health problems isn't just something that is trendy. It's a mortal condition. Even specific ones that I wanted to dismiss as trendy, really, are an integral part of our experience here. I'm not explaining it adequately, I know, and I recognize again that most people out there suffer physically much more than I do. I hope this doesn't sound trite. I hope it doesn't sound, like Elder Holland said one time, like "cheerful rhetoric". Having a body that constantly hurts, or that doesn't do what you want it to, is genuinely hard, and there's no getting away from it. Sometimes I think, again, of people I care about who are seriously suffering with physical health issues, and I want to curl up in fetal position and cry for them. But I know that my Redeemer liveth. Easter means something a little different to me this year than it has in previous years. Something a lot deeper and a lot sweeter. And we will be resurrected just as Jesus was. For real.

So, I hope we all have a happy Easter and are able to feel truly close to the Savior at this time. Much love.

My Sister

My sister is officially in the 100th percentile of awesome. She always was, of course.

She became one of my favorite people back when we were toddlers. The first time I can remember bonding with her was when we shared frustration over the fact that our brother got to stay up 30 minutes later than I did. I was probably about four years old, so she must have been two. It wasn't enough that I got to see Wild America first. They put me to bed, and I writhed in anger, knowing that Brother (who was only 16 months older than me!) was in the living room watching National Geographic—my favorite show. And, to add insult to injury, the sun hadn't even thought of going down yet, and we had yellow curtains. With ruffles. Sister stood up in her crib and babbled something. If I ever understood her, I don't remember what she said. But we were both in it together, and that's what counted.

It is impossible to imagine what I would be without her. We both bossed and manipulated each other, but I think she bossed more, even though I'm older.

She was the one who taught me to tell time. I failed the clock quiz in 2nd grade because I was absent the day the teacher did the clock lesson, and I was scared to tell anyone that I didn't understand. Then one day, when I was in fifth grade, I told Sister that I didn't know how to tell time. A few minutes later, I knew how.

What I started this post to say, though, is that today I felt the way Gwen Stacy described herself in The Amazing Spiderman when her dad asked her if she wanted some cocoa (I tried to find the clip, but it's not on YouTube). However, my Awesome Sister made the day completely great by finding this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tEgzGnzojc

Which is to say that she located a musical piece I have been crazy for since about 1999, but I never knew what it was called or how to get ahold of it. I'm a sucker for marimbas and xylophones, and even more so when they are used in films about literary experiences. Here is a fun clip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hMMUJ2Gn7Y

Autobiography

If I were to write a book about my life, first of all it would be mildly boring. Second, I would have to title it Whatever You Do, Don't Try To Be Nice. And it would have a manatee on the cover. That is all.

A Belated Post on Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is great. Why? you say. How can you like a day that celebrates romantic love when you've never even been in love? How can you like it when if you're not expressing love and appreciation to your significant other the rest of the year, it doesn't do any good to express it on a commercialized holiday revolving around some very distorted ancient history? How can you like it when it only makes single people more aware of their singleness?

I'll tell you.

I believe in love. And just because I don't have a healthy, happy relationship with a man I love doesn't mean I have any reason to resent a day on which other women in happy relationships can specifically celebrate them. Goodness knows the world needs all the happy relationships it can get, and how dare those of us who don't happen to be in one begrudge those who are.

Have we really stopped so low as a culture that it is acceptable to assume that the happiness of others is somehow hurtful to us? How does setting aside a day to celebrate romantic love hurt me?

Plus, there is no reason either to ba-humbug the kids out of a fun day to swap cute cards and candy with their little friends, or out of the rest of us to just be festive and wear special colors and eat way more candy than is good for us and spent time with the non-significant others in our lives.

I had a lot of fun, and I spent the evening with my girlfriends, decorating cookies, listening to music, and laughing.

So why hate? I love Valentine's Day.

Scary!

I did not grow up in a home that offered many opportunities to do daring things. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but it has very much colored what I think of as exciting. And it also put me in the odd position of feeling that I was a boring person when really I'm not. It's fun to think that I spent most of my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood reading books, and now that I have reached the age that I have, it is time to have more firsthand experience.

Today was one of the most terrifying days of my life. I think it was even scarier than the day I fell in a lake with alligators.

I went to a shooting range.

One of my awesome friends, whose personality is decidedly yellow, if you're into the color code thing, mentioned on Monday that she was taking a firearms safety course. When I seemed intrigued, she offered to let me come along. I might be very cautious about it, but when it comes to something new and foreign, I'm usually game. So I took her up on it.

We spent the afternoon handling a variety of empty guns (the ammo, as required by law, had to be stored in a separate part of the house during the class) and learning about gun safety. Then we had a short break and headed out to the shooting range, where we practiced with real guns with real bullets, then took the firing test.

The first time I pulled the trigger of a loaded 9 mm glock, I almost had a nervous breakdown. I was so shaken I nearly gave up then and there. They coaxed me into firing what was left in the magazine, and then I stepped back, determined to be an observer from that point forward.

Fortunately, the instructors were kind. They gave me a breather, got me some headphones to enhance my earplugs, and let me trade out the 9 mm for a Browning 22. After loading up and shooting that baby, I was feeling pretty ok.

So, to pass the test, you have to shoot 40 times and hit the target at least 28 times. I hit 37 times. Oh, yeah.

I called to tell my daddy all about it, and because we're all about logic and reality vs. validation, he pointed out that at a range of 7, 5, and 3 yards, you don't have to be all that good. And with a 22, you're really not going to do much damage anyway. But it's a lot harder to handle a gun than it looks.

And I passed the test.

Oddly enough, during our dinner break, my awesome yellow friend was talking about some of the situations she encounters at work as a therapist. Our other friend and I were asking lots of questions, and she told us to draw a picture of a person in a rainstorm and she would psychoanalyze us.

It wasn't as terrifying as shooting a pistol, but I was a bit scared of being psychoanalyzed as well. It turned out fine.

And now, there is gunpowder in my nose.

This Is Probably Just a Phase

Until about 2 weeks ago, when I got lonely, I watched foreign films or BBC literature adaptations, or the very occasional modern romantic comedy. And if I didn't want to watch a movie, I read princess books or hung out with friends who love L.M. Montgomery and Jane Austen.

My sister fundamentally changed my life when she suggested that instead of a film with Justine Waddell or Colin Firth, I should go for something with Bruce Willis. She loaned me her edited copy of Die Hard. My favorite part?

"Ho Ho Ho. Now I have a machine gun."

And then, I just saw the trailer for Red 2, and I don't even know who this person is who is so excited. Where did I go?

Books of 2012, the Annual List

I won't do extensive reviews like I want, because a lot of these were already reviewed on my Sis's blog. I pretty much spent this year reading everything she told me was good last year and added some books from my new book club for a bit of variety. So this has been the year of Connie Willis, Megan Whalen Turner, and Sherwood Smith. Here's the annual list, with some commentary, and ratings on a 10-point scale:

1. To Say Nothing of the Dog, Connie Willis. If one says nothing of the dog, one can say a lot about this comedy of errors based on the adventures of a time-lagged historian whose attempts to escape his unreasonable and domineering sponsoress's insane demands lead him back to the Victorian era in search of a blunder, in the form of a disrupted love story, an appallingly ugly family heirloom, and a lost cat, that so disordered the space-time continuum that everyone's life in the future is threatened. It's immeasurably funnier if you have read Shakespeare and the major Victorians. There is little I love in a book more than literary humor, and I was laughing out loud for most of the book. 8

2. The Alloy of Law, Brandon Sanderson. A story set in the same universe as his famous Mistborn series (which I read last year), this one is a fun pastiche of science fiction and the Wild, Wild West. And the character dynamics don't stoop to cliché. 7

3. Shadows in Flight, Orson Scott Card. At long last I got to read what happens to Bean. I love Bean. But this book was just okay. No love, no hate. The somber ending didn't overwhelm me like that of the last book he was in—it fell a bit flat. Normally if I don't love a book I can think up a better ending for myself. This one I couldn't, because maybe there wasn't a better way to end it, and maybe it didn't need to be ended. I dunno. 4

4. Coronets and Steel, Sherwood Smith. We are long-time fans of Sherwood Smith. This new series was the perfect way to engage my mind in a fun action-adventure story right after I moved across the country. What is not to love about a fencing, ballet-dancing history graduate student from California who finds herself in a mysterious family feud in Eastern Europe while on a crazy quest to figure out her grandmother's past? 6

5. Blood Spirits, Sherwood Smith. Spoiler Alert. I can't say I loved the sequel as much as the original. It went the vampire direction. Justify that if you will, but vampires are so cliché I was a bit disgusted when the story took that turn about 2/3 through the book. 5

6. His Majesty's Dragon, Naomi Novik. You know, I love Bromances, and this is really the ultimate in Bromance, except the Bros are a man and a dragon. I wasn't prepared for how endearing the dragons would be, because most dragon stories don't have likeable dragons. There are lots more books in this series. We'll see if I get around to them.6

7. Between Shades of Grey, Ruta Sepetys. This book was practically a Holocaust book, even though it started out in Lithuania and I think it was the Russians rather than the Germans committing the atrocities. I feel like American pop culture's obsession with that time is disrespectful in a way I can't describe adequately. The book was good, but to say a book like this (based on true events and the suffering of real people) is good seems very callous. However, the fact that these people might have wanted their story told and it didn't get crowded out by more popular concentration camp tales is fine with me. They were thrown onto trains and carted out to remote areas of the Russian territory, where they were forced to work on communal farms for almost no food, and ended up being shipped to the North Pole and left on their own. By the time they were rescued, they were almost all dead. It was really a downer, and I can't give it a rating.

8. Imagine: How Creativity Works, Jonah Lehrer. This is one of those pop psychology books that I saw advertised on Amazon. It was the first book I bought to read on my Kindle Touch. A fun read, and very quotable. I might read it again in a few years.6

9. The Queen of Attolia, Megan Whalen Turner. This sequel to The Thief took me completely by surprise. I didn't realize this kind of fantasy got so good! The first book had some tense moments and some brutality, but who expects a love story to open the way this one did? It's a good thing I got the Kindle version, because apparently the paperback cover gives it away, and I think a lot of the impact comes from that one thing being unexpected. 8

10. The King of Attolia, Megan Whalen Turner. Again, I expected these books to be shallow, but they are not. A very fun read about a foreign king winning the respect and allegiance of his people. I don't remember details much, and I will definitely be reading it again soon. 8

11. Conspiracy of Kings, Megan Whalen Turner. Still good. Not quite as strong as the others. We'll see what happens with the fifth book. I expect great things. I have turned my nose up at series books in the past, but occasionally it's ok to break with principle and read them when they're good. 6

12. Ida B., Katherine Hannigan. An okay middle-grade book about a little girl struggling with family and socialization issues. Maybe I'm too hard on it because I've read so many Newbery books, and it seems like middle-grade publishers all want to put out the same story these days. 3

13. I Am Legend, Richard Matheson. I reviewed this on my blog when I read it. I think it's the only Horror genre book I've read, aside from The Prestige. 6

14. A Posse of Princesses, Sherwood Smith. She knows how to do girl power the right way. It was fun, not only because of the lead girl, but because of the ensemble of supporting characters. 5

15. Wild Swans, Jung Chang. I can't remember if I reviewed this book. It's difficult to describe. It is a three-generational memoir beginning with a warlord's concubine, transitioning into the occupation by the Japanese, to the takeover by the Communists, with a detailed account of how it all worked by one who saw it all and left in early adulthood. Of everything I've read this year, Wild Swans probably had the heaviest impact on my intellectual development. Can't give a rating to a real person's life experiences.

16. Room, Emma Donaghue. Hated it. It could have been a Lifetime movie. Someone told me she liked it because it made her think, and that's fine. I like and respect her, but I don't like being made to think about things so sordid—unless maybe they really happened and it would lead to something useful. In this case, it was just a terrible downer with no merit and no utility. 0.5

17. The Virginian, Owen Wister. Already reviewed it. It's good because it was a first. And because the titular character is so endearing. 5

18. Watercrossing, Krissi Dallas. This is the third in an eight-part series my friend and former coworker is publishing. I was one of her early readers and went to publishing conferences with her during its development, so I am very invested in where the story goes. My friend is extremely charismatic and so talented at coming up with things that grab teenagers and the young at heart. I have fun reading them and love and respect what she is doing with her writing (as in, this is probably the only teen magical realism romance out there that doesn't have any sex or bad language). Also, she is another one of the rare women who truly understands how to do girl power the right way, and I am really looking forward to reading the rest of the series. 6

19. Blackout, Connie Willis. Read it. You will love it. Enough said. 8.5

20. All Clear, Connie Willis. Copy #19. This is not a sequel to Blackout, it is part two of a two-volume book. 8.5

21. Palace of Stone, Shannon Hale. Sometimes one reads too many princess books. I really love Shannon Hale as a writer, but the works that get the attention aren't the good ones. This was a sequel to her Newbery award-winning Princess Academy, which was good as princess books go, but there was no need for a sequel. If you want good Shannon Hale, read The Goose Girl. 3

22. These Is My Words, Nancy Turner. A pioneer story about a spitfire girl who crosses dangerous territory with her family to move to Texas, sustaining heavy losses and going back to Arizona. I liked it, I guess, but her voice was too progressive, and it seemed like somebody died on every other page. 5

23. Bellwether, Connie Willis. This might be my favorite of Connie Willis, not because I think it is the best, but because it is the easiest to read. It's trauma free, and every sentence is witty. I especially love the definitions at the beginning of each section. And, well, everyone knows I like to make fun of trendy people, and that was the whole point of this book. 8

24. Passage, Connie Willis. So beautiful. So traumatic. Wow. 8

25. All About Emily, Connie Willis. I've been told that this one would have been a million times funnier if I had seen All About Eve. But I hadn't, and I still managed to laugh hysterically. 8

26. Crossing to Safety, Wallace Stegner. Book club. I liked it. It was an interesting character study about two married couples and the dynamics of marriages and friendships. 7

27. Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut. Already reviewed. 3

28. Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert. Finally got around to this one. Well, we all know how it ends, more or less, but it was getting there that was so darkly intriguing. It's difficult to love a book about a woman so caught up in story-book romance that she sabotages her own happiness by feeding a loathing for her husband, her child, and everything else in the world that is mundane and uninteresting. There is a reason this one is a classic. 6

29. Pope Joan, Donna Woodfolk Cross. Already reviewed. 6

30. Beau Geste, Percival Christopher Wren. I liked it pretty well. It was good fun; it reminds me a little of The Four Feathers. Those young British hotheads who wanted to be larger than life could only succeed in adventure fiction that is now practically out of print, probably because it was written by a dude who lived in a very racist time and reflected the attitudes of the day. I watched the movie with my mom—she is a Gary Cooper fan. I might have enjoyed it much more if the chaps playing 20-year-olds hadn't been in their late forties. 5

31. Fire and Hemlock, Diana Wynne Jones. A crazy fantasy built around my favorite T.S. Eliot poem, based on Tam Lin, about entrapment and betrayal and all kinds of weird stuff. The ending picked me up by the feet, swung me around in circles, and flung me to the other side of the room. I'm still trying to figure out what happened, and that's the beauty of it. 8

And I am convinced there should be a 32 on this list, but I forgot to add it to my spreadsheet, so that's another book I read that I will never remember. Sad.