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.