Love My Library

My bank account is tight.  I'm not broke by any stretch of the imagination--a fact for which I am extremely grateful--but my budget is nonetheless restrictive.  With all the house costs and payments and repairs over the last year, I don't have much financial leeway these days.  Not when there is debt to be paid, savings to be built, and badass retirement to plan for.

As I've mentioned before, I've been itching to get out of town.  This past weekend, I spent a few days in Fairhope, Alabama, a fun, pretty town on Mobile Bay that my aunt and uncle recently moved to.  We had a great time, and despite the fact that they're less than three hours away, it felt different from home.  Which was exactly what I needed.

I've got a few other trips on the horizon: a robotics training upstate, a baptism in Tennessee, a beach trip with the family.  But the truth is, there aren't many places I can afford to go right now.  So I read.  Don't get me wrong; reading can't replace real travel experience.  There's nothing that can rival getting lost in the streets of Paris or trying to find your way back to the train station in a country that doesn't speak your language.  But when the furthest away you can afford to get is your cousin's apartment in South Carolina, you need another way to escape.  So I read.

This summer, the library has become my best friend.  Over the years, I have tried bookstores and rental sites and kindle downloads.  But in the end, nothing can replace the feeling of a (free) solid book between your fingers.  There is no greater escape than fiction, and no greater way to get it than the library.

Sure, some people may defend book-buying.  A bookstore is certainly set up better for browsing and selecting books than a library is, I'll give you that.  But a library is sacred.  It is a place that so values text that it gives it away for free.  It's like winning the lottery.  In fact, I calculated my library-based savings since January of this year, and it came out to somewhere around $200.

Save the Earth.  Save the bank.  Save yourself from wanderlust when it threatens to swallow you whole.


I've written and re-written this post a few times, trying to find the best way to express my bibliophilia, the "places" I've been, and I've settled on a list.  This year's reading list.  I'm always looking for good book recommendations, and I figure that if you're reading this blog, you probably don't hate books either.  Maybe you'd like a recommendation while you're at it.  (Two birds!  One stone!)

Below is, therefore, a complete list of the books that I have read to completion within the last seven months.  It does not include a few books that I abandoned midway through (not good enough to finish), and it does not include any books that I am currently reading, since I can't give a good review of something I still might not finish.  I have not omitted any books I've read, no matter how terrible the writing (*cough*romancenovels*cough*), and while I apologize profusely to my IQ for the points I've lost it (*cough*romancenovels*cough*), it's only fair for me to be honest.  The list is in approximate chronological order, starting with the book I read first and ending with the book I last finished.

Side note: The blurbs in italics are summaries from Amazon or Goodreads.  Feel free to skip these paragraphs at your leisure.  The commentary below them doesn't depend upon you reading the summaries, so if they're boring or too long for you or you just don't feel like reading them, skip away!


A Man Called Ove

At 59, Ove is a grumble Gus of the first degree. Rules are made to be followed, signs are meant to be obeyed, and don’t even get him started about computers and mobile phones. In truth, Ove has been this way his whole life, but he’s gotten worse in the last four years since his wife, Sonia, died, taking with her all the color in a world Ove sees as black-and-white. Ove has decided life without Sonia is not worth living and plans to join her in the next world. But a young couple and their two children (a third is on the way) move in next door, his oldest friend and most feared enemy is about to be forcibly removed to a nursing home, and a street-scarred cat insinuates itself into his life. Suddenly, Ove’s suicide plans get delayed as he helps solve neighborly crises large and small. Though Ove’s dark mission mitigates any treacly upstaging by animals and small children, readers seeking feel-good tales with a message will rave about the rantings of this solitary old man with a singular outlook. If there was an award for Most Charming Book of the Year, this first novel by a Swedish blogger-turned-overnight-sensation would win hands down. --Carol Haggas 

I loved this book.  I find that my favorite stories are the unpredictable ones.  The stories in which love is not forced, and transformation is gradual and meaningful.  This book won over my heart, and I'd read it again in a heartbeat.


Noggin

Travis Coates has lost his head—literally. As he dies from acute lymphoblastic leukemia, his head is surgically removed and cryogenically frozen. Five years pass, and, thanks to advances in medical science, it becomes possible to reanimate his head and attach it to a donor body. Travis Coates is alive again, but while his family and friends are all 5 years older, Travis hasn’t aged—he is still 16 and a sophomore in high school. Awkward? Difficult? Puzzling? You bet. In the past, the two people he could have talked to about this were his best friend, Kyle, and his girlfriend, Cate. But now they’re part of the problem. Kyle, who came out to Travis on his deathbed, has gone back into the closet, and Cate is engaged to be married. Stubbornly, Travis vows to reverse these developments by coaxing Kyle out of the closet and persuading Cate to fall in love with him again. How this plays out is the substance of this wonderfully original, character-driven second novel. Whaley has written a tour de force of imagination and empathy, creating a boy for whom past, present, and future come together in an implied invitation to readers to wonder about the very nature of being. A sui generis novel of ideas, Noggin demands much of its readers, but it offers them equally rich rewards. Grades 9-12. --Michael Cart

I have this tendency to write to authors when I really like their books, or I feel that I need to tell them something.  Obviously, this is a worthless endeavor if you really want to tell J.K. Rowling that she should have put Harry and Hermione together in the end (though apparently she's already figured that out).  But with small-time authors like John Corey Whaley, you've got a shot to actually reach the author.  So I emailed JC, as I like to call him in my head, and told him how much I liked the book.  Also, that we were born in the same state (Louisiana) and have the same favorite word (defenestration).  Which probably makes me sound like a stalker, but don't put that information on your website's bio if you don't want people to know.  Anyway, he wrote back pretty quickly...

Hey there Rebekah! 

Wow--thanks so much for this lovely, very sweet email!  And I can't believe we share a favorite word!  I tried using it in a book title once, but the book wasn't very good, so I tossed it.  Haha.  And Louisiana too!  Crazy.  Well, I'm from around Shreveport, so we sort of grew up in different worlds, even though they're so close.  

I really really appreciate your comments on Noggin---this is my favorite part of the job!  Good luck with your writing and teaching and meandering.  I think I have a PhD in it! Haha! 

Best,

Corey  

Sigh...I'll never wash this computer screen.





The Giver

In the "ideal" world into which Jonas was born, everybody has sensibly agreed that well-matched married couples will raise exactly two offspring, one boy and one girl. These children's adolescent sexual impulses will be stifled with specially prescribed drugs; at age 12 they will receive an appropriate career assignment, sensibly chosen by the community's Elders. This is a world in which the old live in group homes and are "released"--to great celebration--at the proper time; the few infants who do not develop according to schedule are also "released," but with no fanfare. Lowry's development of this civilization is so deft that her readers, like the community's citizens, will be easily seduced by the chimera of this ordered, pain-free society. Until the time that Jonah begins training for his job assignment--the rigorous and prestigious position of Receiver of Memory--he, too, is a complacent model citizen. But as his near-mystical training progresses, and he is weighed down and enriched with society's collective memories of a world as stimulating as it was flawed, Jonas grows increasingly aware of the hypocrisy that rules his world. With a storyline that hints at Christian allegory and an eerie futuristic setting, this intriguing novel calls to mind John Christopher's Tripods trilogy and Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Match Girl. Lowry is once again in top form--raising many questions while answering few, and unwinding a tale fit for the most adventurous readers. Ages 12-14. --Publishers Weekly

Apparently my middle school reading teachers failed me because I never read this book in school, and I'm told that everyone reads this book in school.  I loved it, needless to say, but it was a complicated love.  I felt conflicted in the end.  If you've ever seen the movie Whiplash (the one with the drummer and the abusive teacher), you get what I mean.  Things don't necessarily work out the way you think they should, or the way that you want them to.  In this book, you're left with a moral question: what does it mean to live?  And how much is it worth?



Wedding Night

Kinsella’s latest romantic romp revolves around two sisters with very different notions about love. Impulsive Lottie is expecting her boyfriend, Richard, to propose to her; she’s floored when he instead suggests a vacation using his frequent-flier miles. When Richard balks at the idea of marriage, Lottie breaks up with him. She runs straight into the arms of an old flame, Ben, with whom she spent a magical summer at the age of 18 on the island of Ikonos. Ben is more than ready to rekindle their relationship and walk down the aisle with her. When Lottie’s practical older sister, Fliss, gets wind of her plan to marry Ben, Fliss is determined to stop the nuptials. Ben’s coworker Lorcan seems equally opposed to the wedding, and Fliss thinks they’re set, until Lottie and Ben have a hasty ceremony and jet to Ikonos. Fliss decides she has to sabotage the honeymoon in the hopes of getting Lottie to see that she’s making a huge mistake. There’s plenty of silly fun to be had in this charming comedy of errors.  --Kristine Huntley


All of Sophie Kinsella's books are pretty dumb.  I'll give you that much.  In general, they are extremely predictable and indulgent.  But sometimes you need stupid in your life.  Now that I've rid myself of cable and the Hallmark Channel is out of reach (unless I can change B's mind about letting me watch it on his TV...), I've got to find my predictable love stories somewhere else.  It's funny; I never feel satisfied when I finish these books, but I always come back for more.  My relationship with romance novels, I suppose, is like a romance novel itself.  I love to hate them, and I hate how much I love them.




Lost and Found

Millie Bird is a seven-year-old girl who always wears red wellington boots to match her red, curly hair. But one day, Millie’s mum leaves her alone beneath the Ginormous Women’s underwear rack in a department store, and doesn’t come back.  Agatha Pantha is an eighty-two-year-old woman who hasn’t left her home since her husband died. Instead, she fills the silence by yelling at passers-by, watching loud static on TV, and maintaining a strict daily schedule. Until the day Agatha spies a little girl across the street.  Karl the Touch Typist is eighty-seven years old and once typed love letters with his fingers on to his wife’s skin. He sits in a nursing home, knowing that somehow he must find a way for life to begin again. In a moment of clarity and joy, he escapes.  Together, Millie, Agatha and Karl set out to find Millie’s mum. Along the way, they will discover that the young can be wise, that old age is not the same as death, and that breaking the rules once in a while might just be the key to a happy life.

One of my favorite things about books is that they give you a glimpse into another world.  It's one of the things I appreciated most about dating "Jack," and one of the things I cherish about conversations with strangers.  My life is not most people's lives.  I have loving parents and siblings and friends, a solid decent-paying job, and guy who likes me enough to see me every day.  Reading shows me the lives that are not like my own.  In this book, you meet three major characters: a girl whose mother leaves her, a bitter old woman stuck in her own home, and an old man trying to keep living.  None of these lives are like my own, but I left like one of them as I read.  Their pain was my pain.  Their joy, mine too.  And their final victory, all the sweeter.


The Continuity Girl

Meredith Moore has always prided herself on her eye for detail. As a continuity supervisor, it's her job to make sure every little detail in each scene of a movie is consistent, down to how much wine is in a character's glass. When a director accuses her of purposefully botching a scene, Meredith storms off the set. The incident coincides with a personal blow: Meredith pays a visit to the gynecologist and learns that at 35, her time to conceive a child is running out. A solution for both pops up when Meredith is offered a job on a film shoot in London. She decides to take the job and find a man to father a baby, no strings attached. Meredith considers an amorous German and the second son of an English lord as potential fathers, but when her handsome gynecologist shows up at the behest of the film's lead actress, Meredith finds herself battling genuine feelings for him. Despite its occasional lack of emotion, McLaren's debut is quirky fun. Kristine Huntley


Another dumb novel from the world of chick lit.  The story was amusing, but it's hard to understand why this gynecologist takes anything more than a cursory interest in the main character.  Not the most believable story line, but still fun.  Read at your discretion.


Flora & Ulysses: The Illuminated Adventure

The story begins with a vacuum cleaner. And a squirrel. Or, to be more precise, a squirrel who gets sucked into a Ulysses Super Suction wielded by Flora’s neighbor, Mrs. Tickham. The rather hairless squirrel that is spit out is not the same one that went in. That squirrel had only one thought: “I’m hungry.” After Flora performs CPR, the rescued squirrel, newly named Ulysses, is still hungry, but now he has many thoughts in his head. Foremost is his consideration of Flora’s suggestion that perhaps he is a superhero like The Amazing Incandesto, whose comic-book adventures Flora read with her father. (Drawing on comic-strip elements, Campbell’s illustrations here work wonderfully well.) Since Flora’s father and mother have split up, Flora has become a confirmed and defiant cynic. Yet it is hard to remain a cynic while one’s heart is opening to a squirrel who can type (“Squirtl. I am . . . born anew”), who can fly, and who adores Flora. Newbery winner DiCamillo is a master storyteller, and not just because she creates characters who dance off the pages and plots, whether epic or small, that never fail to engage and delight readers. Her biggest strength is exposing the truths that open and heal the human heart. She believes in possibilities and forgiveness and teaches her audience that the salt of life can be cut with the right measure of love. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: DiCamillo has a devoted following, plus this book has an extensive marketing campaign. That equals demand. Grades 3-6. --Ilene Cooper

A book about a squirrel transformed by a vacuum cleaner into a thinking, typing creature of the same species.  What more could you want in a book?  Read it with a kid when you get the chance.  It's more fun that way.


The Half-Made World

Gilman’s steampunk-influenced third novel blurs the lines between genres. It’s set in a universe that is distinctly not our own, one dominated by the people of the Gun, who carry demon-possessed guns that give them supernatural abilities, and the people of the Line, whose world includes sentient engines. The fight between the Line and the Gun comes to a head when both sides hear that the famous general of the lost Red Republic may still be alive and could hold the key to a secret weapon capable of stopping the never-ending war. Much of the book is dedicated to the creation and explanation of Gilman’s complex world, with detailed descriptions of the strange landscapes, which melds with the plot as Dr. Liv identify? travels first to a mental hospital at the edge of the wilderness and then deep into the unknown West. Suggest this complex tale to readers of Emma Bull or adult fans of Wrede’s Thirteenth Child. --Jessica Moyer

Let me warn you, this book starts slowly.  For the first hundred pages, I had to flip back to previous chapters to remember who was who.  I had to force myself to continue reading.  By the end of the book, though, I couldn't put it down.  I found myself utterly fascinated by the world that the author had created.  There are so many characters and places, the story resembles Dickens' Bleak House in structure more than your average sci fi novel.  The geography was not that of Earth, but you understood the old and new parts of it.  There were elements of the Wild West, but it went a step beyond, leaving a country not just uncivilized or even undiscovered, but uncreated.  There is an edge of the world.  It's like the 1800s meets post-democratic America meets the beginning of Earth's formation. There are political forces that are more like spirits than people.  Machines give orders.  Haunted guns control their keepers.   And all of the various plots and threads weave themselves together at the end of the book.  If you're looking for something to rival your own impressive imagination, check this one out.


Fortunately, The Milk

Gr 3-6-A tale of the bravery and selflessness exhibited by a father taking care of his children while his wife is away. Despite Mom's advance warning, the family finds itself ready for breakfast but without milk for cereal and tea, so Dad takes a trip to the store to get some. Upon his long-awaited return, he gives the children a fantastical and descriptive explanation of the adventures he faced while trying to make it back home. Not only did he embark on a time-traveling hot-air balloon ride with a stegosaurus, but he also confronted pirates, aliens, wumpires, and a volcano god, never losing possession of the milk. Gaiman knocks it out of the park again with this imaginative story. His outrageous plot is perfectly paced to keep advanced and reluctant readers enthralled, and his use of onomatopoeia and humorous descriptions will make the book hard to put down. Reminiscent of Roald Dahl's titles, it will sweep children away into an unimagined world and make them wonder if their own parents have ever had any secret adventures. Young's frequent black-and-white cartoons add to the wackiness of this tall tale.-Amy Shepherd

I loved this book.  I loved it so much that a few days after reading it, I turned around and read it aloud to my homeroom class.  Because it's fun and witty and imaginative and creative.  It's well-illustrated.  Because the humor is great for both kids and adults, like a Pixar movie on a page.  I laughed, and I laughed again.  Read this book anywhere, anytime, with anyone who's old enough to get a joke.  It's great.



Belzhar

Gr 9 Up—Devastated by the death of her first love, 15-year-old Jam Gallahue is having difficulty moving on with her life. After nearly a year of being mired in grief, her parents send her to a boarding school in rural Vermont that specializes in "emotionally fragile" teens. Once there, she is surprised to have been one of five students selected by the legendary Mrs. Quenell for a class called Special Topics in English. It seems that the entire semester—Mrs. Q's swan song before retirement—will be devoted to the works of Sylvia Plath, and the students are given special red leather journals in which to record their reactions to the assigned readings. Jam is unenthusiastic at first until she realizes that these are no ordinary journals. When she and her classmates, all of whom have endured debilitating losses, begin to writing in their pages, they are transported to their former lives, at least for a while. The teens bond over their experiences in what they call Belzhar, and are able to share their stories and look out for and protect one another. As the semester progresses and the notebooks begin to fill up, they must each confront some inner demons and make some tough choices about their future paths. Wolitzer spins a smart and engrossing tale of trauma, trust, and triumph. She is respectful of the intelligence and sophistication of the teens while acknowledging their vulnerability and lack of life experience. Their voices ring true and the emotional truths are authentic—even for those readers unwilling or unable to embrace the magical realism. Exploring the themes of self-reflection and the recurring notion that "words matter" make this title a perfect choice for book groups and discussions.—Luann Toth

I'm not a huge fan of Sylvia Plath or sad stories, so I checked this book out with a fair amount of doubt in my mind.  But as soon as I started reading, I was hooked.  The book is so unpredictable that I couldn't put it down.  I finished it within a day or two, giving way to its other-worldly elements and twist ending and characters that pull at your heart.  If you've ever watched Dead Poets Society and liked it, you'll probably like this, too.


Wonderstruck

In a return to the eye-popping style of his Caldecott-award winner,The Invention of Hugo Cabret, Brian Selznick’s latest masterpiece, Wonderstruck, is a vision of imagination and storytelling . In the first of two alternating stories, Ben is struck deaf moments after discovering a clue to his father’s identity, but undaunted, he follows the clue’s trail to the American Museum of Natural History, in New York City. Flash to Rose’s story, told simultaneously through pictures, who has also followed the trail of a loved one to the museum--only 50 years before Ben. Selnick’s beautifully detailed illustrations draw the reader inside the museum’s myriad curiosities and wonders, following Ben and Rose in their search for connection. Ultimately, their lives collide in a surprising and inspired twist that is breathtaking and life-affirming. --Seira Wilson

Surprisingly, I wasn't a huge fan of this book.  I had seen the movie The Invention of Hugo Cabret and loved it, so when this book ended up in my classroom at the end of the school year (left by some student or other), I thought I'd give it a shot.  As I've said, I'm all about free books and literary adventures.  But the story fell flat to me.  I was intrigued by the illustrations, but less so by the writing.  Hopefully when you read it, you disagree.

Also, an aside: I brought this book with me to Charleston and had absolutely no desire to carry it all the way back to New Orleans, as heavy as it was.  I thought about giving it to the first kid that I saw in the airport, but I thought a parent might be creeped out by it.  I thought about "accidentally" leaving it at security.  I thought about leaving it in an airport bookstore.  But the fear of getting arrested kept me from doing any of those things.  It turns out that airports get people extra-paranoid, myself included.  I ended up putting on my best acting job and "accidentally" leaving it on top of a trash can in the airport as I threw away my lunch.  I really hope some kid picked it up and enjoyed it.  But it probably got thrown away.  I should've taken it with me.


Love by the Book

A hilarious and refreshingly honest foray into modern dating, Age, Sex, Location is Bridget Jones's Diary for HBO's Girls generation.  An American living in London, Lauren is intelligent, beautiful and loves to party. So why can't she convince a man she isn't after something more serious than scrambled eggs and goodbye in the morning?  Determined to snare some regular male affection, she embarks on a project: each month she will follow the rules of a different dating guide - from refusing to pay the bill to chatting up every man in her path - and will switch seamlessly to the next book at the end of each month.   Lauren's love life is about to get scientific...

Like The Continuity Girl, this book isn't worth your time.  The love plot is even less realistic than the two former romance novels I've mentioned, as it spends inordinate amounts of time on cheap sub-plots and leaves the main character with a guy she (and you) barely know.  However, like all "good" romance novels, the book follows a predictable structure, so you know who she'll marry well before she does.  I should've left this one on top of the airport trash can.



The Martian

Remember Man Plus, Frederik Pohl’s award-winning 1976 novel about a cyborg astronaut who’s sent, alone, to Mars? Imagine, instead, that the astronaut was just a regular guy, part of a team sent to the red planet, and that, through a series of tragic events, he’s left behind, stranded and facing certain death. That’s the premise of this gripping and (given its subject matter) startlingly plausible novel. The story is told mostly through the log entries of astronaut Mark Watney, chronicling his efforts to survive: making the prefab habitat livable and finding a way to grow food, make water, and get himself off the planet. Interspersed among the log entries are sections told from the point of view of the NASA specialists, back on Earth, who discover that Watney is not dead (as everyone assumed) and scramble together a rescue plan. There are some inevitable similarities between the book and the 1964 movie Robinson Crusoe on Mars, but where the movie was a broad sci-fi adventure, the novel is a tightly constructed and completely believable story of a man’s ingenuity and strength in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Riveting. --David Pitt

OH MAN OH MAN OH MAN OH MAN.  This is such a great book.  I hope you've made it this far in the blog post because this book is going to change your life!  Okay, maybe not change your life, but let me illustrate this book's merits as best as I know how:  B loves non-fiction.  He watches non-fiction, he reads non-fiction, he listens to non-fiction.  He has little to no interest in fiction, though he did pull a few novels out of storage after he read this book.  In any case, after much gushing on my part, I convinced him to read it, and he could not put it down.  He read it in less than a week.  Mr. "I haven't read a novel in ages, I'm too busy to read" would periodically send me pictures of his favorite passages as he read during the day, and he would put off hanging out with me at night so that he could read.  And I wasn't even mad because I loved it that much too.  Everyone I know that's read it has loved it.  You will.  I have no doubt.

What the italicized summary doesn't tell you (if you read it) is that the writing is fantastic, and the character's voice is so crisp and witty, you want to be his best friend.  Plus, there's loads of crazy stuff that happens that could scientifically actually happen.  You want to read this book, trust me.  And then you should come see the movie version with me when it comes out in the fall (Matt Damon, ow ow!).


If This Isn't Nice, What Is?

Master storyteller and satirist Kurt Vonnegut was one of the most in-demand commencement speakers of his time. For each occasion, Vonnegut’s words were unfailingly unique, insightful, and witty, and they stayed with audience members long after graduation.  As edited by Dan Wakefield, this book reads like a narrative in the unique voice that made Vonnegut a hero to readers of all ages. At times hilarious, razor-sharp, freewheeling, and deeply serious, these reflections are ideal for anyone undergoing what Vonnegut would call their “long-delayed puberty ceremony” — marking the passage from student to full-time adult.

After reading the first of this compilation of graduation speeches by Vonnegut, I wanted to read everything he'd ever written because I was so impressed by what he had to say.  By the third speech, I was tired of reading the same thing over and over, and he seemed to be becoming more crotchety and opinionated as time went on.  This is my exception to the did-not-finish-and-won't-include rule because I'm pretty sure the few speeches I didn't read were exactly like the ones I did read.

A part of the book I loved, though, was Vonnegut's insistence on the importance of the Beatitudes.  Why, he poignantly asked, do Christians insist on putting up the Ten Commandments in public places--a text from the old testament--when the Beatitudes would serve mankind far better?  An interesting thought from a self-proclaimed Humanist.*


*A humanist, as it has been described to me, is essentially an atheist who believes in a moral code.  I apologize if that is an incorrect description.  I am only recounting what has been expressed to me by a friend who also lays claim to the title of Humanist.




Here Where the Sunbeams are Green

In this ecological mystery set in the shadow of a Central American volcano, two sisters contend with odd portents, like fungal toe flowers that pop up on one of the girls’ feet, as well as ancient legends of eternal youth. Twelve-year-old Mad, more interested in poetry than suspense, narrates the story of how she and the more rambunctious Roo determine to get to the bottom of their ornithologist father’s increasingly odd behavior. He is seeking a Lazarus species of bird that may still haunt the jungle surrounding the superswanky eco spa that hired him. The spa’s minions, meanwhile, seem to be brainwashing Dad while also keeping an all-too-close eye on his family. Enter a local bird-loving boy who helps the girls out, while adding a touch of PG romance to Mad’s life. The narrative drags a bit here and there, but Phillips does build a lush atmosphere of cloying, tropical beauty, punctuated by the volcano’s rumblings. Mystery fans looking for exotic settings and spunky heroines will find this a book to luxuriate in. Grades 4-7. --Karen Cruze

You may have noticed that I have a fair number of young adult and children's books on this list, despite the fact that I am very nearly thirty.  I attribute this in part to the importance of keeping up with what my students are interested in, but the greater attributed part is simply a love of books meant for not-yet-adults.  Why?  Because they're fun and engaging and sincere.  They don't mire themselves in big words and heavy language because they don't adhere to the principle of certain writers (if you can't understand it, it must be deep) and certain other writers (the denser the writing, the better it must be).  I am not a self-flagellating reader.  I do not care for an author's ego.  I have no interest in flogging myself with pompous "literature."  I'd rather read a book with great characters, a well-developed world, and a plot that surprises me.  This book, like so many wonderful children's books, does just that.  If you haven't read a kid's book in a while, try this one out.  It's worth a read.



The Room

Bjorn is a compulsive, exacting bureaucrat who discovers a secret room at the government office where he works--a secret room that no one else in his office will acknowledge. When Bjorn is in his room, what his coworkers see is him standing by the wall and staring off into space looking dazed, relaxed, and decidedly creepy. Bjorn's bizarre behavior eventually leads his coworkers to try to have him fired, but Bjorn will turn the tables on them with help from his secret room. Author Jonas Karlsson doesn't leave a word out of place in this brilliant, bizarre, delightful take on how far we will go--in a world ruled by conformity--to live an individual and examined life.

Upon starting this book, the main character reminded me a fair bit of Dwight from The Office.  And then I thought maybe he had Asperger's.  And then I didn't know what to think and who to believe because the story and characters are so well-crafted that you're constantly doubting what you'd thought before.  It's a weird book, for sure, but everybody needs a little weird in their life, right?



How We Learn: The Surprising Truth About When, Where, and Why it Happens

In How We Learn, award-winning science reporter Benedict Carey sifts through decades of education research and landmark studies to uncover the truth about how our brains absorb and retain information. What he discovers is that, from the moment we are born, we are all learning quickly, efficiently, and automatically; but in our zeal to systematize the process we have ignored valuable, naturally enjoyable learning tools like forgetting, sleeping, and daydreaming. Is a dedicated desk in a quiet room really the best way to study? Can altering your routine improve your recall? Are there times when distraction is good? Is repetition necessary? Carey’s search for answers to these questions yields a wealth of strategies that make learning more a part of our everyday lives—and less of a chore.

Unlike B, non-fiction is not my jam.  I love a good book on psychology or learning, though, so I picked this one at the beginning of the summer to delve into.  At school, we've been working on ways to help students improve study and learning habits, and it seemed only right to read more on the subject so as to inform our endeavor.  I learned all kinds of interesting stuff, like how often to study for a test based on when you have to take it, and the importance of changing up where you study to strengthen neural connections and recall.  I highly recommend this book, but set aside some time to read it, so you can take it in at your own pace.


The Invention of Wings

Inspired by the true story of early-nineteenth-century abolitionist and suffragist Sarah Grimké, Kidd paints a moving portrait of two women inextricably linked by the horrors of slavery. Sarah, daughter of a wealthy South Carolina plantation owner, exhibits an independent spirit and strong belief in the equality of all. Thwarted from her dreams of becoming a lawyer, she struggles throughout life to find an outlet for her convictions. Handful, a slave in the Grimké household, displays a sharp intellect and brave, rebellious disposition. She maintains a compliant exterior, while planning for a brighter future. Told in first person, the chapters alternate between the two main characters’ perspectives, as we follow their unlikely friendship (characterized by both respect and resentment) from childhood to middle age. While their pain and struggle cannot be equated, both women strive to be set free—Sarah from the bonds of patriarchy and Southern bigotry, and Handful from the inhuman bonds of slavery. Kidd is a master storyteller, and, with smooth and graceful prose, she immerses the reader in the lives of these fascinating women as they navigate religion, family drama, slave revolts, and the abolitionist movement. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Beginning with her phenomenally successful debut, The Secret Life of Bees (2002), Kidd’s novels have found an intense readership among library patrons, who will be eager to get their hands on her latest one. --Kerri Price


Somewhere around the time I read To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time (just after graduating from college), stories of race and inequality began to have a stronger presence in my reading.  I think, at the very core, I find myself curious, unable to understand the hate that pervades these stories, the hate that fueled slavery and segregation.  The hate that fuels racism today.

I was reading this book when the news about the Supreme Court's decision on gay marriage came out, and there were plenty of angry comments on social media to counter the joyous ones.  As I read these posts, I couldn't help but think about the story I held in my hands.  I couldn't help but wonder, what will people think when they look back on this day two hundred years from now?

This novel, set in the early 1800s, recounts the lives of an socially-elite family in Charleston and their slaves in a beautiful and heart-wrenching story of the fight for freedom from slavery and the resistance that meets it.  The characters are strong and substantial, and the events they initiate and respond to take you to places you wouldn't expect.  It's a must-read.



Match Me If You Can

Annabelle Granger has no idea why rich, gorgeous, and successful sports agent Heath Champion needs a matchmaker, but she is more than happy to take the job. Annabelle, who recently inherited her beloved Nana's matchmaking business, sees Heath as the key to her economic future, so she uses a connection with a friend to set up a meeting. It only takes a few minutes with bold, brash, and work-obsessed Heath for Annabelle to understand exactly why her new client might have had trouble finding the woman of his dreams. With a wicked wit and saucy charm, RITA Award-winning and best-selling Phillips fashions a deliciously fun romance between a testosterone-rich, irresistibly sexy hero and a sweetly endearing, yet feisty-to-the-core heroine who proves to be more than his match. --John Charles


[Insert prior commentary on romance novels here]  The only difference is that this one focuses a little more on the sexy.  I spent a lot of the time that I listened to this audiobook thinking about all the ways that romance novels play into gender stereotypes and assume that women want something that's dangerous or that they're not sure they want.  Case in point: a subplot in this novel has a man blackmail a woman into dating him, he engages the woman in sexual intercourse without her consent (though apparently she wants it), and then they're in love and get married.  I mean, call me crazy, but if B blackmailed me into dating him and then tried to pull something like that, he'd be in serious pain.

Seriously, female romance novelists, can we please make womankind seem less pathetic and indecisive?


***
Right now I'm reading Just Call Me Superhero, a book about a group of disabled teenagers and a support group they get conned into attending.  At my current place in the story, I'm kind of pissed at the main character because he's a huge jerk, but I'm hoping there's some redemption before the end of the book.

After that, there's a novel called The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry, which is apparently about a failing bookstore and a mysterious package.  Needless to say, I'm excited to read this one! [As you might venture from the title, this is not a romance novel.  As such, the mentioned package is an actual package, not a euphemism for male genitalia.  (Thank god.)]



So, take a moment this week to consider visiting your local library.  And if you're feeling extra generous, they're always looking for ways to fund their amazing offerings.

New Orleans Public Library Website
      Donations page



Amendment 1 (7/10/15):
Just Call Me Superhero is pretty bad.  The main character redeems himself somewhat, but the author seems to try to reveal some big secret that I cannot decipher.  I literally googled the book to see if someone else had figured it out and was willing to tell.  One reviewer put it best (I'll paraphrase): "Either the author is too oblique or I am too obtuse."  Skip this book.

The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry is lovely.  I just finished it, and my face is still a little sticky from tears.  It is well-written, funny, and touches that little bit of your soul that many books don't quite reach.  I loved the story.  I loved the characters.  I loved the world.

Amendment 2 (8/5/15):
Never Let Me Go

Luckiest Girl Alive

The Girl on the Train

Modern Romance

One Day

Summer Stuck

You might be wondering why--in the face of inordinate amounts of time thanks to summer vacation--I'm putting up less blog posts than I was before.  And the reason is the same as why I can't seem to fold laundry or clean my house without the threat of a visitor.  I simply do not have the motivation.  I can't seem to get my shit together these days.

I have done a lot of reading these past two weeks.  Ridiculous amounts of reading.  Like, you know that kid that was in your class in elementary school that would bring a new book to school every few days, sneaking reads when the teacher wasn't looking?  This summer has brought out that kind of reader in me.  So far, I've read something upwards of twenty books, mostly fiction, mostly from the library.  I've stopped midway through a few books I wasn't terribly impressed with, and I've returned a few I just didn't really want to read.  But all in all, I've read and read and read.  It's the only thing I consistently want to do.

While reading can take me to far away, wonderful places, it leaves much to be desired in the way of content for blog posting.  I currently have two or three unpublished drafts of posts that I've written over the last two weeks or so that just didn't come together.  They're about books and age and loss and whatever else, and they're fragmented and purposeless.  You do not want to wander their aimless tracks of thoughts.

I don't really know how full-time writers do it.  I mean, if all I do is write all day, what do I have to write about?  The fact that I ate half a watermelon in one sitting the other week while watching Netflix because it was just so delicious that I couldn't stop myself?  My recent battle with a new pillow that hasn't yet been broken in?  The weather?  There must be something else.

Trying to write during the summer gives me a huge appreciation for people who work from home and/or create their own work schedules.  Often, I have to force myself to walk outside or do something as soon as I wake up or else I'll spend the whole day on the couch with a book or a remote.  Often, I forget what day it is.  Often, I'll eat half a pound of chocolate chips or a whole bag of Skinny Pop mindlessly in one sitting.  It's not the most inspiring thing you've ever seen.

When I complain about my days of nothing, I usually get a lot of bitter responses from the good people that work year-round.  Gosh, I wish I had nothing to do all day! they say.  But you don't really want to sit around all day for two months.  Trust me.  It'll make anyone crazy.  You just want the option, and I can't blame you.  The option is nice.

But the plenitude of nothingness is making me a little crazy these days.  With no trips out of town planned this month, and no escapades to far-off lands this year, I've been feeling a little trapped in the city.  My wanderlust is rearing its ugly head, and I won't see another paycheck until the end of August.  I can't afford to fly somewhere exotic or exciting and get away, and my car doesn't even have reliable AC.


These are the days I wish I didn't owe the bank hundreds of thousands of dollars.

These are the days I wish teachers made more money.



I told B about it the other evening as we were texting.

B: I've got a break tomorrow between 10am and 5pm, I think.
Me: I've got nothing until 7:30pm...which means that I'm going stir crazy, but I'll tell you about that tomorrow when I see you.
B: What's wrong?
Me: Well, I'm at a point where I'm doing pretty much nothing all day and it's making me restless.  It happens every summer, and yet I still don't plan something.  I think, "Eh, it won't be that bad."  And then it is bad, and I drive to Canada.

I told him about the trips I have planned for July--going to a training in central Louisiana, seeing family in Alabama and Georgia, seeing friends in Tennessee, staying at the beach with the 'rents.  And the nothingness that envelopes the next few weeks.

B: Those sound like some good trips.  Let's talk tomorrow and think about some stuff maybe we can do in the next three weeks.




Have I mentioned recently how great B is?  I don't know how he did it, but I went from crawling in my own skin to settled in just a few short text messages.




We haven't planned any trips together yet, despite the conversation.  There are complications--expensive flights to the places we want to go and commitments here in New Orleans.  He's got work.  I've got volleyball.  We're both short on cash.  Chances are that we won't end up going anywhere far away, and we may not even get away at all this summer.  You know what, though?  For some reason, I feel okay about it now.  Maybe the restlessness just needed to be acknowledged.  Maybe it was enough to just dream about going somewhere, to look for flights, to think about hiking in the Rockies in sub-90 degree weather.


Nonetheless, I might just skip town later this week to go see one of my favorite aunt/uncle pairs in Alabama.  I miss their recently-sold mountain home in Georgia, but I'm excited they're closer, and that I'll get to see the new place near the coast.  Most of all, I'm excited to see them.  Because nothing heals a restless heart like an uncle interrogating you about your new boyfriend over a (probably gross) kale smoothie.

Courage

"I love reading your blog," she said.  "I think you're so brave."

Saturday night, I ran into a friend from high school that I see from time to time around the city, and who I keep up with a little bit on Facebook.  She's one of the many readers of this blog, and one of the many people who have told me in the last nine months of the blog's existence how "brave" I am for the things I write.  For my honesty.

I mulled the compliment as B and I drove quietly back to his house that night.  I opened my mouth to say something about it at one point, and at that same moment, he spoke up.  "I wish I lived somewhere else," he said.  "I hate New Orleans."  We've had this conversation before, but it still catches me off guard each time.  I kept quiet.  New Orleans has always been a place of refuge for me.  It has always been a place where I feel accepted.  Where I feel safe.  "It's just so dysfunctional," he said, "and people just accept it because of what they think excuses the dysfunction: the music, the food, the culture, whatever."

In a sense, he's right.  New Orleans is certainly not the most functional of places.  Anyone that drives down a city street, or that reads a local (or often national) newspaper, can tell you as much.  Despite the fact that my neighbors and I pay our taxes, the roads near my house are not in great condition.  The streetlights don't work.  The police are slow to respond, at best.  And I have a fairly decent amount of money.  I live in a fairly decent part of town.  I can only imagine what it's like to live in the tougher parts of this city.  Or to be stuck here, with no options other than to stay.

Personally, I'm not stuck.  I don't leave because I don't really want to leave.  At least that's what I tell myself.  But B's soapbox rant on the drive down Esplanade avenue Saturday night got me thinking.  Just how brave am I?

I used to travel alone all the time.  I used to do things without knowing anyone, all the time.  Camp in Minnesota.  College in Virginia.  Study abroad trips in France and Morocco.  Tours in Italy.  Jaunts in various European locales.  But after a while, doing things alone ceased to be a challenge for me.  It ceased to be uncomfortable.  I welcomed it.

And I started going back to the same places over and over again instead of new ones, learning them and their people and their culture and their language and their ways.  And those places--once a source of personal growth and challenge--ceased to be uncomfortable.  I welcomed them.

In the last few years, I haven't been to a single new place that speaks a language I'm not fluent in.  And while I love speaking and practicing French, and while I love being understood and understanding, it doesn't push me much.  It isn't what I consider to be brave.

So, as I listened to B's thoughts on the state of New Orleans and our role in it as young professionals and people looking for opportunity, I wondered whether I'm just staying here because it's safe.  Yes, I love it.  Yes, I love living close to my family.  Yes, I love the people I've met here and the communities I've become a part of.  Yes, I love the food and the history and the architecture and the music and the festivals.  But I've begun to ignore the dysfunction.  To tolerate and then accept it.  And as such, I've done very little to improve this place that I love.  True, I pay income and property taxes.  I vote.  But how much do I play into the stagnation that this city suffers from?  And what do I sacrifice personally by staying?

It's a question I ponder as I reflect back on my seventh year of teaching, as well.  In Charleston, I visited my cousin's marketing/design firm, and above everything else, I envied their capacity for creative output.  I envied the opportunity to make something.  To be challenged instead of creating challenges for others.  My friend Nicole and I discussed this very issue on Folly Beach, outside Charleston's city limits, on the last day of our trip.  She was a teacher until recently, and then she found something she liked better, something more personally fulfilling for her.  What is that for me?  Design?  Engineering?  Organization?

My mom likes to say, the problem with having lots of options is that you have too many choices.  It's hard for multi-talented people to pick just one path and stick with it.

I think--similar to choosing laundry detergent in Walmart--I stay in teaching partially because I'm overwhelmed by alternative choices.  And I'm intimidated by the idea of going back to school for something totally new.  I have two degrees, but I'd probably end up starting with 18-year-old freshmen all over again.  There's always night classes, but I'm kind of an education snob.  If it's not considered a top-notch school, I kind of don't think I belong.  It's pretty shitty of me, but in my defense, I really do need a challenge.

Which is exactly the reason why I wonder if teaching is right for me.  Yes, it is absolutely a difficult and absorbing career.  I have to think on my feet, and the social challenge (helping to form independent, contributing citizens of the world while teaching them loads of information and skills) is formidable.  But in terms of intellectual engagement, I feel like I'm losing a few IQ points each year.  That may not seem fair, but I suppose every career has benefits and sacrifices.  I am satisfied by the relationships I build and the social impact I have.  I am disappointed by how much of my intellect is potentially being wasted.

That old French professor I'm sure I've written about before would be screaming an "I told you so" right about now, if he had access to this blog.  "I've never seen a better candidate for a masters in French," he told me in his office one day after a successful presentation.  "Teaching won't satisfy you," he said.  "Yes, it will," I countered, appalled by his audacity.  "I give it five, maybe ten years," he responded, coolly.

He might just be right after all, in his own twisted way.  I don't think an advanced degree in French is the answer (because I'd probably only be able to teach with it), but he might have been on to something.  I'm a do-er.  I like to design and build and create and structure things.  I like to make things happen.  In teaching, it means the kids respect me, my classroom is organized, and I contribute to the greater good of the school.  But all of that feels pretty easy.  The hard part is the tedious grading and paperwork, the kids who aren't putting in adequate effort, and the parents who won't make the tough choice now to save themselves grief later.

And yet, I thrive in that classroom most days.  I'm damn good at it.  Every year, students leave my room loving a subject they never really loved before.  They tell me they're going to be doctors and teachers and engineers and better people, and my optimism gains an extra life.  They're going to be do-ers and thinkers in a world that needs both, and I'm helping make that happen.

Which brings me back to the question of courage.  What is more courageous: leaving something you're good at to try something you might be better and happier at, or staying in something you've been doing because you love it and because of the long-term effect it has on people and communities?  What is more courageous: staying in a city you love even though it may not challenge you, or moving someplace new that's not home but might help you discover something new about yourself?

I don't know the answer to either question.

The truth is, I'm not so sure that I have the courage everyone keeps insisting I have.  I stick to places I know, people I know, jobs I know, and things I know.  I put myself out there more than most, maybe, but just enough that I'm not too nervous about it.  Just infrequently enough to avoid any grand revelations.

I think I'm scared that I'll change careers and like it better, and I'll fall into that ever-growing statistic of teachers who didn't make it.  Or move to a new city and like it better, and I'll fall into that brain drain phenomenon that plagues our state and parish.  As much as I'm afraid I'll hate the change, I'm equally afraid that I'll be happier somewhere else, doing something else, and that the decision will have been a selfish one.

And so, I pledge that this summer, I will do something uncomfortable.  Not just stare at the cockroach  that's roaming my ceiling tonight (though that is definitely triggering some serious anxiety).  Instead, I commit to doing something bigger, different.  Maybe I'll travel someplace where I don't know anyone.  Maybe I'll visit a group I've never heard of before and whose mission I'm not sure I agree with.  Maybe I'll try a new workout routine.  Maybe I'll tell B I love him (if I ever figure out if what that means).  Maybe I'll try a DIY project I'm wholly unqualified for.  Or go skydiving.  Or go on a cruise.  Or go on an overnight hike.  Or sign up for a sport/game that I'm really, really bad at (which is something I really, really hate).

Like most people, I am a creature of habit.  Perhaps some days I am brave, but most days, my life rests in blissful complacency.   Life has not forced me into huge changes, and so I haven't pursued them.  Sure, I bought a home recently.  I joined the leadership team at work.  I have a new boyfriend (who I adore).  I'm training to excel in a sport I've only just started within the last year.  But those are small things.  Maybe that doesn't give me enough credit, but in my mind, they don't push me as far as I can be pushed.

It reminds me of a famous poem that my dad used to read to me as a kid:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

I'll finish with a definition, a writing ploy that I've used a million times in my life as a student much to the chagrin of my English teachers, a glimpse into how extremely terrible my technical essay writing is.  Or more accurately, I'll finish with two definitions.  Both for the same word.  Both seemingly equivalent in their meaning.  But I'll ask you to ponder with me: what if what scares you and what pains you are not the same?  What if they're opposites?

cour·age

ˈkərij/

noun

      the ability to do something that frightens one.

      strength in the face of pain or grief.

Womankind

The title of this post is a little misleading.  The truth is, there isn't much that you can say about women that's true of all of us.  Most of us have the same parts.  Most of us have less muscle mass and height than the average male.  Most of us are right most of the time. (Haha, just kidding. Sort of.)

I've been thinking recently about what it means to be a woman.  Partially because of the whole Caitlyn Jenner story in the news, and partly because I'm on my period, and that's about as woman as it gets.

Let me just say up front that this is not an ill-informed political or social take on transsexuality.  If you want that, read your Facebook feed (except for the Daily Show video that's circulating; that one's pretty good).  But I do think that the Caitlyn Jenner story gives us some insight into what society thinks women are, or perhaps exposes those inaccuracies.  I mean, let's be real: she's really pretty, at least in those Vanity Fair pictures.  But how old is she?  65?  Have you seen other 60+ women recently?  Because they don't look like her.  Most normal women over 60, while still extremely beautiful in their own right, do not tend to grace the cover of Vanity Fair because they are no longer "sexy" in the eyes of the public.  Their skin is not as tight.  Their faces are not as smooth.  Their breasts are not as perky.  Their hair is not as shiny.  They're a little wrinkly, a little gray (if they don't color), and a lot different looking than plastic surgery would lead you to believe.

So the question remains: if not sex appeal, then what makes someone a woman?

When I was a freshman in high school, a couple of months shy of 14, I got my period.  Like most girls who menstruate for the first time, it was light, and I carried a pad around in my backpack for just the occasion.  Nothing grand happened.  I bled; that was it.  Perhaps unlike some thirteen year old girls, though, I was dreading this moment.  In fact, I specifically remember praying one night the year before: Dear God, I'm okay with being infertile if it means I never have to have my period.  Think about it.

I told my mom about my period as soon as I got home.  She hugged and congratulated me, loaded me up on pads, and then went back to cooking dinner.  I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it's pretty frightening to bleed out from your private parts.  I guess I was hoping for a little more consolation than congratulation.

At dinner, we somehow got into a discussion/argument about what it means to be a woman.  My mom was a big proponent of the Equal Rights Amendment back in the day; she even has an ERA belt buckle in her closet to prove it (politically fashionable, I guess).  Needless to say, when I told my mom that I didn't think I'd feel like a woman until I got married and had kids, she wasn't pleased.

"No," she said, "you're already a woman."

"When did that happen?" my dad asked.

"Today," she said.

[insert groan and massive embarrassment here]

Yes, dear entire family who is currently putting food into your mouths, I had my period today.  As if I wasn't already distraught enough about the fact that my prayers to be periodlessly infertile went unanswered, I'd like you to know about it, so that I can be embarrassed and you can lose your appetite.

Some of you reading this blog might take offense to the idea that a woman's menstruation is gross, but ladies, let's be real for a second and pretend like the men aren't listening.  It's pretty disgusting.  Think about it: every time you have a period, you bleed.  From the general area of your body known for removing waste.  Either into a piece of cotton inserted inside of you, or a piece of cotton sitting in your underwear.  If you're adventurous, you might collect it in a menstruation cup.  If you're ancient, you might just sit at home all day and then bathe the ick away when it's all over.  As if that's not bad enough, there's gas, bloating, cramping.  Moodiness.  Headaches.  Stained sheets and underwear.

Last night, one day into my monthly cycle, I lay on B's bed with a heating pack above my uterus, migraine medicine in my system, and the occasional low whine escaping my lips.  He was packing for a weekend trip to Texas.  I was lying face down trying to will the pain away.  "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.  That B, he's a keeper.  I went home shortly thereafter and crawled into bed.  It was fitful sleep, as expected, but at least it was a break from the cramps and nausea.

After college, someone told me about this group of friends that she belonged to that framed the female period in a positive light.  Think of it as a good thing, she said.  Embrace this aspect of being a woman.  But I couldn't.  I have never liked it.  At best, I have tolerated it.  Part of me secretly wishes I'd get pregnant so that I could get a break from my periods.  Of course, that's just trading in one kind of discomfort for another.  Never get pregnant, my sister-in-law told me a few days after my first niece was born.  Never get me pregnant again, she told my brother after their second child.  And she doesn't have to tell me twice; pregnancy and childbirth are not for the faint of heart.

In fact, I might have to get knocked up at some point in my life if I ever want kids because I'm not sure I can consciously accept the level of pain I would have go through at the end of those nine months.  Sometimes I feel like I have a pretty decent pain threshold, and then I go to the gynecologist and she sticks some (smaller than a child) instrument up my vaginal canal, and I want to pass out.  And contractions?  Forget about it.  I started having cramps about two years ago, and they're like a recurring punch to my sub-gut.  When my time in the maternity ward comes, I will be getting drugs.  (I would adopt, but these are prime genes I'm passing on, people.)

Also, I think it would be too hard to pass up the opportunity to feel a human being growing and moving inside of me.  It's like skydiving.  Sure, I might die, but hey, it's an invaluable experience, right?

Of course, none of what I've just written in any way acknowledges the real result of pregnancy: a complete and irreversible shift to motherhood.  Read: I would never be the most important person in my life ever again.  As an elementary school teacher and an older sibling in a large family, I feel that I have some idea of what it must be like to be a parent.  Except that I still sleep at night.  Seriously, after every visit to my brother and sister-in-law's house, I come home and sympathy sleep for like 12 hours at a time.  As though I could transfer that sleep to them, or store up for the coming winter of child-rearing.

Babies are pretty adorable, though.  You've gotta give them that.  They suck up all your time and resources and sleep, and they ruin every material thing you own, but when they burble and smile, the world is bright.


In December, I turn 30.  In today's society, this demarcates my entry into a new age bracket and "time of life."  I will no longer be a care-free, selfish twenty-something.  I will be an adult in some fashion previously unattained.  But it won't make me more of a woman.  Womanhood hit me sometime in my early twenties.  I don't know exactly what caused it, nor could I venture a guess.  At some point, I was simply okay with no longer being a girl, in the same way that I accepted paying bills or being able to do whatever I wanted, within the limits of the law.  People call me ma'am now; maybe it's that.  In the end, I suppose it doesn't matter how I got to being a woman, it just matters that I am.  And while womanhood can be pretty shitty--worse pay, less respect, more vulnerability, hot flashes, starting your period the day you chose to wear white pants--it's still a good thing.  I can't explain it.  There's something empowering about dealing with all the shittiness of womanhood and still coming out swinging.  It's like being Butler during March Madness.  Sure, we're underdogs, and yeah, we haven't won it all yet, but man, it feels good to show everybody what we've got.

You can't define a woman in a neat sentence.  Every woman comes with her own experiences, her own priorities, her own approach to life.  The widely circulated phrasing "Real women have this"/"Real women do this" has always bothered me for this very reason.  Real women have curves?  What about the real women who have naturally small hips or flat chests, or who have a real problem gaining weight?  Defining a woman necessarily excludes someone.  Which isn't fair because we're all different.  And awesome.  And beautiful.  And awesome.  And powerful.  And awesome.

Try and keep us down, world.  Just try.

Just the Beginning

FIRST DAY OF SUMMER...

B: So, what are you going to do today?
Me: Ummm......................I'll eat some breakfast, probably watch some TV, maybe read a book.  I might take a walk.  I don't know.  Who cares?
B: You're really happy it's summer, aren't you?
Me: You cannot fathom the intense joy that is this day.


Technically, Saturday was the first day of summer, but Saturday's also a day off every week, so it didn't count.  By that logic, yesterday would've been the first day of summer, but I was on vacation, so that didn't count either.  Therefore, I claim today as my first day of summer.  And it's only by the fear of my mother ever reading this blog that I'm not dropping joyous f-bombs to mark the occasion.  So, I'll give you the censored version:

I am very happy.


What have I done so far today, you ask?  Well, I've lazed around in bed, discussed with B the drawbacks of being an extremely muscular woman (not that I have any experience in the matter), ate some breakfast, scanned Netflix for things to watch, gave up on Netflix, scanned Amazon Prime for things to watch, watched an episode of How to Make it in America, had a tussle with my Chromecast, ate some cereal and a Freezepop, and texted a few people.  I've also thought about doing laundry and considered washing my face.

It is now 10:40am.

In truth, if I did this every day, I would probably fall into a pit of depression, where I would dissect my life and uncover all of the things I don't like about myself or my situation.  (I'm not particularly good at extended alone time.)  Luckily, it's only day one, and I've got a library, a little cash, and a lot of time to come up with stimulating but relaxing ways to spend the next two months.


This weekend kicked it off right.  Saturday morning at the crack of down, B dropped me off at the airport for my flight to Charleston, a weekend girls' trip to South Carolina to commemorate the mid-way point between my 30th birthday and that of my best friend from college, Nicole.

Despite the anticipation of seeing my favorite travel buddy again for the first time in a year and the excitement of visiting a new place, it was hard to say goodbye to B.  It's only been five weeks since that fateful first date at Twelve Mile Limit, but we've grown surprisingly close in that short period of time, and I was going to miss him.  So we hugged and kissed and said our goodbyes (Don't judge--PDA at an airport is totally acceptable--haven't you seen Love Actually?), and I entered the automatic sliding doors of our still-pretty-crappy-despite-renovations airport, on my way to fun.

Now, it's been a while since I've flown on an airplane.  Something like a year and a half, which is pretty unheard for me.  In college and just out of college, I was on a plane every couple of months and jet-setting out of the country at least once every two years.  But adult obligations and financial choices (see: buying a house) have taken their toll on my wanderlust, and I've found myself ground-bound for the last nineteen months or so.  The result of this extended break from air travel is that I've forgotten a lot of the experience that is flying on an airplane.  That is, I've forgotten the sounds and feelings and procedures of normal flight.  What I'm trying to say is, I was a little scared.  It's like spending the night at your parents' house after being away for a couple of years.  The creaking will keep you awake.

So, I spend a lot of time reading, praying the Hail Mary, and reminding myself of the rock solid science behind the Bernoulli Effect as I made my way from New Orleans to Atlanta and then on to Charleston.  On the way, I also ducked a student's family, finished two books, bought a third book, and eavesdropped on a lady that was clearly Old Money Charleston.  To pass the time, I imagined what it might be like to have that much money, and my conclusion was that it's better to know people with money than to actually have it yourself.  I dub it the "Entourage" effect, a reference to the HBO show, not the marijuana phenomenon of the same name, which Google just taught me about.

I finally made it to Charleston in one piece, though a little worse for wear, and caught a taxi to a nearby outlet mall where I met my friend Nicole, who'd been whiling away a few hours there waiting for me.  One of the goals for the weekend was to find a dress for my sister's upcoming wedding, and Nicole was up to the task.  She's always been an exceptional wingwoman when it comes to fashion, and she did not disappoint.  When we reunited, one of the first things she said was, "I have some ideas for you."  (We actually saw each other from afar, jumped up and down waving, and then sped-walked towards each other with luggage in-tow.  It was like a romantic comedy scene, except we couldn't run because of our heavy bags.)

We ended up spending about two hours there, and I bought two dresses, a jumpsuit (Nicole's idea), and two pairs of moderate-to-very high heels.  In other words, I'm going to look damn good standing up on Saturday, but my feet and bank account will hurt.  Also, I can't bend my knees in these shoes.  What's with that?

Saturday night was a blur.  My amazing cousin Bennett (the best host around!) picked us up from the mall, even though it meant sitting in 40 minutes of traffic on the way back, and then spent the rest of the evening showing us downtown Charleston through the eyes of a twenty-something local (ironic, considering that we planned this as a trip to commemorate our induction into our thirties).  We drank at Republic, we ate at Prohibition, we drank at his house, we drank on the rooftop at Stars, we drank and danced at Prohibition, we danced at O-Ku.  After a certain hour, pretty much every bar/restaurant on or near King Street turns into a nightclub.  At first, I was really excited about this; I love dancing.  Then, I remembered that I'm old.  Over the course of the night, I had something like 5 drinks and 3 shots, which is 3 drinks and 3 shots more than I usually consume in a night out.  Needless to say, the night ended with me passed out on Bennett's couch (delete the picture, Bennett!), and the next morning began with two Aleve.  But it was fun.  Man, was it fun.

Sunday morning, with aspirin in my system, Nicole and I ventured out to the closest Catholic Church, St Patrick's on St. Phillip St.  It's a small, predominantly African-American church with vaulted ceilings, a welcoming community, and a worshipful experience.  To contrast it with the church I go to here in New Orleans, everyone (everyone) in their church sings.  While we spend countless hours teaching the congregation songs and brainstorming ideas to get people to open their mouths in church, this small community has already bought in.  It was incredible.

The rest of the day passed in much the same way.  We had brunch around the corner from my cousin's apartment at a place called the Warehouse: chicken and waffles...and cocktails.  "I don't think I can put any more alcohol in my body," I said.  "What'll you have?" asked the attractive bartender.  "I'll get the Sunday cocktail," I said.

From there, we walked King Street: window-shopping, people-watching, and even visiting my cousin's office (which is just as cool as the graphic design/web-marketing firms you see in movies...they DO exist!).  We went out to Waterfront Park, we walked through the Battery, we got cocktails and a charcuterie plate on the rooftop at Vendue Inn, we traversed the Market, we got a driving tour from a friend who's only lived in Charleston for a month ("That house is pink...that house is expensive...that's a hotel...those cannons don't work...").

After a long and gorgeous day of sightseeing, we collapsed at home--the three of us on a queen size bed--for a late afternoon nap.  I slept soundly between them for something like an hour and a half before being awakened for dinner on the water at Fleet Landing, a seafood restaurant, with some of Bennett's friends that we'd met before and some new ones.  We got the obligatory She Crab soup (so good!), and I opted for a not-so-great burger to absorb all the alcohol that my body was still processing from the last twenty-four hours.  "What'll you have to drink?" the waitress asked.  "Coke," I said.  "Please, just Coke."  We watched ships sailing and took pictures of the moon and talked about ridiculous things.  "What would you do if that ship had a cannon and blew up that building right there next to us?"  "What if it was an alien ship and it evaporated the building with a plasma ray?"

We ended the evening at Bennett's house, watching Parks and Recreation episodes on Netflix and eating cookies and milk.  I was asleep before 11.

Monday morning, Nicole and I got up late, got dressed, and headed south to Folly Beach, where we ate at the Lost Dog Cafe and spent a couple of hours hanging out on the beach.  Some girl time, if you will.  I talked about B way too much.  She told me about work and life and dating and her adorable nephew.  We reminisced.  We talked about when we'd see each other next.  We waded in the ocean.

Leaving the beach at 2 gave us just enough time to shower, pack, and hang out with Bennett a little bit before we headed to the airport.  There, we ate so-so sandwiches at a "cafe" and talked until Nicole got an alert on her phone that her flight had been cancelled.

"What?  I can't leave tomorrow.  I don't have any personal days to use."  She was understandably freaking out.

The gate representative was completely unhelpful ("There are no flights until tomorrow"), and so, we did what any approximately 30-year-old would do.  We called her dad.  He calmed her down and gave her some suggestions.  Ten minutes later, we were parting.

"It was so good to see you!" she said, hugging me tightly.
"Be safe," I said, "and good luck!  Let me know what you end up doing!"

I walked to my gate and pulled out my phone to text my brother.  Hey, there's a slight chance I'm going to get stuck in ATL tonight because of airline BS.  Can I call you, if I do?  I'm trying to get home from Charleston, and flights are getting cancelled because of weather and air traffic.

I waited a second for a response, put the phone in my back pocket, and pulled out a book.

A guy standing next to me, who had been looking over at me repeatedly for about five minutes, leaned in. "What are you reading?"

I uttered an embarrassed sound and hid the book's cover.  "Oh, just a trashy book I bought in the airport.  Something to pass the time."

I'd bought the book on the way up to Charleston, a chick lit novel called Love by the Book.  After reading three heralded pieces of fiction in the last week (The Martian, a great new science fiction novel; Belzhar, a literary drama novel; and Wonderstruck, a lackluster children's novel/graphic novel that a student left in my classroom on the last day), it was pretty disappointing.  But no one ever said airport bookstores were a hotbed of literary inspiration.

"An avid reader, huh?"

This guy was determined to have a conversation with me.  It was kind of flattering.  Especially considering that I was wearing no make up, a stained t-shirt, and my hair was in that weird in-between state of drying-but-not-yet-dry.

We talked about Charleston and his job and my job and our respective trips, the drama at his cousin's wedding that weekend, my fascination with the pop-up nightclubs on King Street (seriously, I can't get over it--every place turns into a club).  All the while, I kept thinking, How do I let this guy down nicely?  And, I wish B were here.  Because B's my guy.

I sat a few rows back from him on the plane, and occasionally, he would look back and smile.  Points for persistence.

In Atlanta, he waited for me and asked if I wanted to hang out before my plane came.

"Actually, I've got to run to my gate.  I don't have an assigned seat on my flight, and that's making me pretty nervous."

"Well, would you be interested in talking more after today?"

"I'm sorry," I said, "I have a boyfriend.  But I really appreciate your talking to me; men don't usually do that.  Good luck in Boston, and if you ever end up getting one of those really big houses in Charleston, you let me know, and I'll come visit."

"No worries," he said and smiled.

I checked my phone, and there was a text from Nicole: So I'm driving to Charlotte!  I hope you make it safely to Atlanta!  I will let you know what happens!

My gate representative told me to wait until 45 minutes before the flight, and he'd assign me a seat.  So I visited the bathroom and then bought some chocolate-covered cherries to pass the time.  As I sat down again at my gate, I overheard an announcement from the next gate over: "Flight 0552 to New Orleans, we are now boarding Zone 1."

An earlier flight to New Orleans?

Taking my chances, I walked over to the counter and asked the woman there, "I'm scheduled to leave at 11pm tonight for New Orleans, but what are the chances you have a seat on this flight?"

"Wait around and see," she told me.

So I stood beside the counter for about twenty minutes, watching the standby list, popping chocolates, and trying not to get my hopes up.  The line looked pretty long.  The standby list looked pretty long.

When the last person in line boarded, I looked up at the information screen.  5 seats unassigned.  So I approached the counter and re-explained my situation to the other gate representative.

Five minutes later, I miraculously found myself in an exit seat (my favorite!) on a flight that would get me home two hours earlier than expected.

Before I turned off my phone, I got a text from Nicole: OMG, I made it to Charlotte.  I am at the gate and they are boarding us soon.  I can't believe it!  I don't think I will believe it until I am home and safe.

Two hours later, I hopped into B's car outside baggage claim.  Four hours later, I was in bed, and I heard a ding from my phone.  I am finally at my house!  Woohoo!  I had so so much fun with you this weekend!  I can't wait to plan our next trip!


First day of summer.  Heck yeah.