I Can Already Hear the Theme Song

The NFL’s countdown to the season opener is at sixteen days, seven hours, and eight minutes.  SIXTEEN DAYS!!  I am so excited I can hardly stand it.

Are we there yet??

King of His Domain

Have you ever packed for a trip of an indefinite period of time involving a race, an interview, and a wedding?  No?  Well it looks something like this:

Suits, workout gear, bridesmaid dress, jeans, sundresses, a dozen shoes, and a whole manner of toiletries.  (Okay, not a dozen; I narrowed it down to eight. But if the fucking airlines weren’t such miserly pricks and checking bags wasn’t so A, damn expensive and B, a monster pain in the ass, it would have been at least twelve.)

And that, sprawled across it all, is my darling Pick.  Would you look at him?  That little ball of fur has me wrapped around his pinkie and then some.

My little meatloaf.  I miss him so much.

On Stories and Songs

I have a confession to make.  I hadn’t finished The Stuff That Never Happened when I wrote about it.  I know, I know, I’m a bad person.  For whatever reasons I assumed it was due at the end of the month.  (It drives my mother crazy, this nasty habit of mine and Pops’s, to assume things.  And when she says it — literally, the word “assume” — it sounds like an expletive.  But I digress.)

When it came to my attention that it was due Tuesday I had less than 48 hours to read the thing and type up a smart, insightful post (at which I failed miserably).  I hadn’t started it yet.  And I was smack in the middle of another book, Empress Orchid by Anchee Min.  (Which is also a good book.  Crap ending though.  And by ending I mean the last 60% or so.  I kept waiting for all the happy mushy fairytale stuff and it never came.  Damn Chinese.  Even their history depresses me.)  And then this week was full and busy and really, those of you out there imploring us unemployeds “but what do you do all day?,” I tell you what, we’re busy as fuck.  My days fly.  So I only managed to get down seventy pages or so of The Stuff That Never Happened before writing that.  Not yet into the meat of the story, but enough to have a feel for the characters and for me to have sympathetic pangs for Annabelle, the protagonist.

I meant it when I said I enjoyed it more than I expected, and proceeded to read the rest of it in three more sittings.  This book is good.  It’s not the story you think it is.  At least it wasn’t for me.  I found myself rooting for each of the two men in Annabelle’s life, after swearing I’d only like the one.  The back and forth over time pulls you in, gives you depth and history and perspective.  The characters are rich and real and often likeable, although sometimes not (and hence all the more real).  She doesn’t take the story where I thought she was going, and I ended up liking her version better than my imagined one.  It’s so life-like and regular, for lack of a better word, and it’s because of its realness that it’s so touching and exhilarating.  I really dug this book.

And then just now “Porcelain” by Better Than Ezra came on my iPod and it struck me how similar it is to the story.  Not literally — “Porcelain” is far more extreme and scary and obsessive, but still.  A bit.

Blog Hiatus

I know it’s been awhile.  Too long.  Irregular, half-assed posting.  Who do I think I am?

I’m in Hawaii for the week for Susan and Simon’s wedding.  Posting from 5,000+ miles away — the devotion!

There are overdue Chicago photos and running updates and love notes coming, I promise.  In good time.  Right now there are sunrises from atop a volcano and pampering at the spa and my best friend’s wedding (holy shit!) to tend to.  You understand.

Aloha!

I Feel Like Seinfeld

There’s a sign in the bathroom that says tampering with the smoke detector awards you a fine of $2,200.  $2,200?  Who comes up with these numbers?  Arbitrary much?  Why not $2,000?  Hell, round-up to $2,500.  Too much?  Can’t you see someone sitting there going “Oh, no.  $2,500 is excessive.”  Who pays these people?

I’m sitting on a frigid never-ending flight to Maui, complete with four screaming infants and an army of children sprinting through the aisles.  Ranting over airplane lavatory fines is keeping me sane.

But really.  $2,200?