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Yesterday's merchandise return could conceivably involve a bit of "foreshadowing" as described by Wild Bill, my high school lit teacher. Amidst a ceiling fan installation, stripping the top of a bar, digesting 60 pages of deposition testimony, picking up dry cleaning, moving two twin beds to another room and relocating 10 bins of books, I managed to drop by my local import store with an unused mango candle holder and its receipt. Mind you, I purchased this months before I travelled to the country where it was manufactured, but the back of the receipt indicated store credit would be issued after 60 days. The gentle employ of persuasion skills on the manager having yielded a successful result, I tried to soften the associate's irritation by explaining I was essentially going to exchange the candle holder for chocolate. From the look on her face you'd think I'd said I was fencing stereo equipment for crack.
I've been buying chocolate all over town since Saturday. It's mostly been a casual affair, just a "well, since it's here by the cash register", although yesterday's jaunt turned into a full-on quest for an apparently extinct brand of chili-infused dark cocoa. Warning bells should have sounded somewhere, but even if they had, I was too busy to hear them.
Things like this catch up eventually, and today I found it lurking in my personal e-mail. There it was, a copy of my grant proposal, now minus my name and heavy two roman numerals, on its way to the U.S. Embassy. I glanced through the language and something started to gnaw. Damn, that was good writing. It even sounds like I knew what I was going on about. Huh. That's a pretty big issue I was trying to help solve. Hmmmm. A look around at the basement room piled with boxes bursting with retaliatory drivel...
What the F*** am I doing here?
I grabbed my purse and got the dickens out. My compass pointed me to a bookstore a girlfriend and I had haunted while in law school. My thoughts finally started to crystallize as I tried to navigate into a narrow parking space. It's not that I want to sell plasma for a plane ticket back, it's just other than my wonderful husband's impending return, our scruffy found pup and some administrative matters of the home, there isn't a damn thing that's got me on fire about being here. Filling up my time by working on things I care little about is sucking my soul bone dry. Before anyone says I should be happy that I have a job, let me disclose that this is a favor and I'm not getting paid.
The little voice in my head rattling off pirate slang, I got a coffee and cake in an effort to find some sense in the discord. Staring at the smiley face drawn on my plate in caramel syrup didn't make the voice any happier, so I looked at my coffee lid instead. I know I need a job in DC. Working on that. Want my love in the same place I am. Okay, it's gonna happen. Soon. AHA, says the voice. You want to do something meaningful with your life again. So, seeing your words makes you happy? Why don't you get off your ass and go look at the books about writing? Pushy, that voice.
My coffee cup was empty by the time I made it across the store. If anyone saw a vacant-eyed blond woman chewing on her coffee lid's spout, that was me. I hope I provided you with some amusement. Despite my preoccupation I managed to find the section I was looking for fairly quickly, although the selection threw me for a loop. Dear lord, does the world really need books where the words "writing" and "dummies" appear on the same spine? And what is all this about writing memoirs? My thoughts flickered to some of the greats, and I briefly wondered if they had consulted such works for guidance.
Shoving aside my wandering wit, I dutifully reached for a reasonably-sized tome, Shimmering Images by Lisa Dale Norton. Shortly after I began flipping pages I landed on these words: "So I say to you: save, save, save." No, she's not talking about saving money so the starving writer can afford to stock his or her garbage bag of ramen. She's talking about stuff. Norton advocates for those who want to write memoirs to become and/or remain pack rats. What better way is there to trigger a memory to write about than to keep everything, including but not limited to old hair products? I may have a 6 year old bottle of Paul Mitchell hairspray hanging out under my sink, but bullocks, I guess my current project rules out this line of work.
My resolve refining itself into something a little different than what I had walked in with, I picked up a copy of British Vogue and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (now with 30% more zombies!!!). The young guy behind the register found a discount coupon for me, saying he was happy to do it for great books. Oh, and had I heard about Jane Bites Back? It's Pride and Prejudice but Austen's a vampire and she's been trying to get the same book published for, like, 200 years.
A warning?
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Feb. 7, 2010 Fitzgerald's socks
There is an art to choosing the evening's reading material. It's best performed when in possession of more than 300 books that simply cannot be parted with, having the kind of day lesser or equal to sitting in a car repair shop for 5.75 hours only to have the replaced part fracture immediately and perusing laden shelves white-knuckling a glass of wine. Employing this finely-tuned procedure ensures that books nearly leap into my hands as if selecting me through carefully weighed consideration.
Tonight's choice was the aptly titled The Crack Up, a selection of short stories, unpublished works and letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald. This ratty '56 copy came from a backpacker book swap shop I found when working in Vientiane and was trucked back to the States in 150lbs of luggage, unread. His personal story is full of the ups and downs on a scale that most of us mere mortals won't ever experience. However, for all his talent and whirlwind of a social life, Fitzgerald is quite relatable in his quirkiness and nostalgic tendencies.
His essay Auction - Model 1934 was co-written with his wife Zelda and relays their desire to pare down by using everything up only to have all plans go awry when faced with belongings of times and travels past. They both write with a frankness, humor and tone that I can only wish I possessed. Alas, I fear the only thing I can share with the writer of The Great Gatsby and his spouse is the special kind of anguish born from the process of deciding whether or not treasured Gargantuan wool socks from England are worth having repaired. His problem seems to have been similar to mine- the curse of being able to remember where and when something was procured and the story behind it.
Take, for instance, two wooden items of note from my grams' home. Alas, only one of the treasures has a happy ending, but I recall their stories nonetheless. The first piece of potential kindling is a section of a maple tree formed into a butcher block by the esteemed Texas Mfg. Co. sometime in the early 20th century. It was apparently purchased by a great uncle who owned a butcher shop, then passed on to my grandparent's home, where it was covered with contact paper and used as a plant stand for about 40 years. Knowing that it was likely a goner and still reeling from personal loss, I salvaged it from a sad fate with some other "heirlooms" and carted it home. I lovingly cleaned and oiled the block, bringing back what I could of the little piece of family history. It was enjoyed right up to the point where I realized just how dark the center was. I now think I understand why my grams covered it, and a quick "ad" on Facebook found a new home for the block.
Lingering guilt assuaged by the knowledge that the block stays in the family and that I won't ever have to face a flock of ghost chickens in my kitchen.
The second wooden heirloom of note was the family potty chair. Yes folks, generations of teeny E_'s learned very important life lessons while sitting on that hard wooden seat. I had no intention of taking this little gem home with me, but I was caught in the crossfire of a family feud and got dragged in as the only one in the room still capable of bearing children. Someone got the brilliant idea that my little ones could learn that everyone poops on the same pot that the rest of us sat on. While I admired the tactics used to keep yet another item from my Aunt S_'s back seat, I was not appreciative of the broken chair or the other crap that arose relating to my childbearing potential at the ripe old age of 29. Mind you, I tried to dodge this weighty possession as I was on crutches at the time, but someone generously carried that and the family Ouija board out to my car. Poof to the potty chair last week, sans guilt.
I got off pretty easy with these two pieces in the grand scheme of this divesting process. There are other items, some made of yarn not entirely unlike Fitzgerald's socks, that still torment me. He had an attic and storage units for his holey footwear and other personal flotsam. As I have neither, I need to keep moving along with my project. At least I'm in esteemed company.
Tonight's choice was the aptly titled The Crack Up, a selection of short stories, unpublished works and letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald. This ratty '56 copy came from a backpacker book swap shop I found when working in Vientiane and was trucked back to the States in 150lbs of luggage, unread. His personal story is full of the ups and downs on a scale that most of us mere mortals won't ever experience. However, for all his talent and whirlwind of a social life, Fitzgerald is quite relatable in his quirkiness and nostalgic tendencies.
His essay Auction - Model 1934 was co-written with his wife Zelda and relays their desire to pare down by using everything up only to have all plans go awry when faced with belongings of times and travels past. They both write with a frankness, humor and tone that I can only wish I possessed. Alas, I fear the only thing I can share with the writer of The Great Gatsby and his spouse is the special kind of anguish born from the process of deciding whether or not treasured Gargantuan wool socks from England are worth having repaired. His problem seems to have been similar to mine- the curse of being able to remember where and when something was procured and the story behind it.
Take, for instance, two wooden items of note from my grams' home. Alas, only one of the treasures has a happy ending, but I recall their stories nonetheless. The first piece of potential kindling is a section of a maple tree formed into a butcher block by the esteemed Texas Mfg. Co. sometime in the early 20th century. It was apparently purchased by a great uncle who owned a butcher shop, then passed on to my grandparent's home, where it was covered with contact paper and used as a plant stand for about 40 years. Knowing that it was likely a goner and still reeling from personal loss, I salvaged it from a sad fate with some other "heirlooms" and carted it home. I lovingly cleaned and oiled the block, bringing back what I could of the little piece of family history. It was enjoyed right up to the point where I realized just how dark the center was. I now think I understand why my grams covered it, and a quick "ad" on Facebook found a new home for the block.
Lingering guilt assuaged by the knowledge that the block stays in the family and that I won't ever have to face a flock of ghost chickens in my kitchen.
The second wooden heirloom of note was the family potty chair. Yes folks, generations of teeny E_'s learned very important life lessons while sitting on that hard wooden seat. I had no intention of taking this little gem home with me, but I was caught in the crossfire of a family feud and got dragged in as the only one in the room still capable of bearing children. Someone got the brilliant idea that my little ones could learn that everyone poops on the same pot that the rest of us sat on. While I admired the tactics used to keep yet another item from my Aunt S_'s back seat, I was not appreciative of the broken chair or the other crap that arose relating to my childbearing potential at the ripe old age of 29. Mind you, I tried to dodge this weighty possession as I was on crutches at the time, but someone generously carried that and the family Ouija board out to my car. Poof to the potty chair last week, sans guilt.
I got off pretty easy with these two pieces in the grand scheme of this divesting process. There are other items, some made of yarn not entirely unlike Fitzgerald's socks, that still torment me. He had an attic and storage units for his holey footwear and other personal flotsam. As I have neither, I need to keep moving along with my project. At least I'm in esteemed company.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Feb. 4, 2010 You will be visited by...
Do you believe in coincidences? Today, perhaps by serendipity, I stumbled upon three living, breathing people who unknowingly took me down an odd little path of enlightenment. Am I any wiser or kinder for the encounters? Not sure, but they did bless me with the chance to focus on something other than meandering deposition testimony and overwhelming dejection felt upon entering a certain Dr.'s office. Huzzah!
The day started out like most- trying to dodge a dog who becomes more lovey dovey than usual the second I put on black anything. Went to work, left for a Dr. appt. The visit to the Dr.'s office was Not Fun, but I did meet a lovely woman who had married her husband right before seeing him off to a war zone. This would be my "living person of days past". Her eyes teared up when talking about many of the same frustrations I had encountered seven years ago, and for a brief moment it felt like I was looking in a window long since left behind. I let her talk without the "oh you poor thing" I had so despised (and still do) and it was, well, cathartic. For both of us.
Next up in today's cast of characters is a fellow who also spent time in Southeast Asia, albeit a little more than 30 years ago under much different circumstances. He co-runs an antique store in the adjoining small town I fled to in an effort to erase lingering ill feelings about my procedure. I really, really hate needles. Anyway, we spent some time talking about our home state and humanity in general, two things I've had on my mind quite a bit over the last few months. His grandmother was a wickedly devious pirate in Key West and he has a very long ponytail, so I'm not so sure how well he really fits as the "living person of days present", but to be faithful to the timeline, here he falls.
My mind split between imagining a little old lady luring cargo ships onto sandbars by flicking off the lighthouse switch and mulling over a gorgeous 40's post-Bakelite radio, I stepped into the shop next door. Behold the "living person of days yet to come", a nattily dressed lady with a shock of thick gray hair. The conversation started with the joys and pains of friends and evolved into exotic travels. She has lived around the world and was given the once-in-a-lifetime compliment of almost being sold for fifty camels. Even taking her exquisite taste in vintage bags aside, she is what I hope to be in thirty years. She's comfortable and generally amused with her surroundings, happily married and still up for an adventure.
Maybe I'll wake up in the morning and buy a turkey, but it is far more likely that I will wake up and realize that I am one.
The day started out like most- trying to dodge a dog who becomes more lovey dovey than usual the second I put on black anything. Went to work, left for a Dr. appt. The visit to the Dr.'s office was Not Fun, but I did meet a lovely woman who had married her husband right before seeing him off to a war zone. This would be my "living person of days past". Her eyes teared up when talking about many of the same frustrations I had encountered seven years ago, and for a brief moment it felt like I was looking in a window long since left behind. I let her talk without the "oh you poor thing" I had so despised (and still do) and it was, well, cathartic. For both of us.
Next up in today's cast of characters is a fellow who also spent time in Southeast Asia, albeit a little more than 30 years ago under much different circumstances. He co-runs an antique store in the adjoining small town I fled to in an effort to erase lingering ill feelings about my procedure. I really, really hate needles. Anyway, we spent some time talking about our home state and humanity in general, two things I've had on my mind quite a bit over the last few months. His grandmother was a wickedly devious pirate in Key West and he has a very long ponytail, so I'm not so sure how well he really fits as the "living person of days present", but to be faithful to the timeline, here he falls.
My mind split between imagining a little old lady luring cargo ships onto sandbars by flicking off the lighthouse switch and mulling over a gorgeous 40's post-Bakelite radio, I stepped into the shop next door. Behold the "living person of days yet to come", a nattily dressed lady with a shock of thick gray hair. The conversation started with the joys and pains of friends and evolved into exotic travels. She has lived around the world and was given the once-in-a-lifetime compliment of almost being sold for fifty camels. Even taking her exquisite taste in vintage bags aside, she is what I hope to be in thirty years. She's comfortable and generally amused with her surroundings, happily married and still up for an adventure.
Maybe I'll wake up in the morning and buy a turkey, but it is far more likely that I will wake up and realize that I am one.
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