Me, Not B, and Tennessee

Last week was rough.  There is no way to get around it.  There is no overwhelming "bright side" to those 7 days.  They sucked, and I felt it.

B broke up with me on Saturday.  To be honest, it still doesn't make sense.  He sent me kissy faces one day and let me go the next.

On Sunday, I sobbed in front of strangers.

On Tuesday, after losing a volleyball game, I sobbed in front of a different set of strangers.  Who must've thought I took the game really hard.  I couldn't have cared less about it.

Thursday morning, I snoozed twice and then dropped my phone at just the right angle so that the screen cracked despite being in its (albeit broken) case.  I spent hours researching how to fix it.  I found out it would cost almost as much as what I originally paid for the phone.  My screen is still cracked.

Thursday night, I managed to do something wicked to my body that resulted in me not being able to lift or turn my right arm without enduring a biting pain in my shoulder.  This pain just stopped yesterday.

Friday was meant to be the beginning of something different.  Better.  I could feel it.  I desperately wanted things to be better.

I figured I'd head off potential problems before they happened.  That's a good idea, right?  So with an eight hour car ride ahead, I stopped by the dealership to have them double-check my AC, which had gone out earlier this summer, as well as anything else that might cause a problem.  They didn't even bother taking it into the shop.  "I can tell you right now that the AC is fine," the guy said.  "I don't want to charge you $99 to tell you that in an hour."  Don't argue with a professional, I thought.

So I picked up my friend J and we started our grand adventure, making it all the way to Picayune, Mississippi (about an hour) before the car starting shaking.  "Is that the car next to us or our car?" I asked J, who doesn't drive and therefore didn't have any idea.  I pulled over to the side of the road and got out to find that my back left tire had blown out.  And not just leaking air.  Completely dead.  Because of course.

I changed the tire, and then drove to the nearest Walmart, where I parked to have a technician look at it.  There, he explained to me the concept of dry rot and preceded to tell me how old all of my tires are before breaking the bad news.  I needed four new tires.

[I feel at this point that I should clarify that I am not a neglectful car owner.  My oldest tire--the one that blew out--was from 2007.  I bought my car in December 2006.  I have brought my car to the dealership at least once every two years for maintenance and upkeep.  At no point has someone told me that I needed all new tires, and being wholly unfamiliar with auto repair and maintenance, I never worried about it.  This being said, you can understand why I will likely never take my car to the regular dealership ever again.]

The technician told me the cost.  I cringed.  And somewhere in the course of our conversation, I told him about my week of mishaps.

"You know," he said, "they say misfortune comes in threes."

I thought about it for a second.  Boyfriend.  Phone.  Shoulder.  Tires (4 of them).  It seemed like I was already up to somewhere between 4 and 7 strikes by this point.

Naturally, J and I turned this into a game.  We kept a running count of strikes from the week, allowing for deductions if something very good happened.

Strike 1. Boyfriend defects

Strike 2. Phone screen breaks

Strike 3. Right shoulder does not function properly.  Makes driving stick for 8 hours very hard.

Strike 4. Tire blows out.  Takes longer to replace it than necessary because bottle jack purchased for such an occasion is 0.25 inches too tall to fit under the car.  Nasty stuff on my hands.  J takes a picture of this momentously unfortunate occasion and sends it to our friend.  Misery loves company.

Strike 5. Must replace all four tires.

Strike 6. Must spend an hour inside of Walmart carrying a heavy bag of perishable food and an iPad while trying to entertain self and J with various merchandise we will not actually purchase.  (Card aisle was especially helpful in passing the time.)  Will arrive at destination at least an hour later than expected.

-1 [Strike 5]. After getting back on the road, rain falls briefly and then a rainbow appears in the distance.  Later, another rainbow appears to our right side in a full arc.  A second rainbow then appears beside it ("DOUBLE RAINBOW!!!!").  A third rainbow appears on the interstate median while several rainbows appear in the mist following the cars ahead of us.  There are rainbows everywhere.  We get really excited about the rainbows and shout a lot.

Strike 6. Run into traffic.  Google Maps says this traffic will add an hour and sixteen minutes to our commute.

-1 [Strike 5].  Google is wrong.  Traffic lasts only 5 minutes.  Never been so glad for Google to be wrong.

Strike 6.  Google Maps says "25 more minutes."  The clock says "8: 13."  Google Maps says "You will arrive at your destination at 9:38pm."  Forgotten time zone change ruins previously happy moment.

-1 [Strike 5].  Hotel is awesome.  Room has a kitchenette, living room, bedroom with double beds, and a bathroom.  All nice, clean, and unexpectedly spacious.

-1 [Strike 4].  Front desk person suggests a nearby burger place called Urban Stack.  Google reviews gives it more than 4 stars.  Restaurant is only 4 blocks away.  Burgers are AMAZING.  We ask if they will open one in New Orleans.


After our burgers, we stopped counting strikes.  There was no point--we would've ended up in the negatives.  It was great to see my friends who lived in Chattanooga and their families and their beautiful one-month-old baby.  It was fun to drive up and down mountains. even if J almost had a heart attack every time we did.  It was neat to ride a rented bike to church Sunday morning, even if the priest spoke more like a Shakespearean actor than a real person.  It was exciting to hike the side of Lookout Mountain, even though it was midday, I forgot my hiking shoes in the car, and we accidentally climbed hundreds of rock steps to a parking lot that wasn't the one I parked in.  It was relaxing to eat and chat with friends on a deck outside a mountain cabin, and to take long naps between meals.  Walking across the river on a pedestrian bridge, eating ice cream, following the riverfront trail, basking in the 60-degree weather of Ruby Falls' cave.  It was all exactly what I needed.

I won't lie to you.  I thought about B.  I thought mostly about how much he would've loved the trip and the city.  So many things to do outdoors.  So many good burgers and barbecue and ice cream.  Midday naps.  Mountains.  Rivers.  Caves.  I could see him living there.

I felt sorry for him, that he paid for the experience but missed it.  And I felt sorry for us, for the shared experiences we missed.

The drive back was harder.  J and I were tired and had trouble finding things to talk about.  We both just wanted to be out of the car.  And I didn't realize until later, but as much as I wanted to be out of the car, I didn't want to be home.  Home is where B lives.  Home is where I'm sad.

When I got home, I let myself read old text messages between us and wonder if he was reading them, too.  I wondered how long before I'd be normal and dating again.  I wondered, if he showed up at my door, what I'd say.  I wondered how long it'd take to fix what was broken, if there was any way to fix it.  I fell asleep at 9:30, so I would stop wondering.

This morning, I slept late, waking up only for the locksmith (oh yeah, strike number whatever: my handle lock hasn't worked for at least a week) and to order a large pepperoni pizza for myself.  The kind that B and I used to get.

Work starts a week from tomorrow.  I'm trying not to think about it.  As much as I love my job, it comes with plenty of stress and responsibility and frustration.  Things I'd been relieved of for most of the summer.

On the bright side, I've got one last trip planned: beach with the family.  There'll be airbnb people at my house (so don't bother, robbers who somehow got my blog password).  More importantly, there'll be two babies at the beach whose smiles and games never cease to make me happy.  -1 strike.

Dumped, Stage 4

It's going to get harder before it gets easier.

Yesterday wasn't bad.  I did wake up full clothed from the day before.  I did wander my house aimlessly at some points.  I did smell terrible and choose not to shower.  But I didn't cry.  At least I didn't cry.

This morning, not so much.

I have only been awake for two hours today, and already I want to go back to sleep.  I got up early to go for my usual morning walk (before it gets too hot) but immediately lost motivation.  Well, not immediately, exactly.

B and I were supposed to go to Tennessee this coming weekend, and when I made plans for the trip, I made the reservation non-refundable because it was cheaper and I thought why in the world would we need to cancel the trip?  I'm afraid to say that B has confirmed one of my worst-held relationship fears: that good things can't last.

When we broke up (ahem, when he broke up with me), he offered to pay for the hotel even though he wouldn't be coming.  To which I said, "I don't want your money!"  And then everyone I talked to was like, "Take that bastard's money."  So then I texted him later and said, "I don't want all the money!"  To which my friends said, "He deserves to pay."  So then I texted him and said, "If you pay for it, I won't refuse."

He promised to get me the money by today, and sure enough, I woke up at 6:45 this morning to my alarm and a text message from him telling me to check our agreed-upon drop spot (under a mat) because it was cash.  I went there immediately and found an unmarked envelope with cash in it.  80%.  He'd paid for 80%.  I'm still wondering if that's a metaphor.

On the one hand, I'm glad he didn't pay the whole thing.  I've never been one to mooch (unless it's off my parents and it's food), and making him pay for a trip he wouldn't have any part in seemed wrong.

On the other hand, he had every opportunity to tell me how he felt BEFORE I reserved the hotel.  And he chose instead to be a coward.

I'm trying to be the bigger person here, though.  So instead of texting him obscenities or punching him in the face, both of which I'd love to do, I put a note under the mat yesterday that I knew he would see when he dropped off the money.  It said:

I just wish you'd told me sooner.

                         Take care,
                            R


Because the truth is that I'm just really sad.  My anger isn't justified.  Not really.  He finally told me how he felt, and it kept me from being in a one-sided relationship.  It kept me from wasting my time.  The anger is just an attempt at sanity.  An attempt to feel something other than sadness.  An attempt to vilify the other just to avoid having to be alone with myself.

As an educator, I've taught many students whose parents were either divorced or in the process of divorcing.  And sometimes those parents hate each other so much that they refuse to speak to one another.  They schedule separate parent-teacher conferences, and they request copies of things to be sent to each home so that they don't have to get the information from their former spouse.  As someone who hasn't been divorced, but only dumped after three months of dating, I'm not privy to the feelings that these people face in their daily lives.  I won't pretend that I do.  I hope I never do.  I can only say that this experience has left me wondering if maybe divorcees hate each other not so much because the other person is actually worth hating, but rather because they're angry that they couldn't make it work.  They resent the other person for not trying hard enough.  Or for trying too hard.  And then that feeling just sticks.  Or maybe, like me, they're just angry because it helps them keep sadness at bay.  From wondering where they went wrong.

This morning, on my walk, I passed probably twenty people on the sidewalk, and each time we made eye contact and said hello, I smiled.  It was, of course, a fake smile each time because I feel about as far away from smiling as a normal, mentally-healthy person can be.  And they gave me a smile back.  Fake?  I don't know.  But it got me to thinking: what is going on in these people's lives?  Did that man that just passed me lose his father yesterday?  Did that woman that was standing near the museum just find out she's unexpectedly pregnant?  People go through terrible and difficult events in their lives all the time, but they still wake up and endure the heat because they have to.  Because the only thing worse than being sad is not living at all.

Yesterday, I looked up the stages of grief in an attempt to better understand where I'm at in my healing process.  I recognize that this is both very nerdy and overly rational of me, but I'm an intellectual person, and I needed something to distract me from what I was feeling for just a few seconds.  Please, just a few seconds of peace.

It turns out that psychologists generally recognize five stages of grief.  They are:
1. Denial/isolation
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

As I read over the descriptions for the first three stages last night, I thought to myself: Yes, I've felt these.  I've been sad.  I've been angry.  I've wondered what we could've done differently to avoid breaking up.  But as I read, I wondered if I'd bypassed depression.  If I was already on my way to acceptance.  I'd chosen the zen path: write, be strong, don't hate.  I'd accepted that we were done, and while I knew that I needed some time to recover, I was sure I'd be back at the dating game again at some point.

I should've knocked on wood.

Depression set in this morning.  Cold, hard, debilitating depression.  As I put on my clothes, I realized that now that B had dropped off the money, I had no reason to talk to him.  Ever again.  I would never see him again.  I would never hold him again.  I would never stroke his five o'clock shadow again, or groan when he suggested a documentary.  He would never send me funny memes.  Or laugh at the ridiculous number of books I read.  Or tell me that my hair smells nice after I've just showered.  He would never hold my hand.  We'd never go see the movies we'd watched trailers for.  We would never do anything together again.

I always download a podcast or two for my morning walk, but it was a struggle this morning.  There was nothing I wanted to listen to.  No music or voices I wanted to hear.  I eventually settled on an interview with a comedian.  Maybe this will make me laugh.  Or at least not cry.

It was a struggle to get myself out of the house.  I didn't want to walk.  I didn't want to see people.  I didn't want to be awake.

It was a struggle to work out.  I did fifteen sit-ups, five reverse chin-ups, and twenty leg-lifts.  And then I just couldn't convince myself to do anymore.  I'd started working out this summer in part for him.  And he wasn't a part of the summer anymore.  What was the point?

I took the short way home.  I fake smiled at the people I passed.  I almost sat down multiple times just from the sheer weight of it all.  I wasn't sure I could make it home without stopping for a minute on a park bench or the steps of that church I always pass, just to cry.  Just to give in to the overwhelming numbness.

It's not even pain.  Pain doesn't describe stage 4.  It's this emptiness.  This desire not to be.  Not like Hamlet "not to be"--I am extremely grateful to be alive.  Not even a break up with the sexiest, most caring man in the world could change that.  But a desire to not to be, just temporarily.  Until things blow over.  Until it doesn't hurt to move.  To talk.  To buy groceries.  To watch TV.  To read a book.  Until everything doesn't remind me of him.

For the first time this summer, I wish I was at work.  Because it is 10am right now, and the only thing I have scheduled for today is a volleyball game at 7:30 tonight.  That's nine and half hours of nothing.  Nine and half hours, rather, of missing B.  Of wanting to be asleep.  Of sleeping.

I don't know when acceptance will come.  I can only hope that it's sooner rather than later.  Because stage 4 is a bitch.  And I'm tired of it already.

Dumped, Part Two

For almost every one of the last seven weeks, Sunday afternoons have been about me and B.  In early June, I switched my volleyball training schedule to complement his only day off, and more than once, I've rescheduled family dinner to accommodate activities with his friends.  I guess that right there says it all.  He mostly stayed the same; it's me that changed.  That wanted to change.

Today, my first full day post-break up, has not been my best.  Today, I bawled for an hour in front of a group of acquaintances and total strangers, most of whom had no idea why I was crying.  And I didn't enlighten them.  I didn't feel compelled to share my pain with them.  They could watch, but what could they do?  Say they're sorry?  Tell me that it's for the best?  Recount that time they got dumped and then met their dream guy/girl?  I wasn't up for stories.

Plus, I'm not a pretty crier.  Maybe it's vain, but I didn't want them to see my face.  This morning, I woke up with under-eye bags like double-chins and swelling to rival that time I learned the hard way that I'm allergic to acne meds.  I mean, I should've expected monster face, after a night like last night.  I cried before I went to sleep.  I cried as I was falling asleep.  I woke up periodically through the night and cried then, too.  And my face + tears = ugly.  Red, puffy ugly.  Somehow it still surprised me when I looked in the mirror this morning, though.

Normally, a puffy, red face would prompt me to hole up in my house and press cold spoons or tea bags to my eyes all day.  But I had church, and my choir needed me, and I think I needed to get out of the house, too.  I needed to do something other than sit on my bed, or sit at my parents' house and listen to my siblings fight over cookies (yes, the 17 and 22 year old siblings).  I also kept up my obligations because I didn't think it would be a big deal.  I thought that I'd gotten all the crying out.

But apparently sadness wasn't done with me yet.

I cried during most of mass.  I avoided eye contact with my choir mates because talking about it--openly acknowledging the pain with people who knew nothing of my personal life--was too hard.  I went through multiple wads of toilet paper.  My sweater is covered in spots where I wiped my eyes, or my nose.  I was a wreck, and I couldn't keep it together.

"Are you okay?" my choir director asked.  "Do you want to talk about it after mass?"

I shook my head.  I'd already talked about it.  I'd written about it.  I'd thought about it non-stop.  How would owning up to my misery change anything about my miserable state?

Eventually, I told her on my way out of church.  "I won't be here the next two weekends because I'll be out of town.  Also, my boyfriend broke up with me yesterday.  That's why this--" I gestured toward my face--"is the way it is."

I sobbed on the way home.  Even though I was angry--to the point that I may or may not have held up a certain finger when I drove past B's house (unfortunately on my regular route to pretty much anywhere)--the tears wouldn't stop.  I was sad.  It seemed that I would be sad for a while.

When I got home, I saw that a friend from college had emailed me.  It was a simple email ("sending you love!"), but an important one.  A much appreciated one.  I wrote back, "Thank you, friend.  It is what it is."  And she responded quickly, asking if I'd seen the TED talk by Brene Brown about vulnerability.  I had, but I watched it again.  In the talk, she quotes her therapist, who once told her, "It's neither good nor bad.  It just is what it is."

Later in the afternoon, friends texted to see if I wanted to go to a movie.  They needed something to do, and I'm sure they knew I needed something to do.  We decided on Trainwreck, the new Judd Apatow movie with Amy Schumer.

As you might imagine, I was a little worried about seeing a romantic comedy.  Watching people fall in love is not exactly on a newly-single person's list of top ten things to do.  But after watching that TED talk, I wanted to challenge myself to be more vulnerable.  I wanted to lean into my discomfort, in the hopes that something better would come out of it.  As I learned in another recent movie (ahem, Inside Out), sadness is a powerful and valuable emotion.  On top of all that, it was the only movie from a list of choices given to me that I hadn't already seen.

In the end, the jokes were raunchy, and the plot, fairly predictable.  But somehow this ridiculous, funny movie about a messed up girl and a boy who likes her also helped me realize/remember two very important things.  First, that my family and friends are incredibly wonderful, and I am ever grateful to be surrounded by people who love and support me in healthy ways.  Second, that there's really no point in me being with someone who's not excited to be with me, too.

In her talk, Brene Brown labels people who have positive relationships with themselves and others as "whole-hearted."  These are people who embrace vulnerability, who love when there's no guarantee, and who experience great joy and connection as a result.  It turns out that if you want to feel anything, you have to feel everything.  And as hurt as I am, and as angry as I am, I'm still glad the last three months happened.  I'm glad I was honest and authentic with B.  He may not have been sincere with me, but I was always sincere with him.  I didn't hide the way I felt.  And I'm proud of that.

On our last night before breaking up, we took a long drive to meet a friend of his, and on the way back, we were listening to a podcast interviewing some former professional athletes.  Normally, podcasts aren't my thing, but this one was interesting and at the very end, the host asked for recommendations from each of the athletes for the listeners.  Gabby Reece, a former volleyball player, suggested something that I really loved: I'll go first.  Instead of waiting for someone to smile at you in the grocery store, she said, or waiting for your partner to say "I love you" first, take the first step yourself.  Put aside anxiety and self-protection, and put yourself out there.  Be the first to reach out.

Oddly, Brene Brown said the same thing about the people she researched.  Whole-hearted people, she said, say "I love you" first.  Whole-hearted people, she said, believe that they are worthy of love and connection, even if it doesn't always work out.  Whole-hearted people, she said, believe firmly that they are enough.

In my inbox this morning, I got my weekly Barking Up the Wrong Tree email, that research-based blog that I love so much.  How can you attract more luck? it asked.  The recommendation was four-fold: by being optimistic, by taking advantage of opportunities, by trusting your intuition, and by looking for the bigger picture.

My gut says: this break up is a sure thing.  My optimism says: it's for the best.  The big picture says: this is just a blip on the radar.  Opportunity says: there's someone out there who will love you just as much as you'll love them.

But I'm not ready to jump back into things.  "Get a glass of wine, choose a Netflix show, and let yourself be sad," a friend said to me on the phone when I expressed that maybe I just needed a rebound.  And she's right.  It wouldn't be fair to the person I meet, and what if that rebound relationship lasts longer than I mean for it to?  What if I end up missing someone great because I've settled for a little emotional anesthetic to tide me over?  What if I end up missing myself?

Two years and ten months ago, I set up my first meeting with my therapist because I'd broken up with a guy that didn't feel the way about me that I'd felt about him.  Instead of focusing on that relationship, she chose to focus on me.  How I saw myself.  What I wanted for myself.  She helped me see that I was enough.  And now, almost three years later, I know that I need to remind myself again of that very important fact.   Because I am.

B may not have loved me, but I do.  And that's enough.

Another Break Up Story

Well, it's been kind of a shitty day.

It didn't start well, and it hasn't improved much since then, but it's also still not the end of the day, so who knows?  There's always a chance at redemption.

What happened? you ask.  Well, so many things.

First, I'm in pretty perceivable pain.  I messed up my back this morning playing volleyball, and now it hurts to move.  It hurts less when I lay down, but that's not exactly a long-term solution.  So, on top of enduring the pain until Monday, I've also got to pay $20 for a chiropractor appointment.  That might not seem like a lot of money, but when you're not getting paid and trying to cut back on expenses until the next check, unexpected co-pays aren't exactly a mood-lifter.

Neither is the snickers I just ate.  Advertisers lie.

The day started with a bad night of sleep.  I woke up in the middle of the night and then again multiple times, frustrated by my apparent inability to get comfortable and stay comfortable in a state of unconsciousness.

When I finally got up, I realized that I had no breakfast food in the house and needed to go get something to eat elsewhere.  As mentioned in a prior paragraph, I am attempting to spend less, and as such, I weighed my options for places to get food before volleyball.  Whole foods has better pastries.  Rouses has better prices.  An actual restaurant has better nutrition.  Not eating at all would be the cheapest.

In the end, I chose Rouses.  They were close, less expensive, and on the way to volleyball.  Unfortunately, they also have a terrible bakery department (at least bad croissant variety), so when what I really wanted was a chocolate croissant, I had to opt for regular (not that great) croissants and fake Nutella (way cheaper).  I should have gone to Whole Foods.

[As a side note, I also heard that you shouldn't buy Nutella because it's killing the rainforest or something.  I should read more carefully before I disseminate information like that, but it was something about palm oil shortages or...something.  Anyway, I bought the generic version hoping they're a little kinder to the earth.  Probably not.]

Anyway, then I went to volleyball, where I (first) played poorly because I haven't played in a week and was groggy and (then) played poorly because I messed up my back and had trouble moving.  Yay! Fun!

All of that could've been forgiven, though.  I could've given the day a pass for some tough luck, if it weren't for the thing that has really made the day shitty.

B and I have to have a talk.  Hopefully not a break-up talk--that would be way out of left field.  We're getting to a point in our relationship, though, where discussing nerdy things isn't enough, and we actually have to have serious conversations about ourselves and the way that we interact.

This shouldn't be scary.  This should be exciting, right?  A deepening relationship.  Investment.

But it's not.  It's super f'ing scary.  It's super f'ing scary because I'm really bad at this.  I'm really bad at vocalizing how I'm feeling because I spend most of the time trying to get up the courage to say something and the rest of the time trying to say something coherent with appropriate tone and body language.  A couple of days ago, I tried to tell him how much I like him, and I think instead I actually communicated that I thought he might cheat on me.  Which I don't actually think he would do.  And didn't want to say.

Epic fail does not begin to cover the way that went down.

So today we're apparently talking about something, and I'm terrified because who knows what he'll end up taking from all the incoherent mumbling and round-about speak that leaks out of my lips?  How terrified?  Well, I just spent almost two hours watching Drive Me Crazy (that 90s movie with Melissa Joan Hart about the guy next door) to avoid thinking about it.

Thank goodness I have therapy on Wednesday.  This session is gonna be a doozy.

Unfortunately, you can't run from something forever.  (Well, I mean, you could, but it's not exactly a recommended tactic.)  So, off I go.  Wish me luck.  Hopefully my Godzilla foot will stay well away from my mouth this time around.

[5 hours later]

Well, he broke up with me.  Like I said, straight out of left field.

I keep thinking that maybe I missed something, you know.  Maybe there were signs, and I missed them.  But, even though I'm only a few hours out, I don't think I did.  I mean, hell, I drove across the lake with him last night to meet an old friend of his.  If he was going to break up with me, why not spare me the introduction?

I guess--now that I don't care what the f*** he thinks about this blog--I can give more detail than I've allowed myself in the last two months.

The thing is, I must've had some idea it was going to be bad.  A couple of hours before we met up, he sent me a text message about him meeting up with his parents to have coffee and then this text: "I've been having a bad day.  I want to talk to you about something you said the other night."

When I showed up at his house after I finished writing the first part of this blog, we went through the usual "how was your day" spiel before he gave me a massage where my back was hurting.

It would have been a really sweet gesture, except that I was trying not to cry the whole time because I was so terrified of this conversation that we were about to have.

Finally, I sat back and said, "So, what did you want to talk about?"

I couldn't even look him in the eye.

"What do you think I want to talk about?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"Do you think I'm as invested in this as you are?" he asked.

"I hope so.  But I don't know.  My perception of others' feelings has been wrong in the past."

He then proceeded to spend the better part of a half hour waffling and leaving sentences unfinished.  And I spent the better part of it letting quiet tears roll down my cheeks.  He eventually looked up and got me Kleenex.  I almost refused it; why did he seem so surprised that I was crying?  Did I really mean so little to him?

After he finished his spiel and there was a period of silence, I broke in.  "I'm confused," I said.  "I don't understand what you're trying to say."

He talked some more, but to sum it up for you, what he was too much of a coward to say was: "I'm just not that into you.  I think we should break up."  Instead, I had to say those words for him: "So, what I'm hearing is that you're not that into it."  You know how much it hurts to have to break up with yourself?

"So I suppose this means I'm going to Tennessee by myself, huh?" I asked.

"Don't think about that right now," he countered.

I think that's about the time I started to get mad.

"Don't think about it?" I asked, my volume rising.  "I spent $500 on a hotel, and it's non-refundable.  What am I supposed to do?  Sit in my room for 3 days and cry?"

He didn't answer.  Instead, he went on to say (again) that he didn't know what he was feeling, he was confused.  Either that "indescribable thing" wasn't there or he wasn't letting himself feel it.  "This might be a mistake." he said (um, hello? duh), "but I don't want to wait until 3 months to have this conversation."

"So, we're done, right?" I was furious that he wouldn't just say it.  Should I cut my own head out of that picture you have of us on your desk, too?

He didn't respond.

"In that case, I think I'll leave," I said.  And I got up, took my pillow from his room, and I went to leave.

"Wait," he said.  "Can I say one more thing?"

"Sure," I said, my voice tinged with anger and sarcasm.  I sat down next to him.

"I'm really sorry blah blah blah blah blah..." I can't even finish quoting him.  I was so mad by this point.  Even madder when his eyes started to get teary.

"That doesn't make me feel better," I told him point-blank when he finished talking.

"What will make you feel better?" he asked.

"Nothing," I answered.  "You just broke up with me.  It's going to hurt."

I stood up, and I walked out.

Actually, he called my name repeatedly, almost pleading with me.  "I don't want to leave it like this."

"How do you want to leave it?" I asked, from the bottom of his staircase, almost shouting.  "You just broke up with me.  You don't get to make yourself feel better.  I'm not going to feel better talking to you.  It's going to hurt, and then I'm going to be okay."

And then I actually walked out the door and proceeded to burst into tears.  I called a friend and went over to his house to talk about it and get a hug.  He and another friend let me talk and made me laugh.  My sister offered to beat him up and teepee his car (since it's going to rain tonight, she said, and it'll get gross).  My best friend called me and let me vent/cry.


And the thing is, what makes me angry, angrier even than the fact that he was too much of a coward to own up to his feelings earlier, angrier even that he didn't respect me enough to simply tell me he wanted to break up instead of forcing me to pull it out of him, what makes me angriest is that I loved him and I miss him and the person I really want to talk to right now is him.  That's what hurts the most.

So, I've been knocked back to start.  It's the first time I've ever been dumped (weird, I know), but I can now say with complete authority that while the surprise element and lack of control sucks, I don't have to feel guilty or second-guess my choice like I did when I broke up with guys in the past.  Because I didn't have a choice in the first place.




Before I hit "publish," I want to thank all of the people who made my day a little better by threatening to beat up B and calling him the mean names I couldn't bring myself to say.  Also, a big thanks to my friend/pseudo-brother J who's going to come to Tennessee with me to make sure I don't just cry in my room for three days straight.  You're the best.

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