Let’s just agree…

…to banish the psuedo-word  “foodie”, shall we? It’s pretentious as all hell. If you are pathetic enough to refer to yourself with this moniker (which, unfortunately, I’ve actually heard people do), you should probably know that we, that is all of humanity, think you’re just a jerk who likes to pay too much for your groceries. Congratulations! You know who Alice Waters is! You’ve read “In defense of food” ! I don’t object to eating healthily,  to knowing where your food comes from, to taking time to cook and eat with family and friends. I do object to food being a status symbol.

Get over yourself. It’s food. You buy it, you cook it, you eat it. If food has become the sole measure of your self-esteem, or the marker of what sets you apart from others, you’ve got a problem.

A summer night at the State Fair

What is it about the state fair that makes me think of high school…but in a good way? Walking in last night, enjoying the warm night air and the smell of popcorn, it hit me – that feeling that I was 17 again.  All I needed was some Johnson’s Baby Lotion, Bonne Bell Lip Smackers (Dr. Pepper flavor) and the Seventeen Magazine back-to-school issue.

I’m so ashamed. Wait, no I’m not.

I finally got around to reading my copy of American Libraries Direct today (cleaning out my e-mail in-box – yeah, I get the American Library Association newsletter…wanna make something of it?). In it is a story that I just had to investigate further entitled, “How to know if you are reading a  bad book.” The VERY FIRST example was so clearly about my shameful literary obsession, see below “Quality, schmality”, I laughed hysterically, then gleefully ran to tell my husband J (who was probably thinking, “And she’s happy that other people also think her taste in books is crap?”)

Oh, but it gets better. Read the comments: in them one of my all-time favorite sci-fi novels (well, ok, pretty much the only real sci-fi novel I’ve ever read) gets trashed. And then another favorite author gets added to the list. Should I really be having this much fun having everything I love lambasted?

Quality, schmality

Over at Uneasy Rhetoric there’s a post about an NPR story “The Shelf of Constant Reproach” , and the author’s misgiving’s about the books on his shelf that sit mocking him…because he’s not read them.

I too have books that I’ve bought and just sit there waiting to be read. And there are books that, I’ll admit it, I keep because they make me look more intelligent than I really am (Bonjour Alexis De Tocqueville) Those don’t bother me. My secret is much darker and more twisted than that.

I have books I don’t put on my shelves because I’m embarrassed to own them.

Usually I’ll try to just get them from the library…that way I don’t have to worry about cost and storage. But lately, the really trashy novels I’ve been wanting to read have a wait-list a mile long (as in, 50 holds on 3 copies?), and damn it, I don’t want to wait that long. So I head to the Avid Reader or Borders and buy them. I’d buy them all at Avid Reader, but I’m too embarrassed even to special order the ones they don’t have. When I went to the Borders near where I work I silently prayed, “Please don’t come into my store and recognize me and say, ‘Hey, you’re the woman with the appalling taste in books!’”

Last year, about this time actually, on a week-long break from school, I picked up Twilight. I’d not read anything non-school related for a while. Library school had done that to me. Forest for the trees, or vice versa. I’d pretty much lost all enthusiasm for reading, because everytime I even looked at a book all I could see were the details of the book itself. But a friend at work, N, had read it and loved it, and I’d read a few librarian blogs that were talking about it, some hating it and some loving it, and I thought, what the heck, and jumped in. I loved it. As I was reading it I was realizing that it’s not terribly well written, but I DON’T CARE. The important thing is: I got completely wrapped up in the story, and managed, for a few hours, to forget everything else. And geez, that’s why I read. Quality, schmality.

I think there’s something to be said for trash literature. (And yes, the one’s man’s trash is another’s treasure could be inserted it, but that would be trite) Just because it’s not Shakespeare doesn’t mean it can’t take you someplace, or teach you something, or even, god forbid, afford you a moment of peace. I’m currently reading a series so impossibly trashy I hide the books from my husband so I don’t have to see him smirk, and because, well, I don’t want him to think less of me for liking this garbage. But “this garbage” has made me happy, and made me laugh, and in general made me all around more pleasant person to be around the past couple of weeks so it definitely has its uses.

I just won’t be putting it on the bookshelf.

Consensus

I need a consensus: buying cologne for your significant other – yes or no? Father’s day is coming up, and I’m thinking of buying come cologne for him. Something I would like to smell on him, and I have two in mind. But yes or no? Is it presumptuous (even after 20 years together), or sweet?

Ms. Bacall

Turner Classic Movies is doing a whole day of Howard Hawks’ films, and tonight they’re showing “The Big Sleep”. Yeah, I already own it on DVD but I can’t resist watching it when it’s on. I love Lauren Bacall and can get lost watching her in anything…or just listening to that voice.
My friend Z was the same way. Years ago when Z was visiting a friend she was invited to a fundraiser that the incomparable Ms. Bacall was attending. When she she got back I had to ask how it went and if she actually got to meet her. For the only time in her life, Z seemed abashed. Finally I dragged the story out of her: it turns out that she did meet Ms Bacall…by backing into her and stepping on her feet. Ms. Bacall rewarded her with the most withering look Z’s ever seen in her life.
The irony of this? Z herself has the most withering look I’VE ever seen in my life, and has been known to intimidate Oscar winners (ask me about the story of her and Daniel Day-Lewis in the Starbucks sometimes…it’s hilarious).
Now whenever I watch Bacall movies all I can think of is that lovely face glaring as some poor sap steps on her feet. And it always makes me laugh.
BTW: did you know that William Faulkner wrote the screenplay? Yeah, THAT William Faulkner.

We have a winner!

And now the downside of 40’s: every doctor you see seems convinced you’re one step away from death. I wonder if UCD med should perhaps hire a special effects guy to have everyone over 40 followed by a large thunderstorm, that will flash and rumble when the doctor enters the room. If I have to hear, ‘Well, now that you’re in your forties…” one more time I won’t make it to my fifties.
Had to get a mamogram today, because, well, you know I’m in my forties, and apparently death is now my friend. I was checking out the machine, because there’s really nothing else for you to do while getting squished, and noticed the pounds per pressure marking (noticed it particularly as the nurse was ratcheting that thing up…christ).
Apparently it takes about 22 to 23 pounds of pressure for a mamogram. Uncomfortable as hell, but not really painful. Oddly enough, (mostly odd that I know this), it only takes 15 pounds of pressure to crush a man’s testicles.
So you tell me who the weaker sex is…

“The first stages of the journey are the hardest…” D.L.S.

A few weeks ago I turned 41. I worked on my birthday, and as I waited in line at the coffee bar the well-wishing announcements came over the intercom. Walking back to the time-clock an associate, a very young, male, and apparently not that bright (well, I did say young and male already) associate said, “Happy 29th!” I’m sure that in his tiny brain he thought that was what passed for a compliment. I did not let him think that for long.
“29? Are you joking? Kid, you couldn’t PAY me to be 29 again.”
And it wasn’t just lip service. I’m now convinced that the 20’s are some kind of purgatory, without Dorothy Sayers beautiful translation. Just dark and ugly and almost comic in their absurdity. Christ, the indecision and the worry and everything’s a fucking production.
At 41 I still consider myself a complete wreck, but at least I’m now enjoying being a wreck. From time to time I muse aloud that I should probably start acting like a grown up, but then I would miss out on the G.I. Joe movie this summer. And there’s something to be said for buying myself a dozen red roses, getting romance novels of suspect literary value from the library, drinking Laphroaig while re-reading my favorite X-Men comics, knowing what I want and changing my mind.

My temper

And boy do I have one. It’s actually gotten better in the past ten years, but it’s still rather explosive (a former boss once likened me to an atom bomb). Today I drove around the block looking for parking dowtown so I could take J into daycare. I finally found one that didn’t have a temporary “no parking for special event” sign and snagged it, loaded the meter and set off with J. About 50 yards from daycare, 50 yards, I hear this woman calling for me, telling me to move my car, because I can’t park there. I tell her there’s no sign and she tells me “it must have fallen off”.  So I snap at her “So I guess I can’t take my kid to daycare – thanks” and haul J back into the car and off to find another parking place.

So what’s the downside? J had to witness all of this. No there wasn’t any swearing (which if you know me is remarkable), but he still had to see me get angry. Now, I don’t really have a problem with that – he’ll figure out that everyone gets angry and everyone loses their temper at some point. But I feel that it’s not a good way for him to start his day, especially when he woke up in such a great and happy mood. I’ve always had this temper and it’s always been an issue. I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t take it out on other people, I just try to close down as much as possible, which will probably give me a damn ulcer at some point.

When I got into daycare (or “school” as we call it), Miss L, one of J’s teachers, took one look at me and said, “You’re not having a good morning.”  On the way home I measured my options: A. cry, B. have a bloody mary, or C. go for a run and listen to “Sabotage” as loud as my i-pod can possibly manage.

C turned out to be a pretty good option. Must remember for future temper tantrums.

When is too much really too much?

I have a paper due on sunday. Ask me if I’ve started it. Two weeks ago I had Easter AND inventory at work, then the following weekend we had a huge sale. J has suddenly decided to give credence to the description “terrible twos”. My husband’s job is requiring him to be out of town frequently. Oh, and I’m sick.
So when is too much really too much? But really, I decided to go to school, so the paper is no one’s fault but my own. And as much as the two-year old is getting on my nerves, I’m the one who wanted a son who had some backbone, so I shouldn’t complain when I have to deal with the result. And hey, at least I HAVE a job.

I’m exhausted, I want to sleep in, and maybe read something for fun (remember what that is?), even just take a bath. There’s always next week, right?