What I did this summer

I've been able to read for as long as I can remember. I could read when I started kindergarten. In 4th grade, I was reading at a college level, according to the standardized tests. That's not to brag, just to say that reading has always been easy for me -- and a pleasure -- and the thought of not having that is almost beyond my comprehension.

So, with some extra time on my hands this summer, I decided to volunteer as a tutor for the Children's Literacy Center. I worked one-on-one with two different children at Adams Elementary School: a six-year-old boy and a nine-year-old girl. I tutored each kid for an hour a day, twice a week, using the Children's Literacy Center's Peak Reader program. It made my job easy. I just had to follow the curriculum and lessons in the book. The most fun was doing flash cards with the kids. Some days, the boy I worked with was a little wound up so we would go out in the hallway with the flash cards. When he read a word correctly, I would have him hop forward or spin around or do some other activity. By the time he'd read all the cards, he'd be ready to sit down and do a lesson.

I find it interesting to think about learning to read. Think of the English language and all the crazy "rules" it has. Then look at a word like "said." How does that fit in anywhere? How does "ai" make an "eh" sound? Or think about "two" which sounds like "to" and "too." Why is there a "w" in that word? In our sessions, we called these kind of words "naughty" because they don't follow any rules. You just have to remember it. It gets crazy when you think about it for too long.

By the end of our eight weeks together, the kids had learned the words on their flash cards and were doing well reading on their own. I hope they learned a lot and are ready for school to start. I know I am a better person because of the experience. I'm sure I got as much out of as they did.

At the end of it all, we had a party with cookies and games and lots of smiles. I have a picture of myself with the two kids, all of us smiling and really enjoying ourselves. The boy I tutored wrote me a note that said, "I love you Pam." It almost made me cry.

I'll be tutoring again in the fall. I don't know if it'll be with the same kids or different ones. But I'm sure it will be rewarding. It feels good to think I've made a small difference in these kids' lives, even if it was just for the fact that someone took time out of her day to spend it with them.

What I read: "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini

I have yet to read "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini. It's on my reading list. I've almost bought it at Starbucks a few times. I look for it at the library, but it seems to be too popular to stay on the shelf, and there's always something else on my list.

"A Thousand Splendid Suns" wasn't on my list, but when I went to look -- once again -- for "The Kite Runner," several copies of this book sat on the shelf. I picked it up, thinking I'd give Hosseini a chance with his second book.

I'm really glad I did. "A Thousand Splendid Suns" is one of the most heart-wrenching books I've read in a long time. It was almost painful to read at times, yet I found myself unable to put it down. The two main characters -- Mariam and Laila -- are so compelling, so tragic, but still so courageous and filled with hope even in the face of hopelessness, I couldn't wait to see what happened to them. And then I didn't want it to end.

Set against the backdrop of Afghanistan through the rise and fall of the Soviet Union to the horrors of civil wars and the Taliban, "A Thousand Splendid Suns" manages to be filled with both hope and despair, beauty and horror. Anyone who has ever believed they wouldn't tolerate the kind of treatment Afghan women endure will come to see that they would tolerate it. Both Mariam and Laila have little choice as to whether they will put up with being beaten, being told when and where they can go out, wearing a burqa or being given away in marriage to a man more than twice their age or marrying a man who already has a wife. In Laila's case, her husband is old enough to be her grandfather. But circumstances don't really allow these women another option.

Despite the raids, the bombings, the beatings, the women experience moments of pure splendor:

"Outside mockingbirds were singing blithely, and once in a while, when the songsters took flight, Mariam could see their wings catching the phosphorescent blue of moonlight beaming through the clouds. And though her throat was parched with thirst and her feet burned with pins and needles, it was a long time before Mariam gently freed her finger from the baby's grip and got up."

Khaled Hosseini was born in Kabul, Afghanistan, but moved to the United States in 1980. Still, he manages to capture what I can only imagine it must be like to be a woman in Afghanistan. Despite the struggles, the losses, the absolute terror of living in a worn-torn land, life -- somehow -- goes on. They still love and find beauty in their country and each other.

What I watched: Dr. Horrible's Sing-along Blog, Act I

Neil Patrick Harris is Dr. Horrible. Nathan Fillion is Captain Hammer. They are arch enemies. It's a musical. Feel the love: http://www.drhorrible.com/act_I.html

No. Really. Just watch. It's 13 minutes and 49 seconds you won't regret.

Act II starts July 17. Act III is July 19. I can't wait.

What I read: "A Prayer for Owen Meany" by John Irving

Owen Meany is strange. And my experience reading about him was strange. At one point the narrator talks about a class reading stories by Alice Munro. During my last trip to the library I checked out "A Prayer for Owen Meany" and a book of short stories called "Runaway" by Alice Munro. I thought that was a small strange coincidence. "A Prayer For Owen Meany" culminates in a flashback to July 8, 1968. I just happened to finish reading the book on July 8, 2008.

I know those are just coincidences, but what makes it strange is that the book itself is about coincidences and miracles. Irving creates his typical quirky characters and makes us care about them. "A Prayer for Owen Meany" tells a tale of love, friendship and courage. Owen, who never grows to more than 5 feet tall and retains a child's voice throughout his life, teaches others how to overcome adversity despite his own problems.

The book is funny and touching and at times profound. Some may find the characters over the top (it's what Irving does -- see "The World According to Garp"). But that's what I like about it. The characters are eccentric or flamboyant or boisterous or evil in their way. You love them or hate them, but you care about them and what happens to them next.

There's even a bit of a history lesson in the novel, as we learn how many American troops were in Vietnam on a given New Year's Eve and how many had died. The book also gives us some history of the Iran-Contra scandal. It's interesting to compare those times to what's happening in our world today.

In his introduction to the 2002 edition of the novel, Irving says, "I may one day write a better first sentence to a novel than that of 'A Prayer for Owen Meany,' but I doubt it."

It's a long sentence and it opens the book with a bang:
"I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice -- not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother's death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany."

The book hasn't converted me or made me believe in miracles -- I'm too much of a skeptic -- but it was a strange experience. And I, too, am "doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice."

What I watched: Happy Accidents

First, I have to confess an irrational attraction to Vincent D'Onofrio. It isn't that I find him especially good looking -- at least not in any kind of conventional way. But when I see him on television, I can't take my eyes off him. Even on recent episodes of Law & Order: Criminal Intent, where D'Onofrio is looking a little bloated and worn, I still can't help watching. When he's not on that program -- when they have a Chris Noth storyline instead -- I don't watch. I don't care. Of course, there's something especially intriguing about D'Onofrio's Detective Robert Goran. The character is fun to watch. He's a little nuts, and I love that.

Which leads to my recent viewing of Happy Accidents. This movie is an eight-year-old independent film starring D'Onofrio and Marisa Tomei (who I also find intriguing and beautiful). Sam (D'Onofrio) and Ruby (Tomei) meet at the park and begin a whirlwind romance. Everything seems perfect until Sam starts displaying some strange quirks. He's especially afraid of small dogs. Why? They don't have them where he comes from. Which is where? Dubuque. Iowa. Except it turns out Sam doesn't mean "our" Dubuque. Sam believes he is from Dubuque in the year 2470. Ruby thinks Sam is just another in a long line of losers she's dated and tried to fix. But there's something about Sam that keeps her hanging in there.

This is a sweet little movie with some twists to it, including a pre-Dead Zone cameo from Anthony Michael Hall -- they refer to him as "that geeky kid" from Sixteen Candles. It's a perfect movie for a rainy afternoon. It's worth watching, if for nothing other than getting to look at D'Onofrio and Tomei for an hour and 50 minutes.

On my mind

Today would have been my mom's 71st birthday. This video, with images of her through the years, is for her and everyone who loved her.

What I watched -- Dexter, The First Season on DVD

"Dexter" is dark but it's also darkly funny and a lot of fun. The series airs on Showtime, so I knew little about it besides what I'd read or heard from others. But it's summer, and most of the programs we normally watch are on hiatus, so "Dexter" got bumped to the top of the queue. And I'm really glad it did.

Dexter (played with lovable creepiness by Michael C. Hall) is a forensic investigator, working for the Miami police and specializing in blood spatters. He's really good at it, but then he has a bit of an inside track. Dexter also happens to be a serial killer. The difference is Dexter only kills those he feels deserve to die: other serial killers. (Don't question it. Just go with it.) Dexter was adopted when he was 3 and raised by a cop -- Harry Morgan, played by James Remar -- who understands Dexter's tendencies and creates a code to help Dexter control his urges. He also teaches him how not to get caught.

The first season zips along with plot elements involving a serial killer that knows Dexter and leaves clues just for him; Dexter's love life, such as it is for someone who feels nothing (or so he says); his family life, which includes his foul-mouthed adopted sister; and the investigations he helps with. "Dexter" is a cop show with a big difference: Dexter himself. Supporting characters help round out the show, with well-acted characters you love and those you love to hate. I found myself caring about all of them.

I was pulled in by the very first scene, watching two or three episodes a night until the satisfying season finale. Season 2 is available on DVD Aug. 19 (season 3 starts September on Showtime), and I'm already chomping at the bit hoping it's even half as good as Season 1.

If you like dark comedy with real tension and suspense, check out "Dexter." There's plenty of bloody scenes but nothing is really gory. And the language is definitely R-rated for the dropping of multiple F-bombs.

I give it multiple thumbs-up (watch the show, you'll see why).

Surreal

I really enjoyed the movie "Stranger Than Fiction." I liked the concept of a fictional character becoming self aware. I don't think I'd like to find out that I am actually a fictional character in someone else's (extremely boring) story. But this morning I had one of those moments that make me stop and question reality. It was almost too weird to call coincidence.

I was stopped at a red light at a busy intersection. It's one of those lights that give you time to look around because you sit there for several minutes. The song on the radio was "Superman" by Five For Fighting. Just as they sang following verse, I noticed a red balloon flying up into the sky about a block away.

I’m only a man
In a funny red sheet
I’m only a man
Looking for a dream

I thought it a rather appropriate image for the lyrics. Then I thought but it would be more appropriate if they were playing "99 Red Balloons" (or "99 Luft Balloons" for you purists). "Superman" wrapped up and I heard:

You and I in a little toy shop
Buy a bag of balloons
With the money we've got
Set them free at the break of dawn
'Til one by one, they were gone
Back at base, bugs in the software
Flash the message
"Something's out there"
Floating in the summer sky
99 red balloons go by

I looked for a logical explanation. Maybe I heard the DJ say they were going to play that song. But he hadn't. In fact, I turned to the radio station just as the previous song started. I decided not to question it.

The balloon flew out of sight, the light turned green, and I drove on, tapping the steering wheel in time to the song. It was my moment of Zen.

A day late and a dollar short

I called my dad yesterday for Father's Day and I sent a card. So I didn't completely forget Father's Day, but I didn't write anything about it.

I've been so focused on losing my mom that it took yesterday to make me focus on my dad for a bit and to remind me my significant other lost his dad last year. This is our first Father's Day without him.

We honored our dads the best way we could -- by sitting in front of the TV for hours watching the US Open. I'm sure that's what my dad was doing, anyway. If I'd made the 16-hour drive to spend the day with him, we would have grilled steaks in the backyard and sat in his air-conditioned living room watching Tiger Woods struggle to end the day at one under par, along with Rocco Mediate. I'm not much for watching golf, but it seemed like the right thing to do yesterday (and it was actually kind of exciting).

The picture above shows my mom and dad as new parents back in 1961. That's my oldest brother, Jim, in Mom's arms. The picture was taken at my grandparents house just after Jim's baptism. My parents look happy and just a little scared. They went on to have three more kids, so it must not have been the worst thing they ever experienced. But then Jim was never the problem child.

Nope, I'm not going to say who was. (But it wasn't me.)

An Irish Blessing

My mom loved flowers and birds. Birds flocked to her backyard feeders, and her roses were the envy of the neighbors. I didn't really inherit her green thumb, but I am working on putting together a small area in my backyard in her memory. It will have plants -- drought-resistant, of course -- a birdbath and this stepping stone I made. I wanted something that would remind me of my mom without being an obvious memorial. I didn't want it to look like a grave marker.

This passage comes from a poem my mom's Irish father wrote when he was a young man.

Flowery be thy pathway
And blue the sky above thee
Happiness in each coming year
To thee and those that love thee

Shortly before Grandpa died, he gave this poem to my mom. I think it was his way of saying goodbye, and it's held a special place in my heart for the past 20 years. I like to think this little Irish blessing applies in this world and the next -- whatever that might be. It helps to imagine my loved ones who have died happily walking down a flowery pathway with the blue sky overhead.

What I watched: "Lars and the Real Girl" on DVD

I'm not normally one to post a movie review, but "Lars and the Real Girl" is such a sweet movie, I have to talk about it. It's not cloying or obvious. It's sweet in the way that most big budget Hollywood love stories starring big name Hollywood Beautiful People can never be (not that the people in this movie aren't beautiful; they just aren't Beautiful).

Ryan Gosling stars as Lars, a shy, wounded 27-year-old who seems to be afraid of getting too involved with others. As the filmmakers say during a making of feature on the DVD, Lars is wobbling. He can either go over the edge or he can join life. Because he doesn't relate to people he orders a Real Doll from the internet. When his family finds out he bought the doll -- there's never any hint that he bought the doll for its intended use as a sex toy -- they worry about his mental state. Lars believes (or seems to believe) "Bianca" is a real girl. Then something amazing happens, instead of laughing at Lars as his brother predicts, the community embraces him and treat Bianca like the real girl Lars believes her to be. What if something like that could really happen? What if everyone could be compassionate toward everyone else rather than laughing, staring or running away? We might learn something about ourselves. We might learn something about the people we love. We might join life.

I highly recommend this movie. I loved it and I'm extremely cynical.

What I'm reading: "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott

I'm only on the second chapter of Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life," but already I'm starting to feel inspired by it. Despite her saying that I'll probably never get published and even if I do, it won't be all I've dreamed it will be, she inspires me. Maybe it's paragraphs like this one:

Because for some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die. They are full of all the things that you don't get in real life -- wonderful, lyrical language, for instance, right off the bat. And quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift. My gratitude for good writing is unbounded; I'm grateful for it the way I'm grateful for the ocean. Aren't you? I ask.

And because I had to answer yes, I closed the book and sat at my keyboard. I'm still searching for my muse -- inspiration for that great American novel -- but I feel it's time to write without my muse. To allot a certain amount of time each day to just sit down and write whatever comes to me: the neighbor's yapping dog that sounds like he's being beat to death, the wind in the aspens outside my window, the giant bumblebee that found its way into my kitchen. Just 15 pages into the book and Lamott is making me pay attention. It's possible I'll hate her in another 15 pages or I'll get snarky because hey she published a book, why shouldn't I. But she has already made me laugh and that's usually signals the beginning of something good for me.

My son, Sam, at three and a half, had these keys to a set of plastic handcuffs, and one morning he intentionally locked himself out of the house. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when I heard him stick his plastic keys into the doorknob and try to open the door. Then I heard him say, "Oh shit." My whole face widened, like the guy in Edvard Munch's Scream. After a moment I got up and opened the front door. "Honey," I said, "what'd you just say?" "I said, 'Oh shit,'" he said. "But, honey, that's a naughty word. Both of us have absolutely got to stop using it. Okay?" He hung his head for a moment, nodded, and said, "Okay, Mom." Then he leaned forward and said confidentially, "But I'll tell you why I said 'shit.'" I said Okay, and he said, "Because of the fucking keys!"

Toddlers swearing -- precious and precocious. I plan to post a full review when I've finished reading the entire book. If I'm not too busy writing my novel, that is.

A killer among us

She doesn't look like a vicious dog, but today she proved she's a killer. Grabbing a bird in the corner of the yard, she tried to bring it in the house. Despite my protests and angry voice, she wouldn't let it go. When I finally got it away from her, it was too late. It wasn't dead, but the poor thing didn't last long. I know it's nature and all but I really don't want my dog killing birds. I makes me realize that this can't possibly be the first one she's gotten. I shudder to think she may have eaten baby birds. I suppose I can rest easy knowing rodents won't have a chance if they ever make it into my house. And I can hope she'll be as effective against zombies and aliens.

Update: To be clear, I don't condone this behavior and I certainly don't think it's funny. But it was in my own backyard. I especially hate to see domestic animals injuring wildlife. We have neighborhood cats whom roam free. I often chase them out of my (fenced) backyard. I will try to keep my dog from hurting any more animals.

River Horse

The matriarch hippo at The Cheyenne Mountain Zoo recently died. Which started me thinking about my love of hippos. It started when I was in fifth grade when we sang "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas." (Ear worm warning)

I got a hippopotamus for Christmas -- several actually -- and have been collecting them ever since. Obviously, it wasn't a real hippo. (I also got a Hot Wheels Mustang on my 16th birthday cake instead of a real car. Mom was a laugh riot.)

I have hippos made of crystal, wood, leather, tin, pewter and ceramic. I have stuffed ones and I even have a hippo cookie jar and hippo earrings.

The one to the left is one of my favorites, given to me by my mom and combining my love of hippos with my love for books. (The book he's sitting on is "Hippocrates.")

This one to the right is another favorite. My brother and his wife brought this little guy back from their honeymoon in Florida. He's relaxing on his lounge chair, soaking up some rays.

I'm not sure what this (very small) obsession says about me, but I do love hippos. Whenever there's a documentary on the hippopotamus on Animal Planet or the Discovery Channel, I have to watch. Although I cover my eyes or change the channel when the crocodiles start stalking the babies. Yeah, yeah, I know it's nature but I like my nature with less mauling of cute baby animals, thank you very much.

I also know "Despite the hippos' cute appearance, they are among the most dangerous and aggressive of all mammals. Their canine teeth and incisors grow continuously, with canines reaching 20 inches (51 centimeters) in length. Bulls especially use their canines for fighting. To ward off enemies, a hippo may yawn, scoop water with its mouth, shake its head, rear up, lunge, roar, grunt, chase, and make a loud wheezing sound, all of which are threat displays. A hippo can kill people if it's provoked or feels threatened. But the impressive tusks and canine teeth are used mainly for defense or fighting with other hippos."(Thank you San Diego Zoo.)

I don't worry too much about the ones in my house attacking anyone, but they are kept on their own separate shelf -- just in case.

Mother's Day

This picture of my mom qualifies as a glamour shot in my book. I think it is her high school senior portrait, but to me she looks like a movie star. Mom always had an inner beauty but in this photograph it shines straight through and comes out as physical beauty. She's gorgeous and not just because she's my mom. There's something of a young Elizabeth Taylor about her -- all pale skin and dark hair and soft shoulders.

This picture is rivaled only by one from her wedding day. In it, she is in the back seat of the wedding car. We see her in profile while my dad looks at her with pride and love like I've never seen on his face. And it's no wonder when, even in profile, my mother glows with such hope for the future.

I wonder if marriage was a disappointment. My dad couldn't have been the Prince Charming he seemed that day. I know from my time at home he wasn't. He wasn't an ogre, but he certainly wasn't a prince. But still, pictures of her holding her newborns show a beaming smile full of pride. Later pictures of her with her grandchildren show a similar happiness.

Her children and grandchildren were obviously a source of joy. She wanted to be a teacher but wasn't allowed because her father didn't believe college was for girls (thank goodness my parents didn't feel the same way). She would have been a great teacher. She was a great teacher in her way. Many things I learned from her I didn't realize until much later. Chief among them is how to care about other people.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

What I'm reading: "Ironweed" by William Kennedy

"Ironweed," by William Kennedy, not only won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1984, it creates a world that is sad and achingly beautiful.

Francis Phelan is an ex-baseball player, a self-described bum and a sometime repentant murderer. Set in 1938, "Ironweed" relates two nights in the life of Francis, his buddy Rudy and girlfriend Helen Archer. Haunted by ghosts of past acquaintances, Francis makes his way through the city of Albany, NY, burying the dead, collecting junk and trying to make peace with himself.

Kennedy paints a bitterly cold, dark, bleak picture of Albany in the late '30s. Yet somehow the people and places are alive and vibrant with color and character, from Francis's parents watching him from their graves to Helen.

"Helen has had a lifetime of sadnesses with her lovers. Her first true love kept her in his fierce embrace for years, but then he loosened that embrace and let her slide down and down until the hope within her died. Hopeless Helen, that's who she was when she met Francis. And as she stepped up to the microphone on the stage of The Gilded Cage, hearing the piano behind her, Helen was a living explosion of unbearable memory and indomitable joy."

Francis's nearly uncontrollable temper and love of the bottle almost get the best of him. But Kennedy creates a character in Francis that you can't help but root for. He's a violent man with a violent past, but also a deep devotion to those around him -- even the dead.

"He had a vision of Gerald swaddled in the silvery web of his grave, and then the vision faded like the stars and he could not even remember the color of the child's hair. he saw all the women who became three, and then their impossible coherence also faded and he saw only the glorious mouth of Katrina speaking words that wer little more than silent shapes; and he knew then that he was leaving behind more than a city and a lifetime of corpses. He was also leaving behind even his vivid memory of the scars on Helen's soul."

This book was on my list to read because of its award-winning status. I can't say I've liked every award-winning book on my list. But I really enjoyed Ironweed and highly recommend it.

For more -- and more articulate -- book reviews, head over to Kate's Web site.

Martha Stewart I'm not

But I can cook a mean pot roast. I don't think anything says Sunday dinner like a pot roast. This is probably one of the nicest, yet simplest meals I make. Thank god for crock pots.

This particular meal was made with 1 1/2 pound rump roast, 4 medium carrots, 2 large russet potatoes, 1/2 medium yellow onion, 2 cloves garlic, 1 teaspoon of Better Than Bouillon (or 1 cube beef bouillon), 2 cups water and parsley, salt and pepper.

While the roast browns in a large skillet, cut up the potatoes and carrots and slice the onion. Place vegetables and water in crock pot. Place roast on top of potatoes. Add bouillon, parsley, salt and pepper. Cook on low for 8 hours.

After a day out hiking or doing yard work or slaving at the office, you come back to a house filled with the scents of home. Pot roast is one of my ultimate comfort foods.

Overheard

At the doctor's office: "They don't tell you once you quit smoking, you'll get pneumonia."

Because it's the quitting that causes the problems.

May Day

It's May 1, and in Colorado, that means diddly squat. In some parts of the country, May signifies blooming flowers, sun dresses, sandals. Here in Colorado, it means those things one day and the next it's dumping snow like there's no tomorrow.

Yesterday, the sun was shining brightly, and temperatures reached nearly 80 degrees. Today it's 37 and snowing. Hard. This picture was taken this morning at 9:50. Just 10 minutes later, I can't see the grass at all.

It's very pretty, but I worry about the budding trees and the flowers that are trying to poke through and bloom. And I'm just really tired of snow this year. I'm ready for full-time spring, summer even. I know in a couple of months, I'll be complaining about how hot it is and how I can't keep the house cool. So, I'll try to enjoy today -- hoping it'll be the last of the snow for awhile -- and hole up in the house with a good book.

Something to be happy about

Having recently become, let's say, self-employed, I have a lot more time at home these days. And I'm working really hard at not getting sucked in to daytime television. If you have digital cable, there's actually some cool stuff on during the day -- the Discovery Channel and Food Network are a wealth of information.

But no, my time at home is to be spent writing, exercising, reading and playing housewife. That's my 8-5 gig. After 5 p.m., all bets are off. Which is why I was so excited one evening to find Quantum Leap playing on ION Television. From what I can tell, this station plays reruns from (mostly) the '80s, plus lots and lots of "paid programming." It certainly wasn't on my television-viewing radar.

For anyone not familiar with Quantum Leap -- well, first of all, shame on you -- "Theorizing that one could time travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett led an elite group of scientists into the desert to develop a top secret project, known as QUANTUM LEAP. Pressured to prove his theories or lose funding, Dr. Beckett, prematurely stepped into the Project Accelerator and vanished. He awoke to find himself in the past, suffering from partial amnesia and facing a mirror image that was not his own. Fortunately, contact with his own time was made through brainwave transmissions, with Al, the Project Observer, who appeared in the form of a hologram that only Dr. Beckett could see and hear. Trapped in the past, Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, putting things right that once went wrong and hoping each time, that his next leap will be the leap home."

These reruns, along with reruns of Star Trek: Enterprise (airing on SciFi), have rekindled my 20-year-long crush on Scott Bakula -- much to the dismay of my significant other. In my defense, I've been crushing on Scott Bakula for 20 years; I've only known my s.o. for four.

I know Quantum Leap was cheesy. As a friend pointed out, Sam Beckett did appear in drag a view times. But I loved it so much and I'm finding that despite the passage of time and the improvements that have been made in special effects, I still love it so much. It always had some kind of message -- be yourself, do your best, be kind to others -- but it didn't preach. It had humor and a really good buddy story (despite Al's cigar smoking and womanizing, he was always there for Sam). And it always made me feel good. I think that was the best part.

I know I'm a bit of a geek when it comes to sci fi television. My favorites are Firefly, Farscape, Stargate (both incarnations), Doctor Who and Battlestar Gallactica. The other TV shows I must see are Reaper, Lost, Eli Stone and Pushing Daisies. They all have some kind of science fiction flavor or fantastical twist to them and definitely are not rooted in reality. Which is exactly what makes them so good and so much fun to watch.

It's no museum piece

When my mom died, we went through a lot of her stuff. While going through that stuff we were surprised to find artwork and other things from our childhood. Among the macaroni pictures and papier-mache ashtrays (neither of my parents smoked), I found a poster of Jim McMahon from the glory days of the Chicago Bears back in the mid '80s. I received it as a Christmas present the year they won the Super Bowl. It is now framed and hanging on the back of my office door.

I also found a painting I did in art class in junior high. I brought it home with me, and it spent a few weeks tucked in a corner of a room. I wasn't sure what to do with it. I was 13 when I painted it. It's not a masterpiece, but Mom had saved it all these years. I finally took it to the hobby store and bought a frame for it. No, it's not a masterpiece, but it makes me smile in the morning when the sun hits it.

Co-conspirators?

We left the house for a couple of hours this morning. When we came back, the dog was chewing on her rawhide bone, and the cat was playing with his catnip mouse. What's so strange about that? Both the mouse and the bone were on top of the refrigerator.

I know which animal has the dexterity to make his way onto the refrigerator and retrieve his mouse. What I don't know is how the dog convinced him to also get her bone down. I'm thinking we may have to set up a nanny-cam if we're going to leave these two home alone.

I think it would work

Good idea, Heather.

What do you believe in?

I don't have a whole lot to say about this post: http://manormaniac.blogspot.com/2008/04/if-were-opening-door.html.

But I do think it's awesome. I'd also like to see a Buddha tag (with laughing Buddha), a Druid tag (with Stonehenge) and an agnostic tag (with a big question mark). A UFO tag would be good too, because there are people who believe that's where we come from.

What I'm reading: "Never Let Me Go" by Kazuo Ishiguro

I don't remember how this book got on my list. I thought a friend recommended it, but the ones I've asked haven't read it. Maybe it was on my recommendations from Amazon. However it got on my list, I'm glad it did. I've read several books by Ha Jin and other Asian writers, so I think I was expecting something along those lines, given the writer's name. However, Ishiguro, though born in Nagasaki, Japan, moved to Britain at the age of 5. He's also the author of "The Remains of the Day," and like that book, "Never Let Me Go" is thoroughly English.

Set in an idyllic, private English school, the story is about much more than the main character's coming of age. I enjoyed Kathy H.'s stories of her time at Hailsham with Ruth and Tommy. Thier adventures much like those of other thirteen-year-olds -- giggling over boys, listening to music, painting, playing sports. But I realized that something was odd. None of the children spoke of their parents or going away on holiday or anything about siblings. I hate to say much more about the plot in case there are others who want to come to this book as I did -- clueless.

It was a delight to have a story unfold without previously knowing what was going to happen. I've grown so used to knowing exactly what a movie is about because the trailers tell everything. Then, they're often so predictable, I feel I could have written the screenplay. Books are not promoted like movies (for the most part), so it's a little easier to go into a book without knowing everything about it. But how often do we pick up a book without at least an inkling of its plot? This book was such a pleasant surprise, I read it in just a few days. While the book has an unusual twist about it, it never lets go of the characters and their feelings. Ultimately, it really is a coming of age story.

Mary Louise Lard, June 26, 1937 - Feb. 8, 2008

Mom often told me the details of the day of my birth -- not how many hours she was in labor or how bad the pain was or whether or not drugs were administered. But I heard often how it was the coldest day on record -- temperatures dipping to well-below zero. How even though I was a big baby -- weighing in at 8 pounds, 10 ounces and bigger than my three older brothers -- the doctors and nurses couldn't get my temperature up, and I was placed in an incubator. I wonder now if this is the reason I feel cold all the time.

It never occurred to me that my birth may have been difficult for my mom or that her pregnancy was anything but easy. I don't know if it ever occurred to her. It wasn't like her to complain or to speak of her children as burdens. I believe we were a source of pride. But she was never one to brag, not about her kids, not about herself. She was self-deprecating, to a fault. But she was talented -- she knit, she sewed, she made the most amazing cakes that were like works of art. At the age of 70, she was learning to use a computer.

I wasn't ready to say goodbye. I can only hope that when I become a mom, I do as good a job as she did.

Still here

It's been hard to write here since my significant other's father died back in October. So much has happened it's difficult to organize it all.

Just before Christmas, my mom was hospitalized for heart problems. After two procedures to shock her heart back into a normal rhythm, she succumbed to heart disease and died in her sleep Feb. 8 at the age of 70. It was heart wrenching and I wasn't ready for it.

And last week I lost my job of 7 1/2 years. It was like a punch in the gut. Ultimately, I know it will be a good thing. I have some time to decide what to do next and I'll be doing some freelance writing. And it will give me time to do some writing on my own. So, if anyone's still out there, stay with me. I'll be writing more. Some of it may be pretty personal -- feelings about losing my mom. Some of it may be weird -- I'm seeing a fertility doctor and taking some tests. And some of it may just be silly -- there's some bizarre shit in the world. It may just be cathartic for me, and you may find yourself drifting off while reading. If so, I apologize. If not, thanks for being there.

Another goodbye

My significant other's father died last week. It's always hard to say goodbye to someone you care about. His father and mother have been my only family since I've lived here. While we aren't legally married, I still consider his parents as my in-laws. It's been a tough few days. We've had our share of losses this year -- our dog, my uncle, a miscarriage, and now a father.

He was a good man, but I didn't get to know him well enough. He was sick for a long time, and we take comfort in knowing he's no longer in pain.

"When you're weary, feeling small

When tears are in your eyes,

I will dry them all I'm on your side

When times get rough

And friends just can't be found

"Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

"When you're down and out

When you're on the street

When evening falls so hard

I will comfort you

I'll take your part

When darkness comes

And pain is all around"

Pincushion

Why would someone voluntarily allow herself to have pin pushed into various parts of her body, including her ears and forehead? Because she’s willing to try it if it might help her become a mother. Don’t worry, I know how babies are made. But apparently, it’s kind of amazing that the human race hasn’t died off, considering how difficult it is for an egg to get impregnated, implant itself and then grow into a whole real-live human being. I’ve read that acupuncture can help the process along. And a good friend tried it while going through IVF. It can’t hurt — well, it can’t harm me. But it really doesn’t hurt all that much. It’s more of a bizarre sensation. Sometimes it feels like electricity. Sometimes it just feels like a small prick (minds out of the gutter people). And once all the needles are in, you get to lay perfectly still for 45 minutes. I have been known to drift off quite comfortably. I haven’t been having treatments long enough to know if they’ll actually help. But 45 minutes of uninterrupted, guilt-free napping? I can get behind that. Sometimes I see a little spot of blood or a small bruise at the needle site, but they hurt a lot less than the paper cuts I give myself on a regular basis or the stubbed toes from the bed frame in the middle of the night. And I’m 99.99% sure that paper cuts and stubbed toes do absolutely nothing to improve my chi and help me have a baby.

A new phase begins

I’ve been off the grid blogwise for awhile, but now I’m back.

After six months of trying to conceive, I got pregnant, only to miscarry a mere eight weeks later. Because I don’t know exactly what went wrong — through my own research as a cyberchondriac, I’ve determined that I had a blighted ovum and there’s nothing you can do about it — and I really don’t want to go through another miscarriage, I’ve decided to do everything I can to help my 39-year-old eggs along.

I started seeing an acupuncturist. I've been taking a regime of Chinese herbs (some more foul than you can imagine). I’ve been taking my basal body temperature daily (and getting frustrated at the lack of a digital thermometer that will actually work for more than one effing week). I've cut way way back on soda of any kind and am trying to watch what I eat (with varying degrees of success)

We've been told to wait to try to conceive for three months. By that time, I will be knocking on 40’s door. I used to think if I weren’t a mother by the time I was 40, I’d never be. Now, I know that if I really want to be a mom, I’m going to be one of those women who are mistaken for her kid’s grandma. And I’m ok with that. Funny to think that something I never thought I wanted is the one thing that totally occupies my thoughts now.

So, if you’re not interested in reading about my adventures in acupuncture or how disgusting ginseng tastes, you probably want to move along now.

Even tough chicks get the blues

I’m a hard ass — or so I’ve been told. It takes more than a sappy movie or the death of some random wizard to make me cry. I’m not afraid to get dirty — or hurt. I’ll slide into third base and tear up the skin on my knee (I was safe, by the way). I’ll tear down a deck or dig up a stump. Growing up with three big brothers, I learned not to take anybody’s crap. I’m a tough chick.

So why do I feel so blue? Is it because the water building up behind the wall you’ve constructed finally wear it away and there’s no stopping the flood that follows? Is it because it’s sometimes all too much BS to deal with, and you just need a break from reality? Maybe it’s because loss is so hard, whether it’s a family member who’s been ill, a job or something you didn’t know you wanted until recently. Maybe it’s all of those things coming at the same time, and even if you’re a tough chick, you have to let go and be blue for a bit.

Pull myself up by my bootstraps? Suck it up? Sure I will. In a minute.

What I’m reading: “Good Omens” by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

Well, technically finished reading

I just finished reading “Good Omens” by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. The book was originally written way back in 1990 and I somehow missed it. That’s sad, because this is a book I would have read at least once a year for all of those 17 years. It’s funny — laugh-out-loud-in-public funny. It’s smart and well written. I’m putting in my Top Five All-Time Favorite Books. Yes, I liked it that much. I don’t want to say too much about the plot but I will tell you it’s about what happens when the Antichrist is raised by the wrong family. The battle between good and evil has never been so funny. Some of my favorite passages involve the Antichrist and the Hell-Hound. And make sure you read all the bits at the beginning — the authors’ notes and the list of players. It’s a great read.

All grown up

We’ve talked about getting new furniture for awhile. We almost bought new furniture a couple of times. Finally this weekend, we agreed on living room furniture and made a purchase. Today, La-Z-Boy delivered that new furniture — a burgundy leather sofa and matching recliner. These two very nice pieces of furniture replace the futon that has graced our family room for the past couple of years and held the place of honor in my tiny apartment’s living room before that. We previously bought end tables at the unfinished furniture expo store and considered those our first real pieces of grown up furniture. Now — with the exception of a hand-me-down coffee table that will probably be relegated to the basement — our family room looks like a place where grown ups visit with other grown ups, sip wine in front of the fire and watch important television programs on PBS and CNN. Granted my boyfriend has already determined that the Playstation2 controller can reach the recliner, we usually watch the SciFi channel or Comedy Central, and we have a pretty extensive collection of Disney and Pixar movies, two entire seasons of Justice League and both Ultimate Avengers: The Movie and Ultimate Avengers 2 … so maybe not all grown up. But it’s a start.

What's in a name?

My boyfriend and I have been together for more than three years now. While we have no immediate intentions of marrying, we consider ourselves committed. Being in our 30s it sometimes feels strange to refer to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend. But none of the other terms for committed relationships feel right either.

Significant other: Sounds so 90s — and fake.
Life partner: We’re not a gay couple.
Heterosexual life partner: We’re not Jay and Silent Bob.
Husband: If we’re not legally married, I’m not going to pretend. While I don’t necessarily want to get married, if I have the title, I want the rock. (And don’t start lecturing me about blood diamonds, because I’d be happy with an heirloom piece or a garnet, ruby, opal — even moissanite).
Lover: Ugh — sounds like we’re having an affair in a cheesy 80s novel.
Gentleman friend: Once we’re living in a retirement village, maybe.
The guy I’m shacking up with
The old ball and chain
Sweetie

Ok, so boyfriend sounds like we’re in high school, but it’s better than the alternatives.

Straightenin’ the curves

I caught an earworm this morning. In case you don’t know, an earworm is a song that gets stuck in your head. These insidious songs always seem to be ones to which you only know one verse, or just the chorus or — worst of all — a single word. So you can't even sing the song to try to get it out of your head. Sometimes it’s a jingle, like the Oscar Mayer wiener song. Sometimes it’s that song you hate that they keep playing over and over on the radio.

Inevitably, if you tell someone you have a song stuck in your head, they will say, “At least it’s not ‘It’s a Small World” or “At least it’s not ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart.” And next thing you know, you’re humming, “Turn around bright eyes. Every now and then I fall apart.”

This morning I was reading an article in Car & Driver comparing (tongue firmly in cheek) five iconic movie/TV cars. They included the Batmobile, the DeLorean from “Back to the Future,” Mad Max’s Interceptor, Starky & Hutch’s car and The General Lee from “Dukes of Hazzard.” Wanna guess what song got stuck in my head after reading this article?

I watched the “Dukes of Hazzard” religiously as a young girl. My girlfriend and I were in love with the Duke boys — as I suppose most girls of the day were. But looking back, I know the show was cheesy at best and it no longer holds the same appeal. I don’t stop to watch it when I see it in reruns. (Although, I’ll admit John Schneider still looked pretty good when I happened to see him on “Smallville.”)

But just in case the song hasn’t wormed its way into your head, here are the lyrics:
Just some good ole boys
Never meanin’ no harm
Beats all you ever saw
Been in trouble with the law
Since the day they were born
Straightenin’ the curves
And flattenin’ the hills
Someday the mountain might get ’em
But the law never will
Makin’ their way
Any way they know how
That’s just a little bit more than the law will allow
Just some good ole' boys
Wouldn’t change if they could
Fightin’ the system like two modern-day Robin Hoods

Incoming rant

Yesterday, I received an “important benefits information” package in the mail. According to the enclosed letter, I am required to fill out the accompanying form regarding my dependents. Here’s the thing, I have no dependents and the form reflects that. Still, I am required to fill in out, i.e. sign it, and mail it back in the prepaid envelope. As I’ve mentioned before, we recently experienced significant layoffs. I understand if there are ineligible dependents being covered it raises my insurance premiums. So sending out these mailings is a good thing in that respect. However (and this is a big one) there are computer programs that easily sort lists. It wouldn't be that difficult to determine which associates even have dependents. If an associate has no dependents, don’t waste the paper or postage to mail them this form.

And the best part? It saves me the time of having to read the letter and rant about it.

Attack of the moths

It’s that time of year again in Southern Colorado: The miller moths have returned to wreak havoc. This little article helps explain the scientific aspects of the critters: http://www.colostate.edu/Depts/CoopExt/4DMG/Pests/millers.htm But the truth is these so-called moths are much more dangerous than they appear. They’ll hide in the folds of your bed covers so when you turn down the bed at night they fly out — right into your face — flapping their leathery little wings against your skin. It gives me the heebie jeebies like nothing else, with the exception of June bugs back in Illinois. Those buggers could mimic a baked bean like nobody’s business — don’t ask.

The miller moth’s random flight pattern and attraction to lights makes it hard to swat them. Once I’ve managed to knock one down — or better yet, actually kill one — I have to collect the carcass right away or my dog makes a meal of it. It’s a quick clean up but rather disgusting. My dog eats enough bugs, including grasshoppers, flies and even bees. She keeps trying to eat the pill bugs even though the taste is obviously not to her liking. She’ll pick one up, spit it out, shake her head in distaste and then pick the bug right back up again. Silly pooch.

The entertaining aspect of the moths return is watching the swallows swoop and dive to catch the moths at intersections. It’s a mystery to me why the bugs seem to congregate at busy intersections, but it helps me pass the time at red lights. If I could keep the moths out of my bed and away from my head, maybe they wouldn’t be so bad. If they start mimicking picnic foods, I’m in big trouble.

And now they're gone

Less than a week after auto-flushing toilets were installed in the ladies room at work, they have been removed. Trial run that didn't work out? Sample toilets? Who knows. I only hope the labor didn't cost anything. Good Grief.

The dangers of static cling

Today, a co-worker was walking along the hallway toward me. As she turned a corner before reaching me, I noticed something fall behind her. At first I thought it was a hair scrunchie, although she’s not the hair scrunchie type. Then I realized what it actually was — a pair of black thong panties. Apparently they had stuck to her shirt or inside her pant leg and fell out as she walked through the office. I picked them up (I assume they were clean) and surreptitiously returned them to her. Because I’m immature, I have been giggling about this for the past six hours. I can only imagine if someone else had picked them up and turned them into lost and found. I think the company-wide email would read something like this: “If you’ve lost a pair of black thong panties, you can claim them at the reception desk.”

The moral of the story: use plenty of fabric softener and always sort your clothes carefully.

Budget cuts and self-flushing toilets

A few months ago my company laid off 30 people due to budget cuts. It was tough all over. The very next Monday, there were seven open positions listed on the internal job site. It seemed to me that there may have been someone laid off who would have an interest in one of those positions. Maybe not the best fit for everyone, but some people might have wanted to stay with the company regardless. Not the best timing in any case.

Today, we have brand new faucets in the ladies room and fancy self-flushing toilets. I love modern conveniences, but whose salary paid for me to not have to flush a toilet? And don’t talk to me about capital improvements and how salaries come out of a different budget. It’s robbing Peter to pay Paul, and it pisses me off.

Spring Fever

It snowed again yesterday – enough to cover the grass and flowers and close school. I didn’t think it was enough to close any schools, except maybe the mountain or rural schools. At the risk of sounding much older than I actually am, kids today are spoiled. When I was a kid (ooh, that does make me sound old), we had to get almost a foot of snow before schools closed. And they never closed school before it started snowing – you know, just in case a blizzard hits.

Around here, schools are on a two-hour delay for a dusting of snow and any more than that results in a closure. And they have actually closed schools for the threat of a winter storm. I’m not kidding. I remember walking to grade school in near white-out conditions (uphill both ways, and I liked it). I’m sure it was worse in my fourth-grade mind than it actually was, but I remember lots of snow in my childhood but very few snow days off school.

Here’s the thing, I don’t really think it’s wimpy kids. I think it’s parents who either don’t want to deal with the weather or remember trudging through the snow as a kid and don’t want to put their own kids through it. I can relate to the first one, but I guess I subscribe to my parents’ school of thought: If I had to do it, you have to do. That probably sounds harsh, but on the plus side, we didn’t have to do it if Mom and Dad didn’t. Dad didn’t like lima beans, so we didn’t have to eat them – same with peas and tuna casserole. Seemed fair to me. But what do I know? I’m not a parent. My kid would probably be the one who shows up in school in a swimsuit and cowboy boots with leftover sushi in her Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox.

Geek fest

Stargate SG-1 returns tonight for the beginning of its final season. I don't think the series ever garnered critical acclaim and maybe never was a huge ratings winner. But its fan base is loyal and it has always been a fun show. I'm looking forward to the next two and a half months of Fridays.

Stargate Atlantis returns tonight as well, as does a new series called Painkiller Jane that I'll probably check out. I'm curious because Sci Fi has been pretty good with its new series lately. The Dresden Files has been my favorite show lately (its season finale is Sunday if you're interested). Although this season of Battlestar Gallactica was too much Gallactica and not enough Battle. The season finale was great but most of the season left me cold.

So, here's hoping Sci Fi Fridays are all I ever hoped for.

Zombie love

As I've mentioned before, I have a certain love for movies about the living dead or others of their ilk. Scary, funny, campy, cheesy - I don't care. I love them.

Coming soon:
28 Weeks Later - the sequel to 28 Days Later (not the movie about Sandra Bullock in rehab). Six months have passed and it's time to repopulate London. You just know something goes wrong. I can't find an official site, so here it is at IMDB: http://imdb.com/title/tt0463854/
Black Sheep - Killer sheep. 'Nuff said. Seriously, just watch the trailer:
www.blacksheep-themovie.com
Fido - I just saw this mentioned in passing at www.pajiba.com and had to check it out. Zombies have been domesticated - you just know something goes wrong! Here's the site: www.fidothemovie.com

I can't wait! Wee!

UPDATE: Here's the official site of 28 Weeks Later (with a trailer): www.foxatomic.com/#28wkstrailer

Dude looks like a lady

Flipping through channels last night (yes, I should get a life), I came across a program on TLC called, “Supersize She.” And like when encountering a train wreck, I couldn’t look away.

One complaint the lady bodybuilders had was that most people don’t consider them feminine because of their muscles. Honey, it’s not the muscles. If your face looks like a man’s face and your voice sounds like a man’s voice and your body looks like a man’s body, you’re not feminine. Well, you’re not feminine looking anyway. At one point, the woman we’re following watches a video of her much younger self competing. Here she still looked like a woman. She was muscular but still had female-looking features. She even says, “Look how cute my face was.”

All I could think was how this kind of obsession must be something like anorexia. They aren’t healthy – they say so themselves. They starve themselves before competitions, forgoing even water so their muscles will pop. Then, minutes before the competition, they gorge on sugary foods so their veins will bulge out.

I don’t like the way male bodybuilders look, so this isn’t about what a woman’s body should look like. And, I’m not going to say we should be happy with the body we have – no one really is. But obsession is never good and wanting to be thought of as feminine and then working so hard to look masculine, just seems wrong to me. And, I don’t think a woman can achieve that body type without some pharmaceutical help. The acne was one indication. The deep voices and aggressive behavior were another.

On the other hand, she set a goal for herself and worked hard to reach it. I wish I could be so driven.

Have a cookie

I have a bit of an obsession with zombies (or the living dead if you prefer that term). It started many years ago when, as a kid, I happened to catch a little gem of a movie called “Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things” – it’s real, look it up. It was awful, but the idea of the dead rising stuck with me. Since then, whenever I saw a movie about zombies, I would inevitably have nightmares about being attacked, narrowly escaping or waking just before the bite. As silly as these dreams seem in the light of day, it doesn't change the fact that I would wake in a sweat with my heart pounding. In recent years, I have decided to take this nightmare-inducing subject head on. Face your fears, right?

So I have, with some great results and some dismal results. I have watched “Dead Alive,” “Army of Darkness,” “Night of the Living Dead,” both versions of “Dawn of the Dead” (yeah, I liked the new one, even if zombies shouldn’t be able to run), “Day of the Dead,” “Land of the Dead,” “Shaun of the Dead” (probably my all-time favorite movie), “Resident Evil” and its sequel (maybe not “zombies” per se but still), “28 Days Later” (again, not living dead but the same idea), “Zombie Lake” (a hilariously bad 80s French flick) and most recently “Zombie Planet.”

“Zombie Planet” seemed to have a lot of potential for cheesy living-dead goodness. Unfortunately it was poorly executed. It would have been better if it had been about 75 minutes long rather than its painful 119 minutes.

The premise is awesome – scientists created an enzyme that eliminates cravings for carbohydrates (think extreme Atkins Diet). But something went terribly wrong and the users of this pill started craving red meat to the point they didn’t care where it came from – raw meat, cooked meat, Fifi! Then they die and reanimate and start attacking others, who (as it normally works with zombie films) also die and reanimate, until the whole world is overrun by the living dead. It could have been so cool. The bad acting and the amateurish production quality didn’t bother me as much as the rambling story and the “Beyond Thunderdome” rip off. There is one actor who, at first, seemed fairly natural. He’s not great but he seems to be doing ok until about halfway through. The director must have pulled him aside and said, “Dammit man! We need more acting!”

On the plus side it would be a great movie for a drunken night with friends. I would have enjoyed it a whole lot more with beers and the ’bots.

By the way, plans are in the works to make a movie version of “World War Z." I’m trying not to get my hopes up.

Like a rock

Monday I’m going to drive the “all-new Chevy Silverado” … again. I drove this behemoth pick-up back in November. This time it will be a Duramax Diesel so it’s completely different, except not really. I’m not looking forward to this test drive, because, as I’ve said, I already drove this truck, and I don’t really like Chevrolets.

I’m not sure where the abhorrence comes from, but I can’t get excited about any Chevy model. Even a Corvette – fast as it is – leaves me numb. My dad has always driven Buicks – LeSabres or Skylarks until those were discontinued. While Chevys and Buicks are cousins, I never really disliked the Buick; I just always thought of it as a “Dad Car.”

My own history with cars is a mixed bag: two Fords, two Plymouths, a Mitsubishi, a Jeep and my new Honda. I’ve owned foreign cars, domestic cars, compact cars, SUVs and even a pick-up. And, yes, there was something about driving around in a big ol’ Ford F-150. But the world is a different place than it was in 2000. I’m not going to get all preachy about the environment but who really needs a vehicle of this size unless he’s a cowboy pulling his horse trailer or a farmer hauling feed to his cattle? Really? Maybe a construction company foreman or someone who is carrying large loads everyday. But a pick-up doesn’t make sense for the average city dweller. Do we need an open bed to bring home groceries? Seems like a bad idea. Taking the kids to school? Umm. No. Yet, when I drove this vehicle before the salesman told me that 75 percent of the people who buy the Silverado buy it for personal use. Wow.

Mom always said, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Sorry Mom.

What I'm reading

After looking at a friend’s Web site and reading her literary reviews, I got to thinking about my own life as a bookworm. I currently have four partially-read books lying under my nightstand. I’m reading all of them in bits and pieces – some more than others. I also have a pile of books to be read and a long list of books I plan to read.

The books under my nightstand are:
• “Lady Blackrobes: Missionaries in the Heart of Indian Country” by Irene Mahoney – an interesting subject but written in such a dry manner, with letters to and from the bishops and nuns involved, that I’m having a hard time getting through more than a few pages at a time.
• “Notes from a Big Country” by Bill Bryson – in one volume with “Notes from a Small Island.” I ready “Notes from a Small Island” quickly, enjoying the passages about parts of England I visited last year. “Notes from a Big Country” is about Bryson moving back to the U.S. and writing about the country and his experiences for people in England. Bryson is funny and a great story teller, but I guess I’d rather read about England. As the chapters were actually written as stand-alone articles, I don’t feel bad only reading one or two every few days or so.
• “Clarkson on Cars” by Jeremy Clarkson – the host of Top Gear has been writing about cars for a lot longer than I have and I aspire to be as witty and scathing. (No chance I’ll ever be as big – the man is over 6’ 5” tall!) Again the chapters were written as stand-alone articles for British newspapers, so I read one or two when I need a laugh or just want to imagine being in England again. Clarkson is a hoot, even if all of the humor doesn’t directly translate to American.
• “Hidden Prey” by John Sandford – part of his long list of “Prey” books featuring investigator Lucas Davenport. A mystery/thriller with twists and turns and the (for some reason I can’t explain) likable Davenport, I consider the “Prey” books brain candy. Sandford can weave a tale and, as I said, I really like Davenport. I’ll probably have this one done by next week.

On deck:
• “Ship Fever” by Andrea Barrett – a collection of stories that won the National Book Award in 1996.
• “Human Traces” by Sebastian Faulks – Faulks wrote “Birdsong,” a book about World War I which I read recently and thoroughly enjoyed.
• “The Double” by Jose Saramago – Saramago wrote the Nobel Prize-winning “Blindness,” which was a tough read but a great book. I’ve read mixed reviews about “The Double,” so we’ll see.
• “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy – I loved “All the Pretty Horses” but have never been able to get through “Blood Meridian.” I’ve heard really good things about this book and just ordered it from Amazon.com.
• “World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War” by Max Brooks – I’ll let the title of this one speak for itself.

I got a new car!

I bought a new car this weekend. It's a 2007 Honda Element and it's the first time I've ever bought a brand new car all by myself. It's also the most money I've ever spent in my life. So, while I'm excited and can't wait to go pick it up, I'm scared witless about all that money. I know I'll stop being scared once I'm driving around in my new car, listening to my new radio, not worrying about whether it's going to start in the morning or when I leave work. Anybody want to buy my old Jeep?

Groundhog Day

The outdoor thermometer read -2 this morning. I don’t care where you’re from, that’s damn cold. Now, I know that in about four months, I’ll be bitching that it’s too hot to sleep. And really I do prefer cold to hot. When it’s cold, you can bundle up, put on a sweater, wrap yourself in a blanket, snuggle. When it’s hot, you can get naked and still be hot. You can get in a pool and still be hot. And please don’t think about snuggling when it’s hot. I’m already sweaty I don’t need your sweat on me too.

But minus 2 gets inside your sweater, it gets under the blanket. Snuggling must be done fully clothed, preferably with wool socks and flannel jammies and a down comforter. The sun doesn’t even want to come out in this kind of cold. Evenings are spent huddled under a blanket with a cup of tea – not that that’s a bad thing. But now I understand the need to hibernate.

This morning, good ol’ Punxsutawney Phil failed to see his shadow, which is supposed to mean an early spring. The furry little bastard had better be right. While I still have some skiing to do, I’m ready for some warmer weather. And besides, I’d hate to live this day over and over and over again.

Three things that made me smile today

1. A lady in leather mom jeans in the locker room at my gym
2. Two dogs happily chasing each other with abandon in a yard on the way back to work
3. A guy on a Gob-style scooter riding it down a busy street

Come dancing

I recently wrote a story about dance lessons for brides and grooms to be. During the course of my interviews, one of the dance studio owners/instructors invited me to come to a group lesson, on the house. My patient and devoted boyfriend and I took him up on the offer last night.

The studio is located in a crumbling strip mall — the kind of place where you find Asian markets and pawn shops. But it was bright and open inside, with a beautifully polished dance floor. A crowd was waiting for the lesson to begin. There must have been 50 or more people, many of them men there on their own and several couples younger than us.

The instructor — a roundish, middle-aged man, who certainly didn’t look like a dancer — was quite light on his feet. He separated the men and women on either side of him. We learned the basic steps that way and then joined our partners across the room. Couples who came together got to dance together all evening. Singles switched out because there were more men than women. (Maybe it’s a good place to meet someone nice.)

We learned the Fox Trot, dancing a bit without any music. We learned the dance frame and the steps with our partners. Then we danced to music – some Sinatra. We learned a couple of turns, and the instructor gave pointers and tips to individuals who needed it. We learned not to watch our feet and to be offset so we didn’t walk on each other. We didn’t snark at each other when we made a mistake and found ourselves smiling and laughing quite a bit.

And speaking of dogs

I debated whether to write about this or not, but it's pretty funny so here goes ...

The other night my pets were kind of wound up - following me around and being obnoxious. I came out of a room into the hall, with the dog and cat scurrying along in front of me. The dog grabbed the cat - yes, grabbed - and started humping him. I yelled at her to stop and he tried to run off, but the dog grabbed him again from the front this time. I yelled some more and the cat eventually got away. I don't know about him but I'm scarred by the incident. Not only was it inter-species attempted rape - it was a female dog and a male cat. I'm thinking about calling a pet psychic. Don't you judge me.

What I’m reading

I’m reading “Notes From a Small Island” by Bill Bryson right now. It’s about the author's time in England and it’s laugh-out-loud funny. I almost blew Diet Coke through my nose while reading this in my company’s break room: “But it was one of those names only British people have – Colin Crapspray or Bertram Pantyshield.” My friend from England assures me she never met anyone with such names but my juvenile sense of humor found it hilarious.

After reading “A Good Dog” by Jon Katz – which, I’m not ashamed to say, made me weep openly for a good 10 minutes – I needed some good guffaws. It’s ultimately uplifting and a quick, enjoyable read. Perhaps a bit sentimental, but I challenge anyone who has ever had a beloved pet to not get sentimental about that pet. And if you’ve ever had to make the decision to put a pet to sleep, “A Good Dog” will definitely bring on the waterworks – and well worth the cry.

After “Notes From a Small Island,” I plan to move on to “Notes From a Big Country” and then one of several new books I bought before and after Christmas. I have a pile of books I bought at our company’s (really cheap) book sale and received two Barnes & Noble gift cards. If it keeps on snowing each weekend like it has, I’ll have plenty of time to get through my pile.

Warning! Incoming rant

I was all set to write about how my physical therapy is going great and my knee is feeling pretty normal but on my way to my keyboard I realized that someone had injected the city water supply with a fresh batch of stupid. Everywhere I went people were driving as if it were their first time behind the wheel of this new-fangled thing call an automobile – parking a semi in the middle of a city street to make a delivery when the delivery dock is just around the corner, making a left turn from the far right lane, rolling through a stop sign to come to a stop in the middle of an intersection with traffic coming, stopping at an intersection clearly marked “Please proceed. Do not stop.” Just a few of my favorite things. Not that I’ve never done anything stupid but at least I have the good grace to act contrite when I’ve blundered. I don’t think these folks realized there was even another person on the road. I’m waiting for survival of the fittest to kick in. Unfortunately, these people often drive the biggest vehicles and would take several others out with them when they go. As I watched the old lady trying to figure out what the big sign was saying to her, I told myself to calm down; that could be me some day. But it won't. No. I'll take the bus.

I wasn't going to talk about work, but ...

In my adult working life, I have been asked twice to explain what I do with my time on the job (not just me but everyone in my department). The first time, we had to break down our day and list all activities – including potty breaks. This time (which just happened today), we’ve been asked how many stories we write for our weekly and monthly publications. And, it should be noted that we don’t just write – “just writing” a story involves research, setting up and conducting interviews, writing the story, editing the story, someone else editing the story, making revisions, laying out the story for publication and proofreading the final layout. We are researchers, writers, editors, layout designers and proofreaders, and we still have to perform the day to day administrative crap that’s required of anyone who works in an office. Frankly, I’m not the one who didn’t make budget this year. But, because sh*t rolls downhill and someone at the top of the hill must be having to justify her existence in cubicle hell, I must. Somehow I think my existence will be found to have more justification than hers. One can only hope.

Snow globe

It's snowing again! While I hate (I mean really really really hate) driving in snow and ice, I love the snow. I'm spending Christmas in Vail this year with at least a couple days skiing and I can't wait. It's been a long time since I looked forward to Christmas with this kind of childlike anticipation. With my new skis hanging in the garage, waiting to be used, I'm reminded of the sleds my brothers and I dragged across a snow-covered park for an afternoon of hurtling down the hill. We probably spent as much time slogging back up the hill as travelling down but nothing beat the thrill of the snow in our faces as we raced our toboggans, discs and gliders. Sometimes our parents were with us but most of the time the hill was filled only with kids -- the big kids watching out for their younger siblings. I hate to wax nostalgic and say it was a simpler time, but it was. I had no deadlines, no bills, no worries -- I just had to stay warm and hang on! And when we finally were forced back to the house in the dark, Mom had a dry towel and a hot dinner waiting.

Skiing brings that back to me. A day on the mountain followed by a cold beer, warm meal and a good night's is like taking a small step back in time. I still have deadlines. I still have bills. But for a few hours, the only worries I have are staying warm and keeping my skis on the hill.