the pieces of my life

I am waiting to be struck with inspiration. I muddle along, reworking my novel from third person to first person (wondering all the while if I shouldn’t also be putting it in the present tense, but I simply can’t decide if I like the present tense), waiting to be hit with a smack of inspiration that says, “Yes! Yes! I’ve got it! That’s where the novel is going!” But alas, the skies are clear and no great ideas are falling from it. Of course, perhaps it would be better if I dedicated actual solid chunks of time instead of just dabbling here and there. But still. It’s too enormous for me to wrap my brain around it. Maybe I just start a new novel… No, no. That’s how I got into trouble in the first place.

Adam and his father spent the day yesterday (his last day before going back to school, which means I’m losing my houseboy) putting insulation in the upstairs, so I wouldn’t have to complain constantly that I’m cold (which I always am) and crank the heat way up. The timing was great as I just paid last month’s heating bill, which was absolutely outrageous. So they worked dutifully the entire day and I did the only sensible thing: I left the house. I met up with Wendy for lunch and then we went to explore the Fogg Museum and to do a little shopping. I got to tell you, some women may have felt guilty, going out while their husbands are slaving away, but not me. Nope, not one bit. And the bonus? When we woke up this morning, the room was lovely and toasty.

I’m reading this book called The Frog King: A Love Story and on the cover is a quote from Bret Easton Ellis that reads, “Probably the funniest young-guy-in-New York novel since Bright Lights, Big City.” So I think to myself, “What an ass, comparing this book to his own book and who does he think he is calling his own book funny and yadda yadda yadda.” I’m really inappropriately annoyed at Ellis, until as I’m brushing my teeth, I think, “Ooohh! Ellis didn’t write it! Jay McInerney did!” So I owe an apology to Bret Easton Ellis. Although it’s really his own fault: all of them–Ellis, McInerney, Tama Janowitz–they all pretty much wrote the same novel, didn’t they? Not that I haven’t enjoyed them. And it’s not any different than what I’ll say in another five years about all those authors who wrote that collective Bridget Jones’s Diary knock-off.

We went last night to Kevin and Shannan’s where they made chili in preparation for the section’s Super Bowl chili cook-off. Mmmm, good chili. Being the good Minnesotians they are (is that what you call people from Minnesota?), they made this appetizer that looked yummy. It was a puff of mashed potatoes on top of something. We asked what it was and they said, “Just try it!” so I dutifully popped one in my mouth. “Not bad, ” I said, as I tried to figure out what the heck the flavor was. Sausage? No, not quite. Ham? Not exactly. The Minnesota part should have given it away. You all know what it was, don’t you? Shannan laughed as she said, “They’re Spam cupcakes!” Truly not bad. I ate two more. Apparently, it’s a prize-winning Spam recipe. I’m just excited that I, who’s so extolled the pleasures of the Spam museum, is no longer a Spam virgin.

But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. Last night we walked into the party, and Shannan said, “What kind of beer do you want?” I said, “No beer, thanks. How about some water?” Everyone stopped to stare at me like I was crazy. I suddenly felt very defensive and I said, “I’ve sworn off beer until I lose another six pounds.” Everyone expressed wonder at my willpower. I can’t imagine what it must be like for someone who truly can’t drink. Don’t get me wrong–no one made me feel uncomfortable about it, but I definitely felt like the odd person out as the only one without a drink in her hand. But I’ve put on ten pounds since coming to Boston and in the past month or so, I’ve dropped four of them. Drinking just adds weight on to me, not just for the calories but because I lose my food inhibitions when I’m drinking and I would have scarfed an entire plate of Spam cupcakes. It’s going to be tougher as Adam’s semester starts and all the drinking events begin again. But until Jazz Fest, I’m drink free.

Keeping that book and movie blog makes me realize how lame I am when it comes to watching movies and reading books. I read every night before I go to bed, but really that’s the only time I get quality time with my books. I need to carve out more time, but I’m not sure when to do that. That’s one of the benefits of the single life–much more time to curl up with a book. Not that I’d trade curling up with Adam for curling up with a book, but reading is nice too.

Reality junkies like me live to see how low the networks will sink next. I just watched the first episode of Joe Millionaire, which most of the TV watching world knows is a series about an average Joe construction worker, earning $19,000 a year, pretending to have inherited $50 million dollars as twenty women compete for his affections. In the last episode, he’ll reveal that he’s truly just a regular guy, barely making ends meet to see if the woman is really a gold digger or if she likes him for himself. I won’t even go into the blatantly obvious flaws with the whole premise of this show, but I will be watching all the way through, if for no other reason than it’s fun to watch the women cry when they don’t get picked (does that seem cruel? Well, what did they expect going on a show to compete for their dream millionaire husband). All these women talked about how excited they are to get to be with a rich guy and how they all want to be provided for. I’m sure many women and men would love to be provided for, but they don’t blabber about it on national TV, getting starry eyed as they excitedly talk about money. No fewer than eight women made comments involving the words “fairy tale” or “princess,” as in “I’m a princess and this is the life I deserved” (an almost exact quote).

But Joe Millionaire wasn’t the point of this. The point was the furor being raised over The Real Beverly Hillbillies, a series CBS would like to produce in which they take a true family from the Appalachians and plop them in Beverly Hills a la the old sit com. (Hey, does this sound like Frontier House in reverse to anyone else?) As the biggest opponent says, “The joke is that this family won’t know how to live with money, servants, modern appliances, prepared food, and other conveniences of 21st century life… CBS’s show will ridicule and mock people based on stereotypes and economic status.” Valid points. I actually think this does cross a line because it takes advantage of those who may not know what they’re getting into. (I’m judging this on the book that we’re actually discussing in book group tonight, Rick Bragg’s All Over but the Shoutin’, which I wouldn’t necessarily recommend, but apparently I’m the only one who wouldn’t.) Anyone in this day and age who chooses to go on The Bachelor or, starting next week, The Bachelorette or The Real World or whatever knows exactly what they’re getting into. If they get the family they really want, odds are they’re not spending luxurious evenings sitting around a television, getting their fill of Survivor and Who Wants to Marry a Multimillionaire. This is out and out mockery. But should we expect more from the same networks that are bringing us The Will (families fighting for the family fortune)? (By the way, check out ABC’s casting page to find all the reality shows they’re looking to fill: want plastic surgery? to try on a new family? prove you’re the All American Girl? This is the place.)

Of course, you know this all just makes me one big fat hypocrite. Because if they do get this show on the air, you know I’m going to be the first one to set up the Replay to make sure I get every episode.

This doesn’t really count because it’s not about work per se, but about an interview I just did. For a piece on how education has changed, I interviewed an alumna from the class of ’41–she’s almost 89 years old. I have never spoken to anyone who had such a wonderful, upbeat attitude. Everything was fabulous to her, and sincerely so (as opposed to those you meet where everything is faaaabulous, dahling). She ran a private kindergarten after high school to make money to go to college, and she charged kids 50 cents a week (she said to me, “That was during the deep depression. You’re awfully young, dear. Did you know we had a depression?”). She picked them up in her 1927 Ford Beech wagon in the morning, worked with the kids till 3:15, then hopped a bus and was in class in Boston (she lived way out) by 4:30. When we got of the phone, she sang me a line from a song, as she says she always does. If a positive attitude will keep you going, this woman will live forever. I’m trying to remember her as I go through my frustrations of the day, and it does help somewhat. (I’ll be sure to scan in the article I write about her, so you can see what I mean.)

A lot of times I don’t blog, not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I don’t have anything I can blog. Big difference. There are days I’d love to go off on rants about people I know (are you reading this, wondering if it’s you? Honestly, it’s probably not you), work, or things are too personal for a blog (and, yes, there are things too personal for a blog). That’s how I’ve been feeling of late. Lots to say, nowhere to say it except my newly resurrected private journal. Times like this I understand the joy of an anonymous blog–but then someone always finds it, don’t they, and then it’s definitely not anonymous anymore (hmmm, could this be an interesting plot point for my novel? Could work…).

For a few years, just after grad school, I kept a log of all the books I’d read with just a sentence or two about them. When I went traveling, and I had to pare down what I carried with me, I stopped doing it (which is remarkably similar to my vegetarian ways: for five years no meat, but then when traveling, poof, I found I needed to pare down my restrictions and I started eating meat again). I’ve missed doing that, if for no other reason than I have a bad memory, and often I’ll pick up a book and think, “Have I read that already?” To that end, I’m going to try again with a book–and movie–log. My self-imposed rules are 1) I can only include it if I read/watched it all the way through (none of those good-intentioned reads that I only make it halfway through) and 2) all movies and books make it no matter how embarrassing to me. I’m starting fresh with the new year–no back filling for me. There’s a permanent link on the right nav if you’re ever curious about what’s entertaining me.

I was trying to come up with the sound of snow for the heading of this entry, but I’m at a loss. There’s definitely a flutter or a whisper. Of course there’s the crunch of it beneath your feet, the whoosh of it when I’m throwing of hunk of it at Adam, and the groan of it as it’s melting and sliding off the roof. I’m still amazed by the snow. Just the sheer fact of it. Today was a pajama day all around. In Seattle, you had crappy day after crappy day of rain, but it was the kind of rain you could still be productive in, the kind of rain that just made you vow that this would be your last year in Seattle as you went about your normal run/work/errands/play (and, of course, once the sun poked out in July, you once again swear your eternal devotion to the most beautiful, most glorious city anywhere on earth). But here, the weather is entirely different. Today, so far, we’ve had about six inches of snow, and it just keeps coming. I sat at my desk in my flannel p.j.s (a Hanukah gift from Adam), alternately finishing up a freelance job and staring out the window at the wintriness of it all. Snow in New York was a completely different experience–it wasn’t as complete. Here, the limbs of our tree in the front year are bowed nearly to the ground under the weight of the snow. Mounds, as tall as me, line our front yard where the plow piled it up. After I finished work, Adam and I bundled up and walked down to civilization to pick up a DVD and buy food for dinner. Swaddled in so many clothes made me vaguely remember my mother dressing me in layers and layers when we lived in Westchester, and how I would waddle around, feeling itchy beneath the clothes. I still feel itchy beneath the clothes.