Saturday, March 17, 2012

I'm not Irish, and you probably don't want to get close enough to kiss me.

I'm about at my wit's end.  I, frankly, had more faith in the length of my wits before this week, but now I see the truth of it: I'm nearly witless.

In the words of Indigo Montoya: There is too much; lemme sum up.

My husband got hit by a car while riding his bicycle 2 weeks ago.  He had surgery on Monday to repair the complete separation of his shoulder, including the complete tear of both the AC and CC ligaments.  I don't want to explain that any further; it's medical and boring if it's not happening to you. Suffice it to say that the past two weeks have sucked immensely.  I'm exhausted.  I'm frustrated.  I'm fearful of lasting damage to my  husband's mobility.  I might cry if they don't have the flavor of ice cream I want when I stop at Publix on the way home today.

Now it's St. Patrick's day.  I could not give a flying tow-truck about St. Patrick's day.  I don't own any green clothing.  I'm not interested in green beer.  And anyone who pinches me is going to lose a couple fingers, at best.

My daughter, on the other hand, is 6, and thinks it's a serious holiday for everyone.  They apparently camp it up in elementary school nowadays, and she's been talking about the stupid Leprechaun like it's Santa Claus.  Any minor change in her environment is chalked up to the Leprechaun's practice runs of mischief-making.  Geeze.  Last night she set up a Leprechaun trap in her bedroom, which looked a little like a fairy house, so it was mildly endearing to me.  But this morning she awakens me at 4:30 asking if she can get up yet.  Like she's expecting a pot of gold in the living room.  I had, in concession to her sweet enthusiasm over the day, gone into her room after she fell asleep to mess around with her toys and write a little Leprechaun note for her.  But that was as much as I could manage.  I wasn't getting up 3 hours before dawn to enjoy that moment with her.  Fortunately, she let me go back to sleep and didn't wake her dad about it.

Really.  People.  I'm sorry I can't drum up any enthusiasm here.  I feel like a jerk for being unfestive and stuff, but cut me some slack.  I have to change the dressing on some surgical wounds.  And then eat a pint of salted caramel gelato.  I take that back; I'm not even a little sorry.  Especially about the gelato.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Those who can, write. Those who can't, write blog entries about how those other guys did it wrong.

I've started reading Sense and Sensibility for the first time.  For some reason I avoided all those Brit-chick novels when I was in high school.  Except for Wuthering Heights.   I loved that, presumably because it's kind of half-ghost-story, and I was a huge Kate Bush fan.  Even with these factors to recommend it, it was pretty tragic and swooney and girly.  I'm not, so far, getting the gush over Jane Austen.  Does that make me some kind of philistine?  In the first 10 admittedly short chapters of this book, it seems like typical unrealistic romance novel stuff that would have inspired two different John Hughes movies in the '80s.  Austen must have had teen aged girls traipsing all over the countryside hoping for a fortuitous sprain that would put them within striking distance of a dashing and rich husband in the early 19th century. I wonder how many needlessly muddy shoes turned up on back porches of the well-bred middle classes after the publication of this treasure. 

To be fair, I have no real knowledge of literary criticism.  I never took any literature or English courses in college; I'd showed up with enough AP credits to opt out entirely.  What a bargain.  My literary sensibilities lean toward smart use of humor, precise grammar, and correct word usage, preferably with at least three or four words I have to go look up.  I once rejected a book because the author used the word "undermine" when the context of his sentence clearly called for "impugn" or "deride." (Chris Bohjalian, you ninny.)  And, for some reason, I deeply enjoy the artful and non-gratuitous use of expletives, in the style of Christopher Moore's Fool.

The really good thing about this book for me is that it's extremely talkey, and uses quite a bit of colloquial language that forces me to think harder than the plot, to this point, would require.  So I'll undoubtedly carry on with it.  After all,  Sacre Bleu won't be released until April 3, so I've got a little time.  

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

On the Live Oak

Your yellow veil obscures

Your shower of leaves

And must I even mention
the stupid inch worms?

Yet your eventual shelter from May through October
keeps me
from burning you
to the ground
from whence you grow.

Keep it up.