There are many books that I love as if they were my family. I smile when I think of them, I like to keep them nearby, I touch them lovingly, and sometimes I squeeze them in a hug.
Many of these are classics from childhood that I still reread, like A Wrinkle in Time and Anne of Green Gables, or the books my school librarian started pressing on me once we became friends, like Jane Eyre, Little Women, and Pride and Prejudice. These books were sort of like big sisters to me--they made me want to be better or smarter or more brave and capable, and they were the books that pulled me along the path that ended up in writing seminars in college, and with a B.A. in "English Writing: Fiction" and dreams of time spent in the Iowa writers' colony.
Despite the hours of scribbling and daydreams, I never published any fiction, and I stopped writing it soon after college when rent and car insurance became more pressing realities. My dreams of being a novelist weren't truly put to rest, though, until I read A.S. Byatt's Possession.
Up until the time I read Possession, I had always read for pleasure thinking, "I could do this. I can write at least this well." (Before you laugh at my hubris, though, please note that I wasn't entirely off my rocker--these delusions of grandeur never approached things I read for school, like Shakespeare or Conrad. I thought my writing writing was competent compared to a lot of the stuff I read for fun. Okay? Are we clear? I was deluded, but not insane.)
Anyway, Posession was the first modern book I read that blew me away. I knew as I read that I couldn't hold a candle to Byatt's talent, and I was humbled and amazed. There have been other books like it, by authors like Salman Rushdie and David Mitchell, and I just came across a new one.
Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog is beautiful and subtle, but fun and compelling and delicious and French (in the flavor of Sartre's novels and Bonjour Triste), and it made me laugh and think and stop and wonder and . . . when I finished reading it, I hugged it to my chest and cried.
I got it from the library, but I'm going to pick up my own copy when I go out later today. This book just married into my family, and needs to be kept close.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
TMI?
In August of 1986 I was a wee cheerleader, fifteen and barely five-foot-two, dating my very first serious boyfriend, a seventeen-year-old football player who towered over me by almost a foot. He was about to be a senior and I was about to be a sophomore, and he was as new to being in a “real” relationships as I was.
He was a football player—a sweet and hilarious wide receiver, bright and kind enough to make up for the fact that he wasn’t especially handsome. Our football program was all about the running game, so the fact that he was a decent receiver meant little—he was a minor player on the team. I was a lowly tenth grader with stringy hair, bad skin, suspiciously good grades and too much interest in reading; I was totally a minor player on the cheerleading squad, there because I had rhythm and could do gymnastics, not because I was pretty or popular.
I tell you these things so you don’t see the words cheerleader and football player and get all glassy-eyed and bored, and automatically cast us in the Silhouette Romances you read in seventh grade. We were pretty much as far from Ken and Barbie as it was possible to be while still having a place in the margins of the toy box. I had great legs, true, but I wore bad make-up and spent too much time thinking everyone was an idiot, and he was a senior and had a car, but he also had a mullet and a mother who made him wear an ugly scarf with his letterman’s jacket, to keep him from catching cold.
He wore Polo cologne and chewed Big Red gum, and the music I think of when I think of him is from the Beastie Boys, Run DMC, and Bon Jovi. How he loved that my name showed up in one of their songs—he had a terrible singing voice, but would screech it at the top of his lungs.
I loved him. I really did, and I know he loved me. We always had fun together, and in August of 1986, after we’d been together for several months and he’d given me his class ring (and I think he had mine, too, because that’s what was done at the time), I decided that we should lose of virginity together.
Seriously—it was all my idea. He didn’t mind, of course, although he never pressured me as we felt our way around the various bases. I was terribly curious about it, and wanted to know what the big deal was about, but the thing that put me over the edge and made me sure I wanted to Do It was another couple, L and D. They were both seniors and had been together forever. He was a fierce running back and a star, and she was a blond and pretty cheerleader. (They were a kind of Mountain version of Barbie and Ken—he was tough, bearded, and Bronco-driving and she had a mouth like a truck driver, but they were indeed attractive and popular.) I admired L, the girl, who was goofy and funny and always seemed to be having a great time, but I was a little afraid of D and his muscles and glowering.
One day, though, during two-a-days, the twice daily football (and cheerleading) practices that were held during the two weeks before school started, L and D were goofing off in the parking lot at lunch when L fell down in some gravel and scraped her knee. I will never forget seeing D swoop over her, lift her up like she was a little kid, and run her into the school and to the nurse’s office. He was so tender and competent in that moment, and I knew I wanted to have a relationship like theirs. I also knew that L and D slept together, and I figured it was the sex that made their relationship so much more adult. And at fifteen, there was little else I wanted more than to be an adult.
So I said the word, condoms were bought, and plans were made. We went to my church’s annual August festival fund-raiser for pizza and funnel cake, and left our friends there. We took a blanket from his car and walked into the corn field behind my house, and we did it right there, under a very pretty night sky.
Yes. I lost my virginity in a corn field. Not in a hotel room, not on someone’s couch when their parents weren’t home, not even in a car. In a corn field. And it had been PLANNED that way.
It was obviously over pretty quickly, and I can’t say it was especially momentous, but it wasn’t bad, either. I remember that it hurt a bit, but not as badly as I’d feared. And I remember that there was a dried up corn cob under the blanket, pressing into my back—that was much more uncomfortable.
And then . . . that was it. He and I were part of the club. The initiated. I really did feel older and more mature. I felt like there weren’t any secrets left that I cared to know the answers to. We did it a lot more, and got pretty good at it. We stayed together until I broke up with him my junior year of high school, when I felt stupid dating a boy who was away at college when there were so many other boys right in front of me.
He was a great first boyfriend, and I never regretted losing my virginity when I did. It was planned and tender and loving, and handled really well, after all.
I wonder now, though, whether I should have waited. Because while I was right in thinking I was ready to handle the physical aspects of sex, I wasn’t at all ready for the . . . mystery of it? Is that what I’m getting at? Because I think having sex when I did aged me in a way. I wasn’t a jaded, cynical adult at fifteen, but I felt like one from that time on. Sex ceased to be something special. It was still nice, and good, and something to be sought after, but . . . I think something in me hardened then, when I lost that innocence. Even though it was a good and special and happy and controlled situation—and something I had wanted to happen, I wasn’t ready for it, and it made me hard in a way that I didn’t even recognize.
I wish someone had explained that possibility to me back then, even though I probably wouldn’t have listened. I hope I’m able to explain that to The Boy in a way that makes sense to him. When the time comes, that is.
I have a feeling it’ll be a while. I hope I’m right.
He was a football player—a sweet and hilarious wide receiver, bright and kind enough to make up for the fact that he wasn’t especially handsome. Our football program was all about the running game, so the fact that he was a decent receiver meant little—he was a minor player on the team. I was a lowly tenth grader with stringy hair, bad skin, suspiciously good grades and too much interest in reading; I was totally a minor player on the cheerleading squad, there because I had rhythm and could do gymnastics, not because I was pretty or popular.
I tell you these things so you don’t see the words cheerleader and football player and get all glassy-eyed and bored, and automatically cast us in the Silhouette Romances you read in seventh grade. We were pretty much as far from Ken and Barbie as it was possible to be while still having a place in the margins of the toy box. I had great legs, true, but I wore bad make-up and spent too much time thinking everyone was an idiot, and he was a senior and had a car, but he also had a mullet and a mother who made him wear an ugly scarf with his letterman’s jacket, to keep him from catching cold.
He wore Polo cologne and chewed Big Red gum, and the music I think of when I think of him is from the Beastie Boys, Run DMC, and Bon Jovi. How he loved that my name showed up in one of their songs—he had a terrible singing voice, but would screech it at the top of his lungs.
I loved him. I really did, and I know he loved me. We always had fun together, and in August of 1986, after we’d been together for several months and he’d given me his class ring (and I think he had mine, too, because that’s what was done at the time), I decided that we should lose of virginity together.
Seriously—it was all my idea. He didn’t mind, of course, although he never pressured me as we felt our way around the various bases. I was terribly curious about it, and wanted to know what the big deal was about, but the thing that put me over the edge and made me sure I wanted to Do It was another couple, L and D. They were both seniors and had been together forever. He was a fierce running back and a star, and she was a blond and pretty cheerleader. (They were a kind of Mountain version of Barbie and Ken—he was tough, bearded, and Bronco-driving and she had a mouth like a truck driver, but they were indeed attractive and popular.) I admired L, the girl, who was goofy and funny and always seemed to be having a great time, but I was a little afraid of D and his muscles and glowering.
One day, though, during two-a-days, the twice daily football (and cheerleading) practices that were held during the two weeks before school started, L and D were goofing off in the parking lot at lunch when L fell down in some gravel and scraped her knee. I will never forget seeing D swoop over her, lift her up like she was a little kid, and run her into the school and to the nurse’s office. He was so tender and competent in that moment, and I knew I wanted to have a relationship like theirs. I also knew that L and D slept together, and I figured it was the sex that made their relationship so much more adult. And at fifteen, there was little else I wanted more than to be an adult.
So I said the word, condoms were bought, and plans were made. We went to my church’s annual August festival fund-raiser for pizza and funnel cake, and left our friends there. We took a blanket from his car and walked into the corn field behind my house, and we did it right there, under a very pretty night sky.
Yes. I lost my virginity in a corn field. Not in a hotel room, not on someone’s couch when their parents weren’t home, not even in a car. In a corn field. And it had been PLANNED that way.
It was obviously over pretty quickly, and I can’t say it was especially momentous, but it wasn’t bad, either. I remember that it hurt a bit, but not as badly as I’d feared. And I remember that there was a dried up corn cob under the blanket, pressing into my back—that was much more uncomfortable.
And then . . . that was it. He and I were part of the club. The initiated. I really did feel older and more mature. I felt like there weren’t any secrets left that I cared to know the answers to. We did it a lot more, and got pretty good at it. We stayed together until I broke up with him my junior year of high school, when I felt stupid dating a boy who was away at college when there were so many other boys right in front of me.
He was a great first boyfriend, and I never regretted losing my virginity when I did. It was planned and tender and loving, and handled really well, after all.
I wonder now, though, whether I should have waited. Because while I was right in thinking I was ready to handle the physical aspects of sex, I wasn’t at all ready for the . . . mystery of it? Is that what I’m getting at? Because I think having sex when I did aged me in a way. I wasn’t a jaded, cynical adult at fifteen, but I felt like one from that time on. Sex ceased to be something special. It was still nice, and good, and something to be sought after, but . . . I think something in me hardened then, when I lost that innocence. Even though it was a good and special and happy and controlled situation—and something I had wanted to happen, I wasn’t ready for it, and it made me hard in a way that I didn’t even recognize.
I wish someone had explained that possibility to me back then, even though I probably wouldn’t have listened. I hope I’m able to explain that to The Boy in a way that makes sense to him. When the time comes, that is.
I have a feeling it’ll be a while. I hope I’m right.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Pics
So I wanted to show you two pictures. Both were taken with my phone, so aren't of the highest quality, but both made me laugh.
Here's a pic I took while I was shopping for groceries yesterday:
Can you see what it says at the bottom? "Find JELL-O Pudding in the dry pudding aisle!" I find this so amusing. First of all, JELL-O Pudding is commanding me to find its products (even shouting at me, what with that exclamation point), and second . . . it's assuming my grocery store has an aisle devoted solely to dry pudding. Dorks. Or am I the dork for laughing out loud at this and then snapping a picture in the supermarket?
Anyway. On to the second picture.
Here's proof of the rural nature of the town I grew up in. One of my aunts volunteers at the local second-hand store, and one of her jobs is to go through the clothing that comes in. Sometimes she finds odd things in the pockets, and if she thinks my dad would appreciate them, she passes them along. I was at my parents' for a bit Saturday, visiting with my dad in his garage, when he pulled this out of a Christmas-themed Ziplock bag she gave him:
It's a fully loaded clip from a gun. I mean, I grew up in a house with parents who hunted with both rifles and bows and arrows, and I learned to use them both at an early age. I have no issues with guns when they're treated with care and respect. But . . . imagine finding a loaded clip at your local op-shop. It takes a certain kind of culture to come up with something like that.
Please ignore the slight blur in the picture (I was laughing) and the ink on my hand.
And now I must go back to work.
Here's a pic I took while I was shopping for groceries yesterday:
Can you see what it says at the bottom? "Find JELL-O Pudding in the dry pudding aisle!" I find this so amusing. First of all, JELL-O Pudding is commanding me to find its products (even shouting at me, what with that exclamation point), and second . . . it's assuming my grocery store has an aisle devoted solely to dry pudding. Dorks. Or am I the dork for laughing out loud at this and then snapping a picture in the supermarket?
Anyway. On to the second picture.
Here's proof of the rural nature of the town I grew up in. One of my aunts volunteers at the local second-hand store, and one of her jobs is to go through the clothing that comes in. Sometimes she finds odd things in the pockets, and if she thinks my dad would appreciate them, she passes them along. I was at my parents' for a bit Saturday, visiting with my dad in his garage, when he pulled this out of a Christmas-themed Ziplock bag she gave him:
It's a fully loaded clip from a gun. I mean, I grew up in a house with parents who hunted with both rifles and bows and arrows, and I learned to use them both at an early age. I have no issues with guns when they're treated with care and respect. But . . . imagine finding a loaded clip at your local op-shop. It takes a certain kind of culture to come up with something like that.
Please ignore the slight blur in the picture (I was laughing) and the ink on my hand.
And now I must go back to work.
An Experiment
I am the recent recipient of an iPod Touch, because one of my aunts got an iPhone, making her Touch redundant. It turns out that I had the oldest, crappiest iPod of all of her neices and nephews, so I won the prize.
I am now sitting in the pledge room at work, amazing volunteers with my ability to put up a blog post without a computer.
Three cheers for tiny technology. The only bummer is that I don't think I can post pictures, and OH, do I have a photo to share...
I am now sitting in the pledge room at work, amazing volunteers with my ability to put up a blog post without a computer.
Three cheers for tiny technology. The only bummer is that I don't think I can post pictures, and OH, do I have a photo to share...
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Slayer Mitts
So I got this book from my local knitting store, where it turns out the author is something of a regular:
I made a very cool scarf for my friend P using a pattern from the book, and I just made these for myself:
The book calls them "wristers," but I've been watching a lot of Buffy lately, and have chosen to refer to them as my Slayer Mitts, even though I'm only planning to wear them at work, so I'll be able to stay slightly warmer while I'm trapped in m y freezing office. They're soft and warm and I'm wearing them right now, which proves they were a good choice as far as the using the computer/typing thing goes, and I made them from yarns I had laying around, so they were free--and super fast. I am a winner. Yay!
I made a very cool scarf for my friend P using a pattern from the book, and I just made these for myself:
The book calls them "wristers," but I've been watching a lot of Buffy lately, and have chosen to refer to them as my Slayer Mitts, even though I'm only planning to wear them at work, so I'll be able to stay slightly warmer while I'm trapped in m y freezing office. They're soft and warm and I'm wearing them right now, which proves they were a good choice as far as the using the computer/typing thing goes, and I made them from yarns I had laying around, so they were free--and super fast. I am a winner. Yay!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
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