My computer is currently playing host to a rather fearsome and unrelenting virus, so I haven't had much time or opportunity to post. Several things have happened which warrant scrutiny.
The first of which was a little altercation at work, for which I got suspended. Nothing too serious. A bad day lead to several complaints about me, and as this was not my first transgression but my third, I was suspended for several days. Coworkers, even my managers, I think, thought I was going to be angry, but the funny thing was I wasn't upset, not even a little. I spent the days I would have been working applying for jobs. I haven't heard anything back, but I am hopeful.
Mostly my time away from work made me realize that I have been working over ten months at a job I thought I would be working at for only a few months, max. It made me wonder what I am doing with my life. I was going to work at the grocery store while I applied at other jobs, but the week before last, when this all occurred, was the first time in months I've filled out an application. I have to be diligent about this. I can pretend that I'm happy, or that this job is fine for me. It isn't, or obviously I wouldn't have so many customers complaining about me. I am going to find another job, one that makes me happy, or, at least, one I can stand.
Another thing that happened is that my cat of 19 years was put to sleep yesterday. He was 19 years old, and my family has had him since I was a little girl. He used to sleep in my room every night. We always shared a special bond. The worst part was, I didn't even get to see him before they put him to sleep, it all happened too fast. I haven't seen him since August. Part of me feels like I betrayed him by leaving home and not taking him with me, but of course he wasn't really my cat, he was my parents'.
Part of me also wishes I could have been there. It's a horrible feeling, someone you love dying so far from you. I could have been there when they did it, maybe it would have brought him some comfort, to know someone who loved him was close by, or at least another person who loved him; my family was there too. I'm glad he isn't suffering anymore, and I know there's nothing I could have done. I know I am feeling the same helplessness everyone goes through when they lose someone. I hope he knows I love him very much.
I feel like a sap getting all emotional about an animal. But he wasn't just an animal to me. He was my friend when I didn't have any. I will miss him.
Other than that, not much has happened. I have read a few books, The Bridges of Madison County, How the Garcia Girls Lost their Accents and another I can't remember right now. I am now reading Snow by Orhan Pamuk, the Nobel Prize winner, and The Stone Diaries by Joyce Carol Oates. Both are likely to take me quite a while, as they are kind of long, and both are quite dense in style. Expect progress reports sometime this month.
Also considering starting another blog, even though I clearly have trouble keeping up with one, but this would be a much more focused blog, chronicling all the concerts my boyfriend and I attend. Maybe a concert/night life blog. I'm still thinking about it. I don't want to over commit myself.
I am pretty sure no one is reading this blog, but if you have any thoughts, please be sure to let me know.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Currently Reading:
Everyone Worth Knowing by Lauren Weisberger.
Okay, guilty as charged. I read chick lit. What inspired me to write this confessional post (besides my anonymity, which everyone knows is a crucial part of recovery) was the character in the book, Bette, who has just confessed her own addiction to romance novels. It got me thinking about our bad literary habits. Mark Twain said that the man who reads bad books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them, or something like that. So, read Moby Dick or stop reading completely?
I've always believed the opposite. I remember learning about so called "urban lit" in college, pulp fiction for the urban community, in the same league with chick lit and romance novels. It would be so easy to write it off as trashy, and yet I can't help but remember that science fiction used to be to literature what chick lit is today. Comic books used to be considered a waste of time, and now we have Watchmen by Alan Moore, one of Time's 100 Best Novels.
Maybe chick lit and urban lit are still just getting a foothold, written by authors still developing their art. Maybe quality is all in the eye of the beholder. Either way, Everyone Worth Knowing could lead to Where the Heart Is could lead to Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe could lead to The House on Mango Street. Who gets to say where the line between chick lit and women's literature falls? Let's just remember, we all started off reading Curious George and Winnie the Pooh.
Okay, guilty as charged. I read chick lit. What inspired me to write this confessional post (besides my anonymity, which everyone knows is a crucial part of recovery) was the character in the book, Bette, who has just confessed her own addiction to romance novels. It got me thinking about our bad literary habits. Mark Twain said that the man who reads bad books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them, or something like that. So, read Moby Dick or stop reading completely?
I've always believed the opposite. I remember learning about so called "urban lit" in college, pulp fiction for the urban community, in the same league with chick lit and romance novels. It would be so easy to write it off as trashy, and yet I can't help but remember that science fiction used to be to literature what chick lit is today. Comic books used to be considered a waste of time, and now we have Watchmen by Alan Moore, one of Time's 100 Best Novels.
Maybe chick lit and urban lit are still just getting a foothold, written by authors still developing their art. Maybe quality is all in the eye of the beholder. Either way, Everyone Worth Knowing could lead to Where the Heart Is could lead to Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe could lead to The House on Mango Street. Who gets to say where the line between chick lit and women's literature falls? Let's just remember, we all started off reading Curious George and Winnie the Pooh.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
New books, concert tickets
Went to Westport today to pick up concert tickets from somebody my boyfriend got a hold of through Facebook. Felt shitty all day at work, after waking up at nine with a sore throat. When I took a glimpse at my tonsils in the mirror, I swear to God, they were so swollen they were touching in the middle of my throat (yikes/please shoot me). Some hot tea w/ honey, four ibuprofen and some salt water gargle (thanks Mom) got me ready to rejoin civilized society. Slumped through the workday like a zombie. Actually almost fell asleep on drive to work. When I was finally released from my cash register, I drove home, fully prepared to fall asleep and not wake up until Judgment Day. When I got home, however, J was waiting for me, with the news that he had picked up the tickets due to a stomach ache(eyes roll like cue balls) and now he had to go to work, and could I please drive downtown to meet his concert ticket contact. He called her and arranged a meeting near one of my favorite bookstores, so I agreed to go in exchange for $20 to spend on books. Good trade, in my book.
Speaking of books, bought six: How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents Julia Alvarez (have read her In the Time of the Butterflies, which was v. good, The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood (have read this and Cat's Eye, very intriguing author), Possession by A.S. Byatt (to be honest, I have never heard of this book, but the jacket description looked interesting and it was v. inexpensive), Snow by Orhan Pamuk (just finished My Name Is Read and I thought it was phenomenal), The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller (one of my mother's favorite books, and she did tell me about the salt gargle thing), and by Lauren Waisberger (she wrote The Devil Wears Prada. Nothing wrong with a little chick lit, as long as you don't make a habit of it.)
At the moment, though, I am halfway through The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards, which I was only mildly impressed by when I first began it, but am now quite taken with. The book starts out in 1964 (and I love her portrayal of this time period) and centers around a doctor's choice to split up his twin children, keeping the son to raise and sending the girl to an institution because she has Down's syndrome. The setting is key to this choice, I feel, because if the story had taken place today, the doctor would be demonized for his insensitivity. But when we surround this act with the era, which is a different world, medically, and, as Edwards shows, socially. Edwards's story shows the effect this decision has on the doctor, his wife (who is told the baby girl died), their son, the nurse who takes the daughter in, the nurse's husband and friends, and the daughter herself. So far I am really liking this book. Tomorrow I want to blog about Edward's technique and what I can learn from it. Any thoughts?
Speaking of books, bought six: How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents Julia Alvarez (have read her In the Time of the Butterflies, which was v. good, The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood (have read this and Cat's Eye, very intriguing author), Possession by A.S. Byatt (to be honest, I have never heard of this book, but the jacket description looked interesting and it was v. inexpensive), Snow by Orhan Pamuk (just finished My Name Is Read and I thought it was phenomenal), The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller (one of my mother's favorite books, and she did tell me about the salt gargle thing), and by Lauren Waisberger (she wrote The Devil Wears Prada. Nothing wrong with a little chick lit, as long as you don't make a habit of it.)
At the moment, though, I am halfway through The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards, which I was only mildly impressed by when I first began it, but am now quite taken with. The book starts out in 1964 (and I love her portrayal of this time period) and centers around a doctor's choice to split up his twin children, keeping the son to raise and sending the girl to an institution because she has Down's syndrome. The setting is key to this choice, I feel, because if the story had taken place today, the doctor would be demonized for his insensitivity. But when we surround this act with the era, which is a different world, medically, and, as Edwards shows, socially. Edwards's story shows the effect this decision has on the doctor, his wife (who is told the baby girl died), their son, the nurse who takes the daughter in, the nurse's husband and friends, and the daughter herself. So far I am really liking this book. Tomorrow I want to blog about Edward's technique and what I can learn from it. Any thoughts?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Day off- quest to purchase concert tickets
Found myself with little to do on my day off. Laundry is clean, house is (reasonably) orderly. I have already finished the DVD set of Heroes season 3 I purchased not too long ago. Knew I should go to the gym, haven't been since Thursday (yikes!) but didn't have the energy. $60 from J (my boyfriend) were sitting on the nightstand, above a note: "Please pick up from Ticketmaster booth at Macy's- 2 tickets to see Brand New at the Aragon Ballroom on Oct. 3. Love you." J and his dad are visiting Chicago that weekend, a retirement present to his father, and concert and baseball would provide the entertainment. Knowing how much it means to him, I pulled myself out of bed and to the car, stopping in the kitchen for a pb and j.
Macy's, in the dinky little "mall" about ten minutes from my house. Used to be busy, thriving. Now the Macy's is the only store with a commercial pulse in the wreckage that used to be a shopping mall. Shopping malls, the ghost towns of our generation.
I parked outside the Macy's, made my way to the second floor, where the directory promises me the Ticketmaster dwells. Turns out, the directory lies. The sales associate outside furniture informs me they no longer have a Ticketmaster. The booth that used to house said entertainment monopolist informs me that the Henhouse (one word or two? not sure) on Chatham has what I need. A brief consultation of a map, and I am back on the road.
At the Hen House, I stand in line at Customer Service behind a character frequent at all grocery stores, including the one at which I work: the overly chatty customer who needs nothing from you. He is not going to make a purchase, you answered her question fifteen minutes ago, and yet there he or she still stands, in your line as the customers behind him or her get more and more impatient. Which do you do: continue to indulge Chatty Cathy at the expensive of your future, actual customers' good moods, or interrupt Gossip Jim and risk ruffling his feathers? An impossible choice. So I wait patiently like I would want my customers to do until Cathy decides she has talked the cashier's ear off for just long enough and goes her merry way.
I step up to the counter, note in hand. The cashier thanks me for my patience. His name tag reads Bryan. I can't stand it when people feel the need to randomly convert is to ys, but ignore this for the moment. He thanks me for waiting, asks how he can help me. I inform him of my wishes: two tickets to see Brand New at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago on Oct. 3.
"Gee," he actually said "gee", "that show appears to be all sold out. Sorry." "You're sure?" I ask him, just in case he misread the computer screen. I know, it's dumb, but I came all the way out here!
"No luck." I thank him and leave, wondering if I should be more annoyed at having been lead on this wild goose chase, or sympathetic to J that he won't be able to go to the show with his father. I shrug. There's always the Cubs.
Macy's, in the dinky little "mall" about ten minutes from my house. Used to be busy, thriving. Now the Macy's is the only store with a commercial pulse in the wreckage that used to be a shopping mall. Shopping malls, the ghost towns of our generation.
I parked outside the Macy's, made my way to the second floor, where the directory promises me the Ticketmaster dwells. Turns out, the directory lies. The sales associate outside furniture informs me they no longer have a Ticketmaster. The booth that used to house said entertainment monopolist informs me that the Henhouse (one word or two? not sure) on Chatham has what I need. A brief consultation of a map, and I am back on the road.
At the Hen House, I stand in line at Customer Service behind a character frequent at all grocery stores, including the one at which I work: the overly chatty customer who needs nothing from you. He is not going to make a purchase, you answered her question fifteen minutes ago, and yet there he or she still stands, in your line as the customers behind him or her get more and more impatient. Which do you do: continue to indulge Chatty Cathy at the expensive of your future, actual customers' good moods, or interrupt Gossip Jim and risk ruffling his feathers? An impossible choice. So I wait patiently like I would want my customers to do until Cathy decides she has talked the cashier's ear off for just long enough and goes her merry way.
I step up to the counter, note in hand. The cashier thanks me for my patience. His name tag reads Bryan. I can't stand it when people feel the need to randomly convert is to ys, but ignore this for the moment. He thanks me for waiting, asks how he can help me. I inform him of my wishes: two tickets to see Brand New at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago on Oct. 3.
"Gee," he actually said "gee", "that show appears to be all sold out. Sorry." "You're sure?" I ask him, just in case he misread the computer screen. I know, it's dumb, but I came all the way out here!
"No luck." I thank him and leave, wondering if I should be more annoyed at having been lead on this wild goose chase, or sympathetic to J that he won't be able to go to the show with his father. I shrug. There's always the Cubs.
First post!
My Reading under a Pseudonym blog is under way! This is where I will discuss what I am reading/writing/experiencing. I was inspired by two people. One is the anonymous blogger behind "Writing under a Pseudonym," at http://jadepark.wordpress.com/. This is a wonderful blog I have been reading for a couple of years. Writing uses her blog as a way to work through issues she is having with her writing (she is currently hard at work on a novel, for which I wish her all the best). Sometimes she writes little creative writing exercises. Reading her blog has been therapeutic for me, like auditing a creative writing course.
The other person who inspired me to start this blog was Sylvia Plath. I had always been interested in her poetry, and her novel The Bell Jar, but I recently stumbled upon her journals, which delight me with their witty, sardonic quips. Sylvia used her journals not as a diary, in which one confides their innermost thoughts and feelings, but as a log. She recounted events in her own unique voice, not always truthfully, storing them away to form a garden of events, characters, and settings for later works of fiction. When she started to write The Bell Jar, it was all there in her journal, the starting ground for her wonderful novel. She was rigorous in her writing, writing in her journal daily. This is the goal I set for myself.
The other person who inspired me to start this blog was Sylvia Plath. I had always been interested in her poetry, and her novel The Bell Jar, but I recently stumbled upon her journals, which delight me with their witty, sardonic quips. Sylvia used her journals not as a diary, in which one confides their innermost thoughts and feelings, but as a log. She recounted events in her own unique voice, not always truthfully, storing them away to form a garden of events, characters, and settings for later works of fiction. When she started to write The Bell Jar, it was all there in her journal, the starting ground for her wonderful novel. She was rigorous in her writing, writing in her journal daily. This is the goal I set for myself.
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