Curry

As a former teacher, I feel quite adept at giving grades. I kind of hate doing it, though. Mastery of reading, writing, listening, and speaking is very hard to quantify. But it’s pretty much a law that teachers in public schools have to give grades, so I did it a lot—so much that I sometimes internally grade things in my regular life. The result? A progress report on my new apartment.

Refrigerator: 70
This grade is based on performance, as well as interference in regular daily activities, such as sleeping. Full marks for functionality, but minus 10 for freezing my cottage cheese and minus 20 for making noises that sound like someone breaking and entering through my kitchen window after dark.

Air Conditioning Unit: 80
I started to rate this one lower, but the A/C can’t help the fact that I forget to turn it off sometimes when I leave for work. The minus 20 is actually for rattling the building so violently my closet door clicking up against the sticky paint job in its frame begins to sound like a Harley engine. I generally try not to whine about stuff like this, but when you live by yourself, nights can be a little scary, and any extra noise is unwelcome. Still, an 80 is a B, and I do appreciate having a cool place to live.

And now, on to a list of comparisons for effectiveness at removing the reek of tobacco left behind by the previous resident:

Leaving the windows open: 10
Only effective the moment the window is actually open, thus not so useful when it’s hot outside or when one would like to sleep and feel safe.

Home Fragrance Mist, Kimono Rose: 20
I really like the smell of this stuff, but it fades within half an hour. Plus, it doesn’t smell as good as it did in the store.

Scentsy warmer, Flirtatious, Coconut Lemongrass: 50
I am particularly fond of the Flirtatious smell, too, in spite of the prejudice I feel against it for its ridiculous name. The problem with Scentsy is that the little scented wax bricks don’t last forever, and you can only leave it on for five hours at a time—obviously not when you’re absent. So they’re great when I’m home, but I want something to get rid of the reek that punches me in the face when I walk in the door.

Scentsy warmer, Coconut Lime Verbena: 60
This one gets an extra ten points because it’s very strong. It was much more effective against the smell of eighth graders, though.

Bath and Body Works Scentportable, Pink Sangria, Pink Lemonade: 75
One of these is in my closet, the other is in the living room. They are very nice after they’ve been out for a few days. Eventually I’ll have to replace them. It’s a good thing I got them on sale. I always meant to save them for my car.

Yellow curry, cooked over the stove with garlic, mushrooms, and lentils: 100
What else is there to say? I made dinner earlier this week and thoroughly enjoyed it before putting away the leftovers. I forgot all about it. Then, when I stepped in the door after work for the next two days, all I smelled was curry.

Which of these things does not belong here? There you have it. Even after subtracting points for staining my countertop, thus disqualifying me from reclaiming my cleaning deposit when I move out, curry wins.

☺

Beauty is ...

watching the newest Jane Eyre movie twice in one day. I love this movie so much it's ridiculous. The DVD cover is a disappointment, to be sure, and my sister and I decided a long time ago that sidewhiskers are, without exception, one of those fashions (like bangs from the '80s) that are best forgotten. But I still love it with an immortal passion.

Want v. Need

People usually talk about wants and needs in the context of spending money, but after a discussion with family members yesterday, I'm left with some questions about this dilemma—but referring to doing stuff instead of buying stuff.

They pretty much said all of my problems might be solved (yup) if I could figure out how to turn off my need to be nice.

Apparently most people are nice because they want to be, and I'm nice because I need to be.

Maybe, though, I don't really need to be nice, I just think I do. I'm sure I'm not the only one, which is why I'm blogging about it (although I've said before and will say again that this blog shares entirely too much personal information).

Am I the only one with this problem? Because the truth is that when you're trying to decide how to spend money, or time, or other resources, it's not too hard to distinguish between what you need and what you want. But when it comes to deciding whether you want to do something nice for someone because you want to, or because you need to in order to feel okay with yourself, it gets much trickier. If you try to turn it off, it creates horrible cycles of inward guilt and angst and agony, usually ending in rage.

Then, there is the insulting insinuation that I'm not really nice of my own initiative, but because I have an emotional illness. What can one do to counter that?

I was never a Friends watcher, but I was told about an episode where the Lisa Kudrow character was accused of being selfish because she got so much pleasure out of doing nice things for people, and the point was that there really isn't any way we can do something purely, unconditionally philanthropic because there's always payoff.

I'm afraid I might have meandered a bit too much with this one, but what I really wanted to say was—does it really matter why you do nice things, as long as you're doing them?

Because I'm not that nice to begin with.

The Tree of Life

Terrence Malick. You either love him or don't get him, I think. I've been interested in his films since I fell in love with The New World, which is basically a poem written to Pocahontas and early America in the form of a movie.

Now, I'm usually willing to believe that if most people hate it, it isn't good. But Terrence Malick's films are one exception, particularly The Tree of Life. This was no Where the Wild Things Are. I bring that up because it was another highly anticipated film that a lot of people went to see and walked out booing. To each his own, really, but I was a booer on that one. However, I felt the loud booing and complaining about The Tree of Life was completely unwarranted.

Have you seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It is the closest comparison to The Tree of Life I can come up with. Pretty much a beautiful series of images, with a little bit of dialogue and lots of questions as whispered voiceover, it was graceful and ponderous and stylistically daring. I loved it.

Malick has a way of using actors who are already famous in ways that people aren't used to seeing them—in The New World it was Colin Farrell, Christian Bale, and Christopher Plummer—and mixing them up with unknowns like Q'Orianka Kilcher, whose innocent beauty was enchanting. The Tree of Life claimed to star Brad Pitt and Sean Penn, but the real star was Hunter McCracken, in a performance that leaves almost every child/adolescent actor looking like a piece of candy or a dirty kleenex.

Child actors are an interesting study. For example, Shadowlands is a biopic of C.S. Lewis made several years ago, starring Anthony Hopkins and Deborah Winger. I highly recommend it, but to this day, I'm not sure if Joseph Mazzello was good or if Attenborough just knew how to use a kid in a heck of an effective way. In the case of Hunter McCracken, I'm pretty sure it was both. He had so much screen time it couldn't have been just the stellar directing.

I think that the touch that took it from being just an interesting series of images that were both cleverly and lyrically filmed (can a picture be lyrical? I say yes) to being what Roger Ebert describes as "a film of vast ambition and deep humility, attempting no less than to encompass all of existence and view it through the prism of a few infinitesimal lives ... [with] fierce evocation of human feeling" is the music. Alexandre Desplat did the score, but only a few minutes of that actually made the cut. Most of it was timeless pieces by Holst, Smetana, Berlioz, Mahler, and others, with my personal favorite piece, "Lacrimosa" by Zbigniew Preisner. Just listen to it.

Grief really is the universal theme, and what I liked about this film is that it truly was simply a meditation on the grief one feels over losing a family member—how knowing that life has been going on and on for so long and people have been living and dying for centuries doesn't make any person's individual sorrow any less cosmic. But all the same, life is beautiful regardless of all of that.

It might have been a long, slow, meandering film with a few really strange scenes, but I loved that Malick tackled such a subject, and that he did it with sensitivity and taste.

And then ....

I found $20.

My friend just taught me that phrase. Has it ever happened to you? You've been telling a story, and it's just not going where you expected it to, and the people who are listening are obviously tuning out, their eyes glazing over or searching the room for a polite comment they can make that will serve to distract and interrupt you? You get the hint (duh), and instead of branding yourself forever as the teller of boring stories, you wrap it up quick with a completely unrelated punchline—"And then, I found $20."

Try it. It's brilliant.

Commencement

Who actually likes going to Commencement ceremonies? I don't see any hands raised.

I taught my first class of 8th graders five years ago, and they just graduated on Friday night. Go them! As a token of my sentimental heart, I even braved being in the car for another fifty minute drive (one way) so I could be there.

What I will say for this small town is that they sure know how to put on a graduation. It was outdoors in their stadium, and at the end of May, the weather is usually nice for it—nice for people like me, at any rate, who don't start sweating the second it gets above 70 degrees. The breeze was nice enough to keep things comfortable but not so strong that it messed up my hair. That was a good thing, because I used a flat iron for the first time in about a year.

The other great thing about it was that the wind kept hitting the microphones so we didn't have to hear very much of the speeches. I was slightly disappointed I couldn't hear the salutatorian better, but oh, well. He's a good kid, and I could guess what he said.

And—here's the most remarkable thing—all the administrators and community organization representatives kept their speeches short and sweet! Nothing over five minutes. Wow. It shifted the focus to the actual graduates, who were able to walk leisurely down their strip of track, get their diplomas, hug the announcers, and get their tassels switched.

It was all over in less than 90 minutes. I think that might be record timing.

Nonverbal Punctuation

I just noticed that people punctuate with things like smiley faces [ :) ] and other facial expressions. Our written language is becoming more sophisticated, maybe.

But also more confusing. My 8th graders asked me once why I was using frowny-faces on the dry erase board. It was because I was giving them a dictionary-style definition--

Frown : ( noun ) an unhappy facial expression, otherwise known as a colon and an opening parenthetical mark.

Heavy-handed Metaphors

Amazing Grace is one of my favorite movies. Beautiful story, beautiful script, beautiful acting. It's even based (somewhat loosely—I do so love Rufus Sewell, but he/the writers took some serious liberties with the character of Thomas Clarkson) on true events.

In one of the scenes, Wilberforce and Pitt have a footrace across the yard, with no shoes. At the end, Wilberforce says something about how he can never feel the thorns until he stops running; Pitt replies that he just needs to keep running.

"Is that some heavy-handed metaphorical advice for me, Mr. Pitt?"

How does this apply to today? It doesn't. Not really. I'm always trying to think of fantastic extended spiritual metaphors for my experiences with running. It doesn't work—everything I come up with just sounds pretentious.

So, for the record, I used to have a vague idea that if once I ran a marathon, distance running would forever after become a no-pain, no-sweat walk in the park. Not so. Running is killing me! Sometimes I don't even want to do it.

I had to positive self-talk my way from beginning to end this evening, and it was only 3 miles.

To give myself a little credit, I am learning to run a new way, and it takes its toll on some leg muscles I haven't developed yet. That, and there is the full time job that has to be worked around.

Sometimes I wish I had some heavy-handed metaphorical advice from Billy Pitt. After all, he became Prime Minister at the age of 23.

Style

I am just now reading The Elements of Style, by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White. I wonder, after having this long-standing love affair with words and phrases and clauses and sentences and paragraphs, how I never knew enough to actually read this book.

It seems I thought I didn't need to read it, expert that I am in the mechanics of the written word. Not so. Chock full of examples of such terms as participial phrases, pronominal possessives, and adjectival modifiers, it is every language lover's dream come true.

I think it ought to be required reading for every speaker and writer of the English language.

Are People Getting Crabbier?

The other day I was in CVS buying conditioner and a new scrubby sponge. As I completed my transaction, the line suddenly got really long, and the cashier was visibly stressed. Then a customer came up asking an odd sort of question, saying she had been told by the guy in the back to come to the front. The cashier promptly set her phone to intercom, and yelled into it,

"Raymond, do your job right!"

Wow. I thanked her and gave her a nervous smile before going on my merry way.

I don't condemn, because I have worked in retail before, and it's a tough business, but I really wonder why that's suddenly acceptable behavior when even a few years ago it would probably have gotten her fired.

One of the titles of the TLA workshops was "Are People Getting Crabbier?"

My answer to that is an emphatic YES.

On Books (Part Ten)

I know everyone read my post about meeting Gary Schmidt, so I won't go into that again, but I just finished reading Okay For Now. It was joyous.

Well, mostly. I can't say I don't have reservations about the ending, but overall it was wonderful. You know, that kind of wonderful that makes you laugh out loud (ask D, she heard me over the course of several days) and cry sudden tears.

How the diddly does an author manage to weave Jane Eyre into a story about a teenage boy from a dysfunctional family during the Vietnam Era? I'm not even kidding. I recognized that familiar feeling of angst that you feel when you start reading Jane Eyre—the angst that comes from hearing an intimate first-person account of an abused child who has no-one to turn to and no-one to trust—at the beginning of the book. Little did I know that he was actually going to start quoting Jane Eyre, and that the parallels would spring up multitudinously from that point on.

This is the reason I love Gary Schmidt. He did it with The Wednesday Wars, and he did it again with this one. Great, unpretentious beauty.

That, and the little, ironic jokes he cracks that you might miss if you're not paying attention—so that when you don't miss them, you totally feel like it's an inside joke that very few people even care about—just like my Shakespeare prof used to do back in the college days. And also, even though everything is a little too contrived in these books, I still really enjoy his depiction of kids who don't care about a whole lot finding sudden inspiration and renewed love of life by devoting themselves to unexpected talent in one of the art forms. In The Wednesday Wars it was theatre, and in Okay for Now, it's drawing—which goes right back to Jane Eyre! Doug learns how to draw from one of the public librarians' guidance, combined with his fascination with the works of Audobon. And, because this is Gary Schmidt writing, everything he looks at in the pictures, and everything he draws, has meaning elsewhere in Doug's life—and that's a good thing, because Doug's life was pretty crappy for the most part.

The title of this post leads one to believe that it is about more than one book, which it is. Right about the time I started reading Okay for Now, I also started a new job, which in and of itself is rather wonderful, but I'm not going into that here. The point is that even when you're gainfully employed, finding the time to read isn't that difficult. However, finding the time to read entire books at once sure is.

I can't remember the last time I started reading a book that short (only 360 pages), that I liked that much, and that I was also willing to put down when it came to doing other stuff. It reminds me of when I read The View From Saturday, and around the middle I thought, "Wow, I want to stop reading after this chapter, because I like this book so much I want it to last as many days as I can make it last."

As opposed to, "Wow, this book is so good I'm not going to do anything else until I finish it!"

Do you have those types of thoughts?

Yes, yes. We established a long time ago that I read too many books. But maybe I'll read fewer books now that I edit accounting manuals all day (which is much, much more fun than it sounds—trust me).

Texas Library Association Annual Conference!

What could be more fun than going to Austin to meet up with 6,000 other librarians? It's a great place for meeting up with people and networking, not to mention going to super-fun sessions on various topics such as "Powerpoint on Steroids," helping teachers with research projects, helping students get ready for college, and arranging library programs to encourage kids to read more books. The last one, which I actually attended first, is always a learning experience because even after all these years it still doesn't make sense to me that anyone would need encouragement to read more books—I've been trying to convince myself for years that I need to read fewer books.

The best part is always the book signing. Last year Janeheiress stalked Shannon Hale in order to get her autograph, but I didn't have to resort to author stalking. My awesome friend D and I were wandering around, collecting as many free books as we could get ahold of, when I passed a booth where the attendant was holding up a copy of Gary Schmidt's newest book, Okay For Now.

I said, "Oh, I love Gary Schmidt!"

She said, "He's sitting right there."

Sure enough, he was. Sitting right there. What else was there to do but buy the book and tell him while he signed it how much I (and some of my 8th graders) loved The Wednesday Wars. And as he was handing me back my book, Richard Peck walked up and cracked a joke. It took me a few seconds too long to process that it was Richard Peck, because authors look like normal people and he has a voice like a car salesman, exactly the sort of voice you would expect from a writer of such side-splitting comedies as A Long Way From Chicago and The Teacher's Funeral—if I had realized sooner who it was I would have shook his hand. As it was, I just stared with my mouth open while he walked away, presumably to get some lunch in the crowded and overpriced Exhibition Café (yeah, I bought a vegan wrap and 2 pieces of fruit for $10.75—yummy food, yucky prices).

Another highlight of the week was eating dinner at The Oasis, with a lovely, peaceful view of Lake Travis at sunset. The fish tacos were pretty good, but not as good as the ones I make at home (and where the heck did my modesty and humility run off to?).

I didn't mean this post to feature food so much, but I have to admit that a large portion of how much fun I think I have on a trip out of town is due to how good the food is. What's the point of going to a different city if you can't splurge on stuff you never get at home? So on the last day of the conference, we walked to the crèpe place a few blocks from the conference center. I ordered the Norwegian, and the waitress was so great she let me get rid of the tomato and replace it with asparagus. It was quite wonderful to eat a smoked salmon and asparagus crèpe while sitting outside in the April sunshine.

And finally, what is better than a Belgian waffle maker in your hotel lobby? Well, a Texas-shaped Belgian waffle maker, of course.

Austin is a lovely place. I think I'll go back sometime soon.

Rage

The only way to curb it is to spend a little time at the book store. Who stays mad after browsing the titles of Robert Jordan? Knife of Dreams!

Interesting Juxtaposition

Last night I finished reading Saint Patrick of Ireland, by Philip Freeman, and this evening I finished Alexander the Great: Journey to the End of the Earth, by Norman F. Cantor. It wasn't a deliberate attempt at comparison, just the order in which my requested library materials became available. I stumbled across Saint Patrick while actually browsing for the book on Alexander, which wasn't available at the library, and given that it's March, I thought it would be nice to do some further reading. And Alexander is so often mentioned in discussions regarding ancient history, but I recently realized that in spite, or perhaps because, of a very poorly made documentary I watched, I knew nothing about this man designated as "Great."

What struck me most about the Saint Patrick book was that the author really didn't say much about Patrick. By writing a book about him, he presumes to know quite a bit, but most of the book was phrased along the lines of "Patrick might have done _____ during _____ (insert a 50-year range)." It's nice to be honest and approach a subject cautiously, but if halfway through your research you realize you don't have enough substance to write a decent book with a reasonable amount of factual information, do your future readers a favor and give up for something more worthwhile. Don't just fill in the gaps with cheap shots at other historians much more entertaining than yourself. Yes, I am referring to the ever-popular Cahill, who write How the Irish Saved Civilization, because even though the premise of his book was a little off and the Irish didn't exactly "save civilization," it was such an absorbing read, and full of some great trivia. However, the one thing that came across very strong in Freeman's book was the translation of Patrick's Letters and Confession. His fervent zeal for the souls he was converting is refreshing, considering that the Christian church at the time was generally financially driven. For a man to seek an official position in the church not for temporal security or tax exemptions, but as the means of bringing the Gospel of Jesus Christ as he knew it to the nation that enslaved him in his youth, well, it's touching and inspiring. His love for the people he converted was so evident in his letters.

Alexander's biography was much more interesting, because the author stuck to facts throughout, only delving into speculation in the final chapter, in which he pondered the numerous ways Alexander had a lasting impact on the world—a legitimate activity, considering Alexander's empire, and six of the seven cities he formed and named after himself, collapsed almost immediately after his death at the young age of thirty-three. What was really cool is that I also just finished watching a six-part documentary on the history of India, and Alexander's conquest effectually ended there.

I'm not so sure about all this reading of ancient history. It's pretty horrible to contemplate that even the "Golden Age" of Classicism celebrated brutality and abuse in numerous forms, or at the least turned a blind eye on appalling social injustice. Men's rights were regularly trampled on, not to mention the fact that women and children had no recognizable rights at all. And they had some seriously gross rituals and customs. I might say something to the effect that it makes me grateful I live in a modern age, which would be unequivocally true, but it also gives me reason to ponder human nature and why societies end up with horrible traditions like the ones I've been reading. No specific answers yet.

Les Mis

Les Miserables is the best musical ever. Not objectively, really, but I think a lot of people would say it is. Its popularity is so overwhelming that even after it has closed multiple times on broadway, the public still loves it. I've been a fan ever since sophomore year of high school, when marching band did a very odd, cut up version of it on the field which, in retrospect, was very bad. I remember the announcer's proud statement that "Attack on Rue Plumet" depicts a famous battle in the French Revolution ... inward bleeding ensues, as that particular song is about a contemplated street robbery by a band of thugs, and the story itself has nothing whatsoever to do with the French Revolution. Well, it served its purpose. I checked out the Original Cast Recording from the library, read the libretto, learned all the real songs, read the unabridged novel the following year, and saw the stage tour the year following that (even in the nosebleeds, I cried buckets when Gavroche died). Beautiful story. Beautiful message. Beautiful, if loose, adaptation to stage.

This is why PBS aired yet another Les Miserables in Concert special recently. I saw the one they did fifteen or so years ago. Dad and I watched some of it last night, and now I need to say my piece so I can get over it.

First of all, I really wonder who was in charge and what they were on when they decided to cast Nick Jonas as Marius. I'm perfectly willing to have an open mind about the so-called talent of former Disney Channel stars, and I'm sure part of it was motivated by a desire to reach a younger, hipper audience, but it was hard to listen to even a few words come out of his mouth without cringing. And Eponine? It's possible she might be half American and half British, but there's no excuse to switch back and forth with the accent. I'm probably really hard on put-on accents. Back in college, a lovely production of "An Ideal Husband" was very nearly spoiled for me because whoever played Sir Robert couldn't do his accent right. But this Eponine had more than just an accent problem going against her. Her delivery was off, big time, and she had a Keira Knightly complex with her lips. The two of them muddling their way through Eponine's death scene got so painful we just skipped to the next song. Cosette was okay, I guess, and I know this is mean spirited, but when the girl who plays the beautiful damsel in distress looks like a blond-haired beaver it's a little distracting.

The big chorus parts were a trainwreck, particularly "One Day More," which is usually one of my favorites. I don't know exactly why it failed so miserably; something was off with the tempo and the different parts couldn't seem to balance right, but it was more than that.

The really puzzling thing was that as spot-off as so many of the parts were, three of the most important parts were spot-on. I've heard a lot of different Jean Valjeans, and most of them were quite good, but none of them were as good as this particular guy. His performance of "Bring Him Home" was practically flawless—such a sonorous voice, with beautiful delivery. And Javert, even though his recitative was a little delayed, had some serious power. He might have been better singing a bass part, but I still enjoyed him. Finally, Lea Salonga, who played Eponine the last time someone tried something like this, was re-cast as Fantine. And yup, she's still just as good as when she was Eponine, Mulan, Miss Saigon, and even Princess Jasmine. I love her.

It really makes me wonder. If Nick Jonas is the future of the stage musical ...

Born to Run

I just finished reading Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall. Wow!

Some people you meet are just really hard core, and this book was all about them. Except for excessive quotations of people dropping the f-bomb, I highly recommend it to everyone.

McDougall tells a meandering story that doesn't really even seem like a story because he goes off on so many tangents, but they all sort of tie together in the end—at a showdown race featuring some of the greatest distance runners of the Western hemisphere, in the middle of nowhere. He's a journalist and writes like a journalist (although his is of the magazine style, which still has creative integrity, as opposed to the newspaper style, which is really an anti-style): sensationalist, hyperbolic, and full of narrative cliché. In spite of it, and even because of it, I was completely absorbed from start to finish.

The major question he wanted answered from the start was really why so many doctors tell people that running is bad for them. He was an athlete who jumped from sport to sport and never encountered any problem until he attempted distance running. In search of a cure for the pain, he began to wonder if running really is so bad, why do some of the healthiest people in the world run so much and never get injured.

What's not to love about a book full of ultra-running anecdotes including barefoot running, vegan diets, beat poetry addicts, crack-pot scientists in search of the key to the reason humans have survived so successfully as a species, and Bushmen hunting parties; centered around a fighter who dropped out of time and memory for a life of solitary running all over the mountains and canyons of southern Mexico, scores of miles away from even a telephone?

It makes me want to go for extreme living. I thought I was pretty hot stuff for having run a marathon, but reading Born to Run has made me realize that a marathon is just ho-hum old news to these people. Last night, motivated by what I had read so far, I went for my very first run in my Vibram five finger toe shoes—I even went without my headphones, and didn't even miss them. People say when you run "barefoot" for the first time your calves get really sore, so I opted to do only a mile. I felt so great after a mile that I didn't want to quit. Alas, it was getting dark and I had told my brother that if I didn't return in less than 15 minutes he had to come looking for me. So I did one extra block and went in, but I'm so excited about those shoes!

And I'm excited to have new stuff to think about as a result of reading the book. Thank you, Heather, for the book recommendation. Stellar, as usual.

Creepy

So last night a friend posted on Facebook that she wanted someone to go kayaking with her today. I was so there.

The unfortunate thing about having pulled off a feat like running a marathon is you start to think you're invincible or something. We took off in the kayaks on the lake. I was a little less than enthusiastic about the particular lake, given that it has a terrible reputation for being polluted and dirty and a dumping ground for all kinds of nasty things—as well as a habitat for alligators and poisonous snakes. However, my person was not actually going to be in the lake.

Well ...

Everything started out fine, I guess. I couldn't figure out why my kayak insisted on veering to the left the entire time, but I just used my buff muscles to keep it in check. It's kind of a windy day, but I love wind, and waves are pretty cool too.

We got pretty far out, and then found a little cove where the water was calm. That was actually when I started to get nervous, because we kept seeing little circles of bubbles, and both of us felt something (not a rock) bang against our oars at some point.

I was glad to be heading back, even though it was against the wind.

A heavy wind combined with a rather large wave, and this clumsy redhead fell into the lake. The middle of it. Nowhere near the shore. Actually, that was probably a good thing, as I didn't want to risk a run-in with any water moccasins or alligators.

Panic at a time like that can kind of paralyze you. The odd thing is I don't usually panic. Unless large bodies of water are involved. I'm steeling myself for the nightmares I'm going to have tonight. Okay, I take that back. I do panic. I remember beginning to panic last week when I thought for a moment a friend and I were stuck in an elevator. But not nearly as much as I panicked when I fell into the lake and started drowning.

I used to be enough of a swimmer to keep myself alive. I also used to float a lot more easily. I'm going to take that latter as proof that my body fat percentage has been drastically reduced.

The bottom line is, there I was in the middle of the lake, drowning. I don't know how one climbs back into a kayak in the middle of a lake, so I did what any reasonable person would do—I screamed for help. But I have one of those voices that don't carry. At all. When I used to want to get the attention of my middle school kids, I'd raise my pitch rather than my volume. You can't raise your pitch when you're drowning in a lake. After two or three attempts to call out to my friend, she turned back and saw that I was in the middle of the lake.

The only thing I could do was grab on to the back of her kayak, leave mine behind, and try to row back to shore. After about 30 minutes (during which I clung to a hook on the back of her kayak, floating on my back with my legs hooked around the back of it and desperately terrified I was either going to swallow some of the nasty lake water or be attacked by an alligator), we got to a place with a ladder up to a little dock. A really nice man gave us a ride back to where we parked.

Just a few more problems. First, I was going into hypothermia. I think. When my friend suggested that, I laughed, but apparently it's not a laughing matter. Even after a very hot shower and some dry clothes, my lips were blue and I couldn't stop shaking. Second problem, the kayak.

When it dumped me out, it also dumped my flip-flops. Can you imagine being a boater, going out onto the lake and seeing a tumped-over kayak and a pair of foam flip-flops? I'd be worried there was a body nearby. So the police were called, and they referred my friend to the Lake Patrol, who very kindly made sure everyone was okay then went out in their boat to fetch the abandoned kayak.

About the time she went to meet them and get it back, I had finally stopped shivering and relaxed enough to have some fruit snacks and watch Spirited Away.

I'm really looking forward to summertime, when the livin' is easy.

I Was A Fan

This morning, a great soul was put to rest, and he will be greatly mourned by his fans.

Because cats know that the only proper feeling a person should have for them is adoration.

My kitty died this morning, so I'm feeling sad. I'm resorting to a flippant blog post to keep the tears back. He was fifteen years old. I usually get really annoyed when people grieve in public over their pets; other people's beloved Fluffies and Barkleys and Harleys don't mean anything to me, and I always had a prideful sense of the superiority of my own pet. But I'm just like everybody else after all.

He hated kids and almost always bit them if they got within a few feet of him. He liked to make really unearthly yowls when he was in a room by himself. He treated my sister like he was her abusive boyfriend (he stalked her, got jealous of her friends, got vengeful when she didn't go to bed when he thought she should, and even threw up in her boyfriend's prom shoe out of spite). He wouldn't come when he was called, but he would come when he heard that characteristic rip of a string cheese being opened. His favorite place to sleep was in a basket of towels, straight out of the dryer. He had a strange thing for Crayola markers, and I will never forget having to explain to my history teacher that my cat ate my poster. In his later years, he became a lap cat, and he kept me company through a lot of graduate school assignments.

And I have enough kitty fur on my clothes to keep me from forgetting him for several years, just in case I ever would.

Connections

I'm feeling a major let-down after running that marathon a while back. It's not the greatest thing for your mental energy to go from running 30+ miles every week to running zero. Or, in the case of this week, eleven. Poor me. I'm so out of shape.

Because I've been out every evening for one thing or another (gosh, this unemployment business is getting busier and busier!), I haven't cooked anything all week. So my best solution was to get my brother to help me make cookies. I thought it would be a good idea to add some marshmallows to an already yummy chocolate-peanut-buttery glob of stuff that's really not healthy.

Unfortunately, marshmallows make cookies go pfthththth ....

In Brother's immortal words, they look like bird turds.

But now we have this fabulous idea to crumble them up and mix them in with some homemade chocolate ice cream.Yes, there is a major reason why exercise must be a vital part of my life.

So, on to another subject. I don't generally think it's a good idea to write blog entries of this type, but I think this one will be okay. I hope it comes across in the spirit of fun and slight self-mockery I intend it to, as opposed to a package of whining. Few things are worse than people whose online presence consists of nothing but a whining pity-party.

First, I ask a question: isn't the whole point of having a closet to have a space where you can put all the stuff you don't want anyone to see?

I don't necessarily have skeletons in my closet, but I do have dirty gym clothes and a disorganized pile of odds and ends. It mystifies certain Rational family members that I don't really like it when people go in there; it has become a very emotional issue of late, as we have been undergoing quite a lot of home maintenance, and the only entrance to the attic is—you guessed it—through the ceiling of my closet.

It also happens that I have a lot of clothes that don't go in the dryer, and I had them hung up to dry on hangers in the closet doorway while I went for a brief trip out of town. Who should come over while I was gone, but our A/C guys? Not only did they remove my clothes in such a way that got them covered with attic mess, but the attic mess was all over the floor—not just in and around the closet.

Aaargh!

While I know it's no-one's particular fault, and no-one is specifically out to get me, I still felt violated. I went into the depths of despair and started feeling like a loser because I don't have a job and I just can't get my cover letter right.

What does not having a job have to do with the maintenance dudes messing up my closet and interrupting the drying of my clothes? Absolutely nothing.

Here's the point of this story. When I told my mother, she totally got it. No long drawn-out attempt to make sense of that connection was even necessary.

She is priceless.

You look so ... so .... stoopud.

I read a comment on a blog one time about Jane Eyre, where the poster said something to the effect of, What's not to like about a story where two ugly people get together?

Indeed.

I'm sure I've written a review of Jane Eyre before, I just don't remember when or where. It might have even been on my blog. Perhaps the old blog that I deleted a few years ago. However, as many reviews as I've already written (in theory), I am going to write another one. Haters should stop reading here, because Jane Eyre is still my favorite book.

It must be admitted that I loved Jane Eyre at the age of fourteen because it was the first literary romance I ever read. I knew nothing of the story—nothing. A local bookstore was closing, and my parents were of the opinion that bookstores and libraries were capital places to spend Family Home Evening. I was perusing, and my mother held up a copy of the book that was to change my life forever. A Puffin Classic, with a purple cover and a picture of a rather gothic-looking mansion and a long-dressed, bonnet-clad girl in front of it. And stormy skies behind. Who could resist?

Well, probably a lot of people could have, but not this budding literary, sentimental mind of mine.

I took it home and proceeded to stay up all night reading it. Thus, the creation of a very bad habit I have yet to break ...

It was just so good. I got caught up in the suspense, not being of that class of people who figure out the ending of a story five minutes in and then just complain of its predictability throughout the rest of it. I suppose the story is pretty predictable, knowing what I know now and having read the book about twelve times.

What does predictability matter, though, when the story is full of such overblown passion? I didn't catch any of the allusions, as I was still largely unaware of them as literary devices in the first place. But it is peppered with talk of the most exciting stories from the Bible, from Greek myth, from Persian literature, and Shakespeare, and ancient history, and science, and folklore. Even at fourteen, I sensed class, even if I couldn't identify it.

So I've discussed in a little too much depth what I thought of it at fourteen. How do I justify cherishing such a passion for this washed-out, over-adapted piece of melodrama?

It's all in the characters, of course. As a reader is meant to, I identify with Jane. Not with being "poor, obscure, plain, and little" because I'm not exactly that, but with feeling a constant battle between what I ought to do and what I want to do. At one point, Rochester said Jane "mutinied against fate"—what an interesting concept. So many stories are built upon the idea of an inescapable fate, and it seems that Charlotte Brontë's entire aim was to prove that there is no such thing, and that fate and religion (or, in Victorian vernacular, "divine providence") are impossible to reconcile. Adherence to the laws of God frees the human soul from any oppressive fate a person might feel bound to.

What a character Rochester is. (On a side note, I am now dying to see the new movie. I used to think Toby Stephens was the most fabulous casting choice anyone could have made, but when I read the part where Jane is at Gateshead and lonely and bored and starts to sketch Rochester's face, she actually described none other than Michael Fassbender. I wonder if he'll be any good.) He's such a moral mess, but he somehow makes you like him anyway, because he never tries to hide the fact that he had a succession of three very wicked relationships with very stupid women; and he saw through the superficial pride and arrogance of people like Blanche Ingram. He always had good intentions—he was just too romantic and impulsive and gregarious to go without. It's interesting how little is said about his youth, etc. but you get the impression that he was very spoiled. He is, and he never forgets it. What I really like the best about him is that he is always willing to admit when he is wrong, and willing to make amends to people when he hurts them. I think his feelings and behavior towards Adèle made an impression on Jane—his insistence that the right thing to do would be to take responsibility for her and do what he could to make her happy and healthy, in spite of his dislike of her and his distaste for the memories she invokes. It is a stark contrast to how Jane's aunt Reed treated her when she was an unwanted, friendless orphan.

As for the much-neglected St. John Rivers, I had some very interesting insights as I read about him this time. I wonder—Jane decided that it would be just as wicked to counterfeit romantic love in order to marry someone for reasons of propriety as it would be to counterfeit marriage in order to have a romantic relationship. And St. John was much more manipulative than Rochester was; he would have married her so she could be part of his own glory and ambition, rather than for the honest belief that she would be happy with him. He used every trick in the book to get her to bend to his will, from playing on her insecurities about her personal appearance, to passive-aggressive silence, to twisting her own words to imply a promise she had not really given, to forceful, almost physically violent entreaty. Compared to him, Rochester really is kind and sweet. People are fascinating. I could imagine meeting people like that.

I could keep going, but I think I've written quite enough for the present. I'm glad, though, that I read it again and could rediscover its genius.