I read books.
Well, not just read them. I devour them. I inhale them. I pick one up in my hands, and it is directly absorbed into my brain. I choose my books even more carefully than I choose my friends - I will not buy a book unless I am certain that it will get along and fit in with all my other books - and oh! I have ever so many other books. 3 whole bookcases full of books.
When we moved into our tiny, vintage house on 4th Street, everything seemed perfect. The house is full of weird, charming quirks - bright yellow countertops, original glass doorknobs, a pantry built into the wall, no room for the refrigerator (or no room for a table, depending on how you look at it), and we fit perfectly. Almost. Once we positioned the piano, couch, shoe rack, and my magnificent, hideous lucky gold chair, I realized that there was only room for 1 bookcase. One. Uno. I would have to choose only a few books out of the twelve-ish boxes that eagerly awaited in the garage.
How do you choose a favorite book? Is it based on your feelings when reading it? Or how strongly you relate to the characters in the story? Does it have to do with the sentiment attached - the memory of an era, the circumstances in your life surrounding your introduction to the book? I haven't any children, but it seems as impossible to me to choose a favorite book as it would be to choose a favorite child. I will draw a little curtain over the ordeal now, to protect the intimacy and agony of the books involved. Suffice it to say, my bookcase presents a curious selection - from The Color Purple to L.M.Montgomery's Emily books, and from C.S.Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia to several Ayn Rand novels.
I was recently introduced to The Time Travelers Wife. It was glued to my hands; I could not put it down until I had finished it two days later. Never do I remember being so intensely connected to the people in a book before. Every emotion they experienced became my emotion. I laughed when they laughed, I ached with their pain, I panicked when I saw the end and could do nothing to fix it - nothing to stop it - to keep the happiness living. I cried as if the man I love had lost his life. The story shot into my soul, came to life there. I have not seen the movie, nor do I think I will - I don't want to see another persons interpretation of it.
Every once in a while I meet a person who says they don't like to read. And I wonder what sorts of cardboard words they have experienced, to give them such a distaste for it.
10.17.2009
10.16.2009
slowly workin'
The sun is streaming thru the high ceiling windows, making a valiant effort to lighten the dark, dismal sky. Rain is falling in careless straight lines, like a trillion tiny, lazy torpedo's.
"No one will be shopping today" I think out loud, addressing the racks of winter coats and scarves. A woman with a bright red umbrella, dark red coat, and faded red trousers scuttles down the sidewalk, not even glancing in the window.
Not that it's different than any other day at work.
I have a new job. It's at a private clothing boutique named after a flower. My hours are piddly (yes I said piddly, it's a word), and the only time we're 'busy' is after 3 when all the teeny boppers are released from school and flood the downtown area. They bop in, carrying on chat-fests with each other and their cellphones simultaneously. My greeting fazes them, and they pause, trying to remember what the fitting response is to "Hi! How are you?" Generally a confused nod and tentative wave is what they come up with, and then I am invisible - until the urgent question inevitably arises "Do your jeans go down to a size O?"
In the mornings an occasional cluster of middle aged ladies meander in, relieved to be out of the house and 'out on the town'. They thrill over our inexpensive earrings, scarves, and "are your sweaters really that cheap?!" Happily scolding themselves ("I really shouldn't be shopping - but look how cute!") they ask me questions, ask for assistance, ask for my opinion ("Can you tell I have a tummy?"). This is when I feel like I actually have a job. I step into my salesgirl persona, even my voice changes (I don't know why, and I can't help it - I have a 'salesgirl' voice) and I become efficient, reassuring, flattering without gushing, and innocently charming. I become every woman's daughter and best friend. I've learned how to tilt my head just so and smile out from under my fringe of dark bangs, eyes wide and convincing (you know you deserve this!). They think I'm adorable and buy all kinds of stuff.
But most of the time business is very slow. I tidy the mountains of camisoles, button all the coats, organize the jeans. The store is spotless within a half hour of clocking on, and then...I wait. And watch the rain battle with the sun for dominance over the sky.
"No one will be shopping today" I think out loud, addressing the racks of winter coats and scarves. A woman with a bright red umbrella, dark red coat, and faded red trousers scuttles down the sidewalk, not even glancing in the window.
Not that it's different than any other day at work.
I have a new job. It's at a private clothing boutique named after a flower. My hours are piddly (yes I said piddly, it's a word), and the only time we're 'busy' is after 3 when all the teeny boppers are released from school and flood the downtown area. They bop in, carrying on chat-fests with each other and their cellphones simultaneously. My greeting fazes them, and they pause, trying to remember what the fitting response is to "Hi! How are you?" Generally a confused nod and tentative wave is what they come up with, and then I am invisible - until the urgent question inevitably arises "Do your jeans go down to a size O?"
In the mornings an occasional cluster of middle aged ladies meander in, relieved to be out of the house and 'out on the town'. They thrill over our inexpensive earrings, scarves, and "are your sweaters really that cheap?!" Happily scolding themselves ("I really shouldn't be shopping - but look how cute!") they ask me questions, ask for assistance, ask for my opinion ("Can you tell I have a tummy?"). This is when I feel like I actually have a job. I step into my salesgirl persona, even my voice changes (I don't know why, and I can't help it - I have a 'salesgirl' voice) and I become efficient, reassuring, flattering without gushing, and innocently charming. I become every woman's daughter and best friend. I've learned how to tilt my head just so and smile out from under my fringe of dark bangs, eyes wide and convincing (you know you deserve this!). They think I'm adorable and buy all kinds of stuff.
But most of the time business is very slow. I tidy the mountains of camisoles, button all the coats, organize the jeans. The store is spotless within a half hour of clocking on, and then...I wait. And watch the rain battle with the sun for dominance over the sky.
9.24.2008
8.14.2008
Baby!
My best friend just discovered that she's pregnant!
At the moment it is the size of a poppy seed.
Adorable.
Congratulations Annalise and baby Poppy!
At the moment it is the size of a poppy seed.
Adorable.
Congratulations Annalise and baby Poppy!
hot hot hot
It is a very hot day. Very. Hot. Day.
I melted into a sad little puddle at work. A weird collage of syrup splatters interspersed with coffee grounds decorated my arms and legs and chest and face and neck. I'm sure they were other places. On days like this it seems that everything wants to stick and creep and spill on me.
However I triumphed over two ridiculous young men when I told them that the more they flirted with me, the better they'd have to tip me. They were incredibly silent and polite thereafter. When they drove away I found 5 dollars in my little jar.
Bless God for giving me sass and wit.
I melted into a sad little puddle at work. A weird collage of syrup splatters interspersed with coffee grounds decorated my arms and legs and chest and face and neck. I'm sure they were other places. On days like this it seems that everything wants to stick and creep and spill on me.
However I triumphed over two ridiculous young men when I told them that the more they flirted with me, the better they'd have to tip me. They were incredibly silent and polite thereafter. When they drove away I found 5 dollars in my little jar.
Bless God for giving me sass and wit.
8.08.2008
Trial and Error
My darling mother never used recipes for cooking while I was growing up. Oh we had cookbooks, and I made devout and religious study of them. But mum would throw in a little of this, a handfull of that, and stick it in the oven for oh however many minutes, and wuah-lah! Perfection! She has this magical sense for when something was 'done'. She knew precisely how a chickens leg should wiggle when it was cooked to tender, juicy perfection. She knew exactly how browned a biscuit should be when it had reached fluffy, flaky perfection. Ah! If I could only reach such a height of knowledge!
I've been feeling very ambitious and brave and housewifely in my kitchen lately. With only 3 weeks to go before transforming into Mrs. David Silliman, I decided that I should get a handle on cooking meals that men can eat. I am sadly handicapped however, having only one 8/13 pan and one little pot. My options have been to make either a miniscule amount of food, or righteous heaps of it! I've gone for the heaps of it, which seems to thrill my fiance to pieces.
"I love how you always make way too much food!" he exclaims in delight. "I always have enough for lunch the next day!"
My most recent endeavor came in the form of biscuits. I'd picked ever so many raspberries that day, but realized that they were so ripe they wouldn't last thru the night. I wanted so badly to make shortcake, but had no heavy cream, so biscuits it had to be. Now I'm not sure if my mother actually had magic fairy dust, or if I just rolled them out too thinly, but my biscuits did not achieve the 'mile high' state which I was hoping for. Oh, the flavor was divine, just divine in a very flat way.
One simply cannot eat berries and biscuits without a little whipped cream, but I lacked such a luxery. In my eager state I decided to whip half and half. If you ever need to laugh hysterically, I recommend doing this! It foams! In five seconds I had a huge bowl full of fluffy white foam, and David found me in stitches on my kitchen floor.
Despite these drawbacks, my man raved about everything, and a funny thing happened. Perhaps I had a little magic fairy dust of my own, but in eating those sad little biscuits covered in raspberries and foam, he fell madly in love with me all over again! And I realized that however sadly I fail in the kitchen, his utter adoration of me will always provide the motivation to try, try again.
I've been feeling very ambitious and brave and housewifely in my kitchen lately. With only 3 weeks to go before transforming into Mrs. David Silliman, I decided that I should get a handle on cooking meals that men can eat. I am sadly handicapped however, having only one 8/13 pan and one little pot. My options have been to make either a miniscule amount of food, or righteous heaps of it! I've gone for the heaps of it, which seems to thrill my fiance to pieces.
"I love how you always make way too much food!" he exclaims in delight. "I always have enough for lunch the next day!"
My most recent endeavor came in the form of biscuits. I'd picked ever so many raspberries that day, but realized that they were so ripe they wouldn't last thru the night. I wanted so badly to make shortcake, but had no heavy cream, so biscuits it had to be. Now I'm not sure if my mother actually had magic fairy dust, or if I just rolled them out too thinly, but my biscuits did not achieve the 'mile high' state which I was hoping for. Oh, the flavor was divine, just divine in a very flat way.
One simply cannot eat berries and biscuits without a little whipped cream, but I lacked such a luxery. In my eager state I decided to whip half and half. If you ever need to laugh hysterically, I recommend doing this! It foams! In five seconds I had a huge bowl full of fluffy white foam, and David found me in stitches on my kitchen floor.
Despite these drawbacks, my man raved about everything, and a funny thing happened. Perhaps I had a little magic fairy dust of my own, but in eating those sad little biscuits covered in raspberries and foam, he fell madly in love with me all over again! And I realized that however sadly I fail in the kitchen, his utter adoration of me will always provide the motivation to try, try again.
My Grey Morning
It is a grey day. Lightly falling from the silvery grey cloud cover is transparent grey drizzle, and over the lawn a grey mist clings to the grass with damp, wistful fingers. When I hand drinks through the drive-thru window of my coffee shop, my arms are baptized with a vague sprinkling of water that reminds me of the vegetable mistings in the produce aisle.
People are so interesting on mornings like these. The air is filled with quiet bustling; there are urgent things to be discussed! Grandchildren, the death of lilies, the restoration of a classic car, the ridiculously slow internet connection, the cute little barista's wedding details. Yes, I am getting married in 3 weeks from today! I am met with widely varied responses to that news.
"Congragulations...I guess" one little woman says quietly with a sideways glance at her quiet little husband beside her. I've always assumed that they're happy, but perhaps appearances are more deceiving than I give them credit for.
I brew enormous pots of drip coffee this morning. The names of the different roasts make me laugh: Organic Tatoosh, a deep, dark piercing blend with a little roller coaster of an aftertaste that begs to be tasted again; Espresso Paledino, which invariably brings a picture of a horse to mind; and my favorite, Guatemala Huehuetenango, a name that makes me want to sneeze. They are like the children of faraway and foreign lands, sent to bring a little culture and beauty into our decidedly bland American lives. One exotic woman with tiny, fiery blue eyes orders the light Huehuetenango with 5 - count them, five! - sugars and absolutely no cream. She speaks of her coffee like it is a thrilling, holy secret we are sharing with her.
The breeze sneaks in the window and laughingly kicks the dark coffee grounds across the counter. I want an entire room painted this color; this deep, deep brown with a gorgeous hint of red. It is so vivid you can almost taste the way it looks.
Fall is gently but firmly hinting at it's coming. All the coffee shop folk feel it with mounting excitement, tinted with a soft disappointment in this brief and fickle summer. We feel ourselves settling in, and thinking of books we want to read on grey days, cozied under blankets with new husbands or lovers, and of all the marvelous, strangely named coffee that we shall drink.
People are so interesting on mornings like these. The air is filled with quiet bustling; there are urgent things to be discussed! Grandchildren, the death of lilies, the restoration of a classic car, the ridiculously slow internet connection, the cute little barista's wedding details. Yes, I am getting married in 3 weeks from today! I am met with widely varied responses to that news.
"Congragulations...I guess" one little woman says quietly with a sideways glance at her quiet little husband beside her. I've always assumed that they're happy, but perhaps appearances are more deceiving than I give them credit for.
I brew enormous pots of drip coffee this morning. The names of the different roasts make me laugh: Organic Tatoosh, a deep, dark piercing blend with a little roller coaster of an aftertaste that begs to be tasted again; Espresso Paledino, which invariably brings a picture of a horse to mind; and my favorite, Guatemala Huehuetenango, a name that makes me want to sneeze. They are like the children of faraway and foreign lands, sent to bring a little culture and beauty into our decidedly bland American lives. One exotic woman with tiny, fiery blue eyes orders the light Huehuetenango with 5 - count them, five! - sugars and absolutely no cream. She speaks of her coffee like it is a thrilling, holy secret we are sharing with her.
The breeze sneaks in the window and laughingly kicks the dark coffee grounds across the counter. I want an entire room painted this color; this deep, deep brown with a gorgeous hint of red. It is so vivid you can almost taste the way it looks.
Fall is gently but firmly hinting at it's coming. All the coffee shop folk feel it with mounting excitement, tinted with a soft disappointment in this brief and fickle summer. We feel ourselves settling in, and thinking of books we want to read on grey days, cozied under blankets with new husbands or lovers, and of all the marvelous, strangely named coffee that we shall drink.
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