Quodlibets

Do it!

You should be one too.

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare

I picked up Truth and Beauty, by Ann Patchett because I liked the title.  I was looking for something to read while on register duty at Borders, and fast.  I knew of Ann Patchett (who working in a bookstore at that time was not aware of Bel Canto?) but had never read one of her books; I simply had/have no interest as her as a fiction writer.  But I read the blurb for this book, and realized it was about Lucy Grealy, who was recognizable for two reasons; I had read her book, Autobiography of a Face, sometime in the mid-nineties after its publication, and I remembered having seen Grealy's obituary after she died.  I thought, at the time, that Grealy's story was one of the most tragic I could imagine, but the truth is, her life was a great deal more tragic than I ever could have predicted. 

The books is lyrical, and I don't know why.  I wouldn't be able to say that I think it's because Patchett is such a good writer; it might be because Grealy was such a lyrical person that it comes through in the book.  I found a comment thread about the women, as friends, on a blog (through Google), and I was surprised by how many people saw it differently.  So much vitriol directed at Lucy, for being selfish, for being small, for being self-absorbed.  And never once did I have thoughts that even remotely faulted Lucy or Ann, for any single episode in the book.  I don't excuse Lucy because her life was hard; it was, and I can't imagine the body image problems that you have when you effectively have a changing face.  I don't excuse Lucy because she was a talented artist; she was, and it's good that people like her can exist.  I don't have to excuse Lucy at all, in fact, because there is nothing to excuse her for.

On a good day, none of us are selfish and self-absorbed, and we don't have to consciously think about our happiness.  But mostly, I think all of us spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about ourselves, and who we are.  Why we're alone.  Why we're depressed.  Why we want things we can't seem to get; why we want more, better when we get the things we thought we wanted.  Perhaps I ascribe these traits to all humans because I have them myself, but I think that in some ways, these things must be universal.  We're complex, us people, and Lucy and Ann are no different.  Ann wasn't always the white knight, riding in and saving Lucy, and Lucy wasn't always the demanding child.  No situation is that black and white, no matter how it appears on the page.

Maybe I love this story so much because I understand that there are relationships that feel sometimes too difficult, too hard to forgive, but are harder to live without than with.  When Ann says that in the end, if it was a choice between no Lucy and Lucy with heroin, she would take Lucy with heroin no matter what, I understand that statement.  I'm not sure why; I'm not exactly sure why Ann would put up with the shit that she somehow put up with, except that something in me understands the reward of being in a friendship like that.  Maybe I think that being in a relationship with me is something like a lesser degree of that.  I'm not self-destructive, not really, but I always imagine that being friends with me takes effort, and that nothing with me is easy.  Or how about this: My relationship with myself takes effort, and I'm not sure if most people have that problem.

Yet, I also can't understand the impulse to be self-destructive; or to have a productive friendship with a self-destructive human being.  I ended my first major romantic relationship because the person was an alcoholic and self-destructive in every way possible.  I would say that a couple of the friendships of the past few years that I've been mourning the death of could have ended because of what I perceived as the self-destructive nature of the other person.  Maybe I've never had the kind of friendship that Lucy and Ann had, and if I had, I would know the circumstances that leads one to choose any over none.  I suspect that in one of my broken friendships, it wasn't my feelings about the self-destructiveness of this person that led to the "break-up" and that I understand Ann and Lucy very well.  I understand that no matter how self-destructive this person was, I still want them very much in my life; that I'd choose that situation over this one now. 

It's not hard, then, to find something in this book to identify with.  I read it twice (recently, in honor of the paperback version) and I could probably start it again tomorrow and find something new, something illuminating in the book.  It's just that good.

Edited to add:  I'm not sure I could be friends with Lucy Grealy.  But I doubt that Ann wrote the book so that everyone would suddenly wish they had been friends with Lucy.  After all, I know nothing of the magic of being friends with Lucy, or the heart-break, for that matter.  All those people judging Lucy are really judging that they couldn't be friends with Lucy, and so by extension, that no one should have loved Lucy THAT much.  She wasn't worth it to them; they never knew her, so that can't have known the exquisite joy (and pain) that Lucy brought.  It's unfair to judge thusly.

Holy Shit, the Woman can Sing

My dad and sister were worried that my mom and I would lose out if we went to see the new cast of Wicked, as opposed to the original Chicago cast.  Turns out, they needn't have worried.  Ana Gasteyer can f-ing sing.

Really, the musical is fantastic.  I know musicals aren't everyone's cup of tea, and I respect that.  (In fact, the reason S didn't go, and my mom did is because he loathes the musical in any form, and well, I love them, as does my mom.)  But if you like the musical at all, Wicked is really very good.  I enjoyed it far more than I enjoyed Sweet Charity.  And again, I cannot stress how well Gasteyer sings.  She can belt it out.  (I admit to being worried that she wouldn't have the pipes.  She was on SNL, for god's sake.)  Really, I was impressed, to say the least.

Also, I couldn't help thinking at the end that the whole play was about friendship between women.  One of the last major songs was about how the friendship between Glinda and Elphaba changed their lives for good.  I appreciated that the story is only a love story between a man and a woman peripherally, and that the true nature of the story is that of a love story between Glinda and Elphaba.  I'm not sure if that's rare in the musical form, since I haven't seen too many modern ones (though the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that most musicals are really conventional love stories), but it was appreciated.  Let's put it this way:  Wicked definitely passes the Bechdel movie test. 

My mom and I went to dinner as well, at Nick's Fishmarket, and my mom bought me a primo expensive piece of fish.  I'd never had Dover Sole before, but I think it's ruined me forever for other fishes.  Holy good god, the fish was amazing.  So good I didn't need the sauce that came with it.  It was a good-for-me meal out (minus the butter I ate on the bread, and the vinagarette on the salad--which was one of the best salads I've ever had.  Roma tomatoes, goat cheese, and arugula in a caper vinagarette.  I could not have dreamed up a better salad.) that was oh-so-delicious.  I owe my mom big-time because she splurged on us big-time.  So thanks, mom.  When can we go back????

I have nothing to say

I'm just chugging along with the internship and the reading and the life.  I'm sure I could muster an opinion if necessary, but I feel too lethargic to do much.  S and I have air conditioning, but just knowing that it's fifty million degrees outside is enough to make you want to sit on the couch and molt.

Supposedly, it's supposed to cool down here by Friday, which would be ever so delightful, since we're trekking to the Taste this year.  (My mom has lived in this area for all of her life and has never been to the Taste, which is baffling.  Also, S has never been, and what better place for the two of us to eat.  He can get the pizza and the pasta, and I can concentrate on all the foods I can't eat when I'm with him.  It's like eating at a Thai restaurant and an Italian restaurant and a Greek restaurant and so on and so on.)  I know that there is negative rumbling out there about how awful the Taste is, and I feel that, I really do.  In general, tourists suck.  And tourists are out in force right now in Chicago, and even I get annoyed by it, and I don't live there.

However, I also like to eat.  And that's what the Taste is.  An eating-fest.  Nothing wrong with that.  In fact, my hometown has a Taste-esque event in the fall, and I've been gone to that before, even though it's nothing special, and it's basically adulty people standing around drinking wine.  (It's also a wine festival.)  Also, I went to my hometown's gigantically famous summer festival just to eat.  Yep, I like food.  I want to go to a county fair in Wisconsin that my mom has spoken of just to partake of the many cheese products (cheese curds, mmmmmmmmm) as well as the various products you can buy fried, on a stick.  Sad, right?  My love of fried foods knows no bounds.  (Except for fried chicken.  Don't so much like that.)

Is it any wonder I have a weight problem? 

More for the Chick Lit v. Other Lit file

Jennifer Weiner's blog pointed to this article in Newsday which covers the Bank-Sittenfeld debacle.  It's sort of a making peace kind of an article, but it's worth reading if you've been keeping up with the whole shebang.

Kinsey

S and I just finished the movie.  We both thoroughly enjoyed it, though it really highlighted how very conventional I am about sex and sexuality.  (Although it could be argued that in many ways, both he and I are unconventional in our sexualities.  Still, that's not the point of this post.)  I simply mean that I somehow cannot separate the act from the emotions.  The thought of taking pleasure elsewhere while my heart is so tied to S is foreign, and it makes me nervous.  And the thought of him doing the same thing bothers me. 

These sorts of attitudes bother me too, so frankly, I'm just tangled mess.  I don't like the idea of living so strictly within codes like this.  I love S, and I cannot fathom how I could begrudge him something that might make him happy, but I could.  Oh, could I ever.  Even if he told me that nothing on the planet could come between us, and that all extra-relationship sex was just sex, I don't think I could stay with him.  It always amazes me when people are able to separate love and sex, because I cannot, even though theoretically, I think the two can and should be separated, in as much that sex does not equal love, and love isn't always sexual. 

I know all this rationally, but I cannot be rational where love is concerned.  And isn't that as it should be?  It's impossible to quantify love, to place conditions on it, or to make it into reasonable rules.  I just don't think that love will listen to rationalities.  Maybe it's an incurably romantic way to view sex and love, but I cannot school myself to feel any other way.  Possibly, I give myself too little credit, and I do in fact love S so much that I could forgive him other sexual relationships.  I don't know.  Possibly, I would feel different about this if I wasn't in love at all.  I can't speak to that either. 

Probably, it all doesn't matter, because as much as I think this is important, it has very little to do with the day-to-day living of our lives.  Kinsey simply reminded me of how pedestrian my sexual values really are. 

"Is Fear Holding You Back?"

No, dumbass. 

I just really, really like food. 

Dear Random Strangers,

Nobody knows the size of your pants, trust me.  We can't tell if you're wearing a 16, 18, or 20.  And we don't care, to be honest.  What we can tell is that you're wearing pants that are possibly two to three sizes too small for you.

Take it from me, it doesn't look good.  No matter what size you are--from a 2 to a 30 (for women; I'm still not really very clear on how men's sizes work.  Needless to say, I'm including you men in this as well)--you can look fantastic.  But no matter how cute your clothes are, you can't look fantastic in them if they don't fit.  And especially if they're too tight.  It's just not flattering.

And you're all (seen at various places in the last three days) attractive people.  Probably, if you were wearing clothing that fit, I'd never have noticed you at all.  You'd just be another person among the many.  But unfortunately for you, you drew attention to yourself in a way you probably didn't want to. 

So please, go to whatever store you shop at and upsize those pants.  You'll feel better about yourself, and you won't draw so much critical attention to yourself.

Manogirl

A Quirk of Chemistry

When offered chocolate, I usually decline.  I'm not above the odd spoonful of chocolate ice cream, and some chocolate bars are transcendent, it's true.  But I simply do not crave chocolate (or sweets, for that matter) on an everyday basis.  If offered cheese and chocolate, I will, 99 times out of 100, choose the cheese.  I'm used to it; I've even ordered a cheese plate at a restaurant, instead of a dessert.  (Sadly, very few restaurants offer that option.)

However, for one week a month (more like 5 days, in reality) I cannot get enough of chocolate.  Leave a chocolate bar unwrapped in my presence and it will disappear.  I proved it this morning.  Admittedly, this is chocolate I would eat any time of the month, but this is the only time of the month that I would describe it as literally THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER EATEN.  It was a fantastic piece of culinary heaven.  Sadly, though, I described a Snickers bar this way last month, so perhaps take it with a grain of salt.  (No, really, the chocolate today was far and above better than a garden-variety Snickers.  I found it at my local Whole Foods.  I urge you, try the one I tried, or the peanut, which is equally as delicious and which I finished yesterday.  Yes, they look small, but they're so rich and decadent that I could not possibly finish one in a day.  Two days, yes.  One day, no.)

All that I'm saying is that before say, this past few months, I had never felt so passionate about chocolate.  Since being on the pill, things have changed.  And since being on a diet and the pill, things have changed even more strangely.  It's only since the diet started that I've craved chocolate, and it's not just chocolate.  I think I mentioned this before, but on my period, I am hungry 24/7.  I eat dinner and five minutes later I'm hungry.  I don't feel this way for the majority of the month, so I know I'm eating enough, normally.  It's just some strange quirk of this particular time of the month. 

I don't even like chocolate, I tell you!

Kerfluffle

"I get very concerned when we start hearing people who want to convert this country into a safe place for children," she said. "I am adult. I want available what I need to see."

Judith Krug, a spokesperson for the ALA, said this about the recent challenge of Playboy magazine at Oak Lawn Library. 

The magazine was being challenged because "sexually excited men should not be allowed to view such material in a building that also has child visitors," according to Mark Decker, a father of three. 

Regardless of the fact that I think taking anything out a library for the sake of children is horseshit--because I do agree with Krug--let's talk about the RIDICULOUS supposition that after looking at porn, men somehow pose a danger to the innocent young children wandering around the library.  Because any man who poses a danger to children sexually isn't looking at Playboy to get his jollies, right?  He's reading American Cheerleader Junior or some Nickelodeon magazine.  What this dumbass should really be concerned about is the lone male sitting alone in the kids department, looking at kids mags.  Perhaps if the father had voiced his concern that Playboy was degrading to women, or dangerous to women (two things I don't believe), I might have at least understood his complaint, but this?  This is pure stupidity.  It's non-sequitor.

Furthermore, I'm guessing that most of the people using the Playboy at the library (because it was a non-circulating item) weren't using it for arousal purposes.  They may have ogled the women, but I'm really hoping that none of them were using it to get aroused (and to, you know, bring an end to the arousal.).  Because what are you gonna do, go in the library bathroom without the material and whack off?  I mean, come on.  Steal the damn mag if you want to whack off to it.

Frankly, this guy's argument makes no sense.  Removing Playboy from library shelves doesn't eliminate any danger to your kids.  It just eliminates one more right--the right to read whatever the fuck you want.  (Hey, there are articles in Playboy.)