My Luggage is Mainly For Transporting My Library

"Girl You'll Be a Woman Soon", he sang. And he was right.

Back in the day when I was single, like a black widow spider plays a deadly game catching unassuming flies with her web, I used to catch boys with music. No, no, no, not music I sang or played (gawfah!), but a deadly combination of knowledge and taste--usually of the classic rock variety. I'd start by asking about their musical preference and if the words "country" or "Creed" was included in their response, I was out the door quicker than you could say Crosby, Stills and Nash. If their musical taste was acceptable, then it was game on. Oh you know I'd first lure them in with a "You know, Led Zeppelin got their name from when Keith Moon told him that their band would go over like a lead zeppelin," which was a double whammy because that also implied that I knew who Keith Moon was. And then maybe a one-two punch with some commentary about Bob Dylan or David Bowie. Then a little while later, I'd bring out the big guns and make parallels between acceptable modern artists and classic rock gods and then, AND THEN, I'd make them a mixed tape of lesser known artists with classic rock roots and if I was really set on sealing the deal, an elaborate cover was made for the cassette. The more colorful it was, the more interested I was. Or more desperate for physical affection. Or more bored and in need of pointless drama. Usually all three.

My freshman year at college was when I first feasted my eyes on Go and I was instantly intrigued. I knew if I just had the guts to turn around in art history class and talk music with him, he'd be mine. But I was chicken. He was a boy without a real name, just dubbed "Art History Boy." Then my sophomore year, when my roomie Katie came home talking about a "Brandon Reynolds" she ate lunch with, I asked if she was interested in him, she shrugged and said "Actually, you guys would be great together," but I didn't end up meeting him until a year later and made the connection that this kid standing in front of me with greasy overalls on was Art History Boy AND The Brandon Reynolds. I remember asking Katie about his taste in music because honestly, those overalls really threw me. (Insert Go's urgent "THAT WAS WHAT I WORE FOR MY WINDOW WASHING JOB! I HAD JUST GOTTEN OFF OF WORK! GEEZ!") "Um, I think I remember him talking about Jimi Hendrix..." Allright. We can hang, I decided. On our first date, he did not wear overalls. Score five points for that one. Then he serenaded me with Neil Diamond. Scored some more points there for humor but I was still a little iffy if Neil was all he listened to. Did this guy just sit in his car with his overalls on and listen to Hot August Nights? I played it cool and waited until our second or third date when I ventured into his glove box and found several obscure artists who I also was into. "You know G Love and the Special Sauce?" I said and he was like "Yeeyah. I practically invented G Love and the Special Sauce." Katie was right. We were a good match. And it was done. The game was over. I tagged out and that was the last time I ever played the game.

Looking back, it never ceased to amaze me what kind of powers just liking cool music had. I mean, I was averagely cute, but let's be honest, I was no super model. I did not stop people in their tracks with my looks. Guys didn't get in car accidents because I walked down the street. What I had going for me was that I listened to cool tunes and I got their jokes quicker than most other girls and I did all right with the fellas.

But I always wonder, if I wasn't as into music as I was, would I had the same dating experience? Would I have married the man I married? What if I was really into model airplanes? Or Chinese Checkers? Or Steven Segal? Or the English translations of Spanish writers? What would my life be like? I had a little taste of this the other day when I went into Borders. After reading The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon a couple of years ago, I have been waiting for his second book to be translated into English. This book wasn't exactly a household name--it was no DaVinci Code or Tuesdays with Morrie as far as popularity goes but seriously 100 times better than both. Not knowing whether to look for Ruiz or Zafon, I asked a Borders employee and he furrowed his brow behind his coke bottle glasses and was like "Hm. That's a good question. Who exactly are you looking for?" and I said "Carlos Ruiz Zafon" and I swear to you, it was like I was in college again and I had busted out with the Eric Clapton/George Harrison/Pattie Boyd love triangle story behind Clapton's song "Layla." His gigantic pupils turned into the shapes of hearts and he was all "You know Carlos Ruiz Zafon?" and continued to follow me around the store like a puppy for the next hour. I think he wanted to have my babies. And those babies would grow up reading awesome authors but probably listen to Hoobastank, Nickelback and the like. I'll take Go and his Neil Diamond and his Harry Nilsson and his G-Love and his Andrew Bird and his Josh Ritter and his Simon and Garfunkle and his Okkervil River his Bell X1 and his Glasvegas and his Ryan Adams and his Spoon any day.

A Good Book I Just Finished

Phase Two

Twice a year, when we go to Vegas, my FIL Ron loads Go up with a thigh-high stack of books and every time he says "Look at all these books! This will last me for years!" And then for the next two months, every waking moment (which isn't many) he's laying on the couch, reading a book in one hand and holding at least one girl in his lap with the other. I like these moments because a) they're cute and b) I can walk in and say anything to him and he'll be paying almost no attention to what's coming out of my mouth.

"Oh hey, I meant to tell you, I spent $500 at Target today on nothing but sparkly decorative pillows."
"Mmm-hmm."
"Ok, just never say I never told you because I just did."
"Mmm-hmm."

And 2 months later, the stack of books that was supposed to last him years has dwindled to zero. And then for the next 4 months, I get to hear about how he has nothing to read.

"Do you want me to pick you up something from the library?"
"Um...hey, wait a second. Why do we have so many pillows?"
"Uh...I asked my question first."
"And why are they so sparkly?"
"Yoohoo! Hey, look over here! Do you want any books from library?"

And he always answers no because he likes to hear his Dad's review of them before he reads them and the book withdrawal continues.

So, he's been out of books for months. This is Phase Two.
I know it's not his birthday yet but he really, really needed a good book. (Read: I really needed to stop hearing about how he really, really needed a good book.)

This has nothing to do with Phase Two, but he brought me flowers for no reason last night. I'm a lucky girl.

Mansfield Park

My dear friends,

I wish to inform you that I watched a movie yesterday that I found most agreeable. It's name is Mansfield Park, a movie based on a Jane Austin novel. Don't be vexed that I just spelled her name wrong; it was merely from habit, as I have always done when penning her name, as a rebellion of sorts.

You see, when one has lived within the confines of a very small apartment with 5 other girls, one finds herself exposed to all things feminine, one of these things being Jane Austin, oh fine, Jane Austen: not only her books but movies based from them, especially a certain box set of the BBC's Pride and Predujice. It was I who would flee the television set to retreat to my room to blast Beastie Boys in hopes to drown out the uppity chitter-chatter coming from the living room, as the rest of the girls would snuggle together on the couch and swoon at the likes of Mr. Darcy. I do recall one Sunday afternoon when I joined them, but I believe that it was only to get my hair brushed.

I wouldn't say that I thought Ms. Austen a ninny, but I would venture to say I found her work most dull and totally unrelatable, as I never had the pleasure of having any sisters, nor had I ever had the desire to wear a corset or wish to dwell upon prospective suitors' social class.

But yesterday as I watched Mansfield Park, I was most delighted. I wish to inform you of this, especially my former room mates, in hopes that I shall be able to come back into your good graces, as I had become a social outcast for constantly mocking your love of all things Austen and threatening to flush those blasted VHS tapes down the loo.

I do not think it probable that I shall run out and buy Emma or start devouring Jane's novels by the dozen, but I surely will not roll my eyes when one proclaims to love Ms. Austen with the fiercest part of her heart.

Yours affectionately,
Ann

Yo, this chick is CRAZY

She looks innocent enough, right?  Meet Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein.  Did you know this novel was penned by a woman?  I didn't.  Before starting the book, I read up a little on the author, which I like to do because it just adds another dimension for me.  What I found was astounding:

Mary was born in 1797.  Her mother died giving birth to her, leaving her father to raise her and her older sister, Claire.  On occasion, he would have friends come over and read to the family.  One of her father's friends in particular caught Mary's 16 year old eye, Percy Shelley who was much, much older than she and who always accompanied by his wife, Harriet.  Somehow, Mary became Percy's mistress and moved to Switzerland with Percy and Claire.  Harriet, his wife back in London, was pregnant with Percy's second child while Mary with his first. The Baby Daddy split his time between both his family in London and his new family in Switzerland.  Mary then had an affair with a lawyer friend, Thomas Hogg, whom Percy approved of and actually lived at the house for a time.  Meanwhile, Percy also had become involved with Claire, Mary's sister.  After Harriet, now pregnant with Percy's third child, drowned herself, Mary and Percy were married, still living with Claire, whom Percy was still "seeing" (Raise the Red Lantern) until she died of a tooth infection.   Several years later, Percy drowned in a storm.  His body was washed up days later.  Before he was cremated, a friend snatched Percy's heart and gave it to Mary, who CARRIED IT IN HER PURSE for the rest of her life.  

Dude.  

Too hot to handle

Upon reluctantly entering my second home yesterday, otherwise known as the Wal-Mart SuperCenter, smack dab in the middle of the entrance, just a couple feet behind where the elderly and/or physically disabled blue-vested men mumble greetings, was a rounder of books containing a genre that I was not aware of before: religious romance.  Sure, as a teen I owned and read a couple of the LDS "romance" books, I guess you could call them, written by (shudder) Jack Weyland and the like.  Since then, these novels have been ground into a fine pulp and then reconstituted to be spread on crackers.  So as I whipped by this rounder, a book cover caught my eye.  I stopped to take a look.  It featured the bust an Amish woman looking quite forlorn in the foreground, clad in the usual Amish garb.  In the background, was a barn (no kidding!) and a dark, shadowy figure of man, leaning on a pitchfork.  The title was something like How I Love Thee.  Excuse me?  Amish romance?  Isn't that sort of an oxymoron?  Of course not.  They're human, too.  Shame on me for being surprised that the Amish have libidos.  Also on the rounder, was Christian romance.  A large woman wearing a W.W.J.D. bracelet, humming "He's Got the Whole Word in His Hands" was thumbing through a novel titled something like Inspired to Love, with a man and woman sitting on a park bench wholesomely holding hands with white doves flying overhead.  

Now at least I know what I'm getting my brothers for Christmas.

Annie's a nerd and she don't care.

Note: The title of this post is to be sung to the tune of "Jimmy Crack Corn."


Theory: Ikea and J.K. are in cahoots. The width of a complete hardback HP series fits perfectly into the "cubes" of my poorly made but aesthetically pleasing geometric bookcase. The closet OCD within me can now rest easy, knowing that my series will not be divided, nor will the presentation be mared due to a foreign book placed beside it. Thank you, J.K., for taking this all into consideration when writing your books, deciding the length, etc. I really appreciate it.

I'd like to bear my testimony that I know this book is true.

I've been teaching Ruby how to read using this book. I can't say enough about it. I've only been working with her for about a week and she can already read small words like "cat", "mat", "sad", etc. She loves it and is so proud of herself. We are proud of her, too. Go woke up post-call yesterday and I told him some of the words that Ruby had sounded out and read that day. He wanted to see her in action so he had her spell "I-CUP", which she did perfectly to her Daddy's delight, even though she didn't get the joke (if you can even call it that), she was so focused at the task at hand. Did I mention my husband is a 9 year old?

Per the book's instructions, you work on reading and writing everyday for about 10 minutes (the lessons get longer as you progress but never over 20 minutes - you don't want to overkill), it tells you (the parent/teacher) what to say, how to say it, how to correct them -- everything. It focuses on phonics, which I really like. The writing part is always at the end of the lesson, which is the most fun part for Ruby and sort of like her reward for getting through some of the tedious (yet imperative) stuff. I am very, very happy with the results. I highly recommend this here book. I do not, however, recommend teaching your four year old how to spell "I-CUP."

While I'm at it...

Shortly after marrying Go, he introduced me to an author by the name of Harlan Coben. I minored in English at BYU and read a great number of novels that were works of genius, beautiful and moving poems, and heart-wrenching short stories. I prided myself on reading and enjoying only the best of books and finding great lesser-known authors myself rather than being spoon-fed whoever was on the best-seller list. Michael Creighton and John Grisham could take a flying leap for all I cared. So when Go initially handed me the worn paper back, with it's dumb cover illustration of I don't know, a tennis ball or something, with its shiny lettering of its author's name larger than the title, I did not take kindly to it. I scoffed at the mere idea of reading a crime novel and probably said something incredibly snobby about its grocery store checkout line genre being beneath me and threw it across the room. Ok, I didn't throw it , but I did make snide remarks. Months later, out of desperation (I had read everything else in the house and couldn't go to the library because they'd make me pay my library fees...and ok, let's be honest, I needed to use the bathroom and it was the closest thing in reaching distance) I decided to read it. To my astonishment, it was really funny, the plot was gripping and the writing was clever. I read another one by Harlan Coben. It was just as witty, just as twisty and just as smart. So I read another. And another. And another. I read all of them. At the time, there were about 6 or 7 "Myron Bolitar" novels. Then he started writing about different characters, longer, more involved novels that only came in hard back. He's great. I love his novels. They're just really, really good. The Woods just came out and I finished it a couple of days ago. Harlan didn't let me down. As always, it was well-written. Not in a Tolstoy, Raymond Carver, F. Scott Fitzgerald kind of way, but in a fast paced, witty, plot-driven, twisting and turn way. A way that you can read it in a couple of days, want to know what is going to happen on the next page and laugh while you're reading it. Thank you, Harlan Coben, thank you for your 14 wonderful works of fiction.

Tomorrow!

Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner effected me like no other book has. It is my favorite, favorite novel. It is extremely well written, the characters are so alive and the story haunts you for weeks after you read it. I cannot say enough about this book and have recommended it over and over. Those who have taken my advice ("Read this book, it will change your life.") have loved it as well. Just read it. You will not be sorry. When my friend Julie told me about it, I was like "A book that takes place in Afghanistan? Um, no thanks." But I read it anyway and I'm so glad I did. About a year after I finished it, Khaled Hosseini came to the University of Iowa and spoke; it was fascinating. What an interesting man. I have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of his next novel and it comes out tomorrow. I'm expecting my pre-ordered copy any day now. Thank goodness for good writers like Khaled Hosseini. Can you imagine a life without good books? I don't even want to think about it.

The Center of Everything

I just finished a book on tape that I thoroughly enjoyed. The Center of Everything by Laura Moriatry is a coming-of-age novel but not as obnoxious as most coming-of-age novels, a tale made up of several themes, the main one being unrequited love (a theme that never tires) set in the 80's with complex and truthful characters. I finished the tapes yesterday and have found myself thinking about the characters all day today. I connected with several of them for different reasons, I guess. It's a great read (or listen) if you're in the mood for some good teen angst. As a side note, because of some strong language, if you're next in line to host a book club that is made up of super conservative ladies, I would recommend passing on this one and reading it by your own evil self.

Books on tape

Now that I've established some of my favorite things (see new blog title) I thought I'd share another one of my family's favorite things--mostly Ruby's and mine: books on tape. My first encounter with these was Snow White when I was about 4. I later taped over the Snow White cassette and used it for one of my many mixed-tape masterpieces in Junior High/High school. All you had to do was put scotch tape over the little slots on the bottom of the cassette and you could record over anything. It was a great day when I figured that out, as that was what I spent most of my time doing back then. Books on tape were then forgotten until I was 12 and we listened to one on the way to my first Girls Camp, some romance/mystery novel that our driver kept having to frantically fast forward through the racey parts, which I found delicously scandelous. Then it wasn't until a couple of years ago when I saw my mother-in-law washing dishes while she listened to a book on tape. "What a great idea," I thought. So I too now have a stereo in my kitchen so I can listen to books while I work and I actually look forward to cleaning.

This is one of the books on tape that Ruby checked out from the library this week. (The ones for kids are the read-along kind with the book included.) Meryl Streep performs it and she's, of course, fabulous. I'm a big believer in reading to your children (Ruby and I are currently halfway through "Charlotte's Web) but I love the 13 minutes that this book on tape gives me (prime blogging time) while Ruby gets read to by Meryl Streep. Not too shabby.