Gatsby

I found this story a couple of...weeks?...ago about a play adaptation of The Great Gatsby. I immediately wished I were there, able to go and sit for the 6 1/2 hours and listen as the entire novel is read. What a perfect day!

As I plan out our vacation for next year, I find two "musts" creep on to my list. One is a stay in this Vermont inn, which is a renovated house once owned by Fitzgerald's (and some other people...) editor. The second is a Great Gatsby Boat Tour. Because I think that sounds like a PERFECT vacation activity.

The Great Gatsby is one of my top three all time favorite books. I never tire of it. I've always been drawn to the romance of the words, the era. For what ever reason, I pounced on it in high school and never let it go, while I know many struggle with it and leave hating. For the past 20 years, I've reread it several times. It just keeps getting better and better. The nuances are amazing and my respect for Fitzgerald grows. I sometimes wonder why people are so put off by the book. Why they have difficulties with it. Why they have a hard time reading it. I'm sure if I hadn't had such a draw to it and connected to it so strongly I may understand better, but...My love for Gatsby is strong and all encompassing. Am I really the only one who dreams of it? Who loves the time period, the complexity of the story? Certainly I cannot be. There has to be others who love it as much. Especially since it's apparently a banned book. Doesn't that automatically make it more enticing to people? Sigh...I'm just so enchanted by it all that I want for everyone to feel the same enchantment.

In fact, I feel a similar draw to the Tale of Two Cities, as well, but that's a story for another day.


(hello city, bnl)

What About Now?

I remember in college one of my professors saying that the man you date / marry at 18-19-20 is a completely different man than who you would marry at 25-26-27. Before, I would just completely agree with her and that was that. But. I know she was over simplifying. It's not an absolute for everyone. I know plenty of happily marrieds who wed young. I also know unhappily marrieds of both age ranges. But her general sentiment held true. For me, at least. The man I married at 20 and the man I married at 25 are worlds apart.

Let's take one example. I am not a Disney fan. I don't get the annual pilgrimage to Anaheim with the kids. I don't get the paraphernalia. I REALLY don't get that. We managed to live in Southern California for four years and only see Disneyland from the freeway on our way to other places. On purpose. I get that it makes others happy. I get that it is well loved. I, however, am not one of those people. My ex LOVED (loves? I don't know) Goofy. LOVE. He wore a Goofy watch. We had a framed poster in our hallway. I know why the love existed (for a good reason) but still. It was the first thing anyone who came to our home saw and I hated that. But I loved him and you just suck it up, right? Well, maybe. What I've learned is that print in our hallway? Would have never flown with my 25 year old self. My 20 year old self didn't know how to verbalize wants and needs in a relationship well at all. My 20 year old self was so desperate for love that EVERYTHING was ok. I know that a print you hate is a minor thing, really, but to me it is an example of a grander thing. Knowing yourself well enough to communicate wants, needs and desires.

During my first marriage, I didn't know myself well at all. I definitely had the beginnings of understanding, but not enough that I should have committed myself to someone. Marriage is such a juggle of give and take and compromise and I had no voice to articulate. I had married someone older than me and being in awe of him, believing that I didn't know as well as he, if even in my own mind, I stayed silent on things that became detrimental to our relationship. Even the times that I had that voice in my head actually KNOWING what I really wanted, what was right, I seemed to falter in the execution of explaining what it was.

NOW...it's not such an issue. I feel that part of this is time and part of it is living life and going through a divorce, but most of it is age. From when I got married at 20 and when I got remarried at 25, I found myself. My voice. By the time Isaac and I were slogging through the details, I knew what I needed. What I wanted. From both myself and a partner. I had found my footing and could articulate it much more clearly. Would I have found that voice naturally, without the divorce, while staying with my ex? I like to think so. I see so many of my friends who married at the same age I did the first time and they all have what seem to be good marriages, with no problems articulating. They have completely grown up together and made it work. I would like to think that we could have worked through the maturities and found that common ground, but our opportunity got cut short.

So now I wonder, does my ex still wear his Goofy watch? Is the print hanging in his now home? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he's grown up and moved along as well. What I do know is this: while I understand the sentiment of the advice my professor gave me and agree with some of it, I don't agree with all of it. It doesn't just depend on age. It also depends on personality. And time. And circumstance. And, just possibly, it depends on going through a divorce at age 24 and finding your footing, your voice and the courage to stand up for what you need in a relationship.


(crystal clear, the mighty lemon drops)

It's A Fall Miracle

Sammy helps me make bread every week. It's something he regularly reminds me about and often checks in if it's "time to make bread, yet!?". He completely loves it. While I'm mixing and kneading my bowl full (no mixer for me!), I usually toss in whispers of ingredients into a bowl for him - no measuring, no caring - just whatever I remember to toss into his little bowl. Once the bowl is resting, I toss his concoction in the trash and we start again the next week. Today, however, I let him roll out his dough (it had a little bit of water, three or four kernels of yeast, a little sugar and a bunch of flour) and threw it in my mini bundt pan. I assumed it wouldn't rise at all and would be hard as a rock when we pulled it out, but something funny happened. We are chalking it up to the magic of the flour...

A few months ago, our paper ran an article on a local mill that produced organic flour. Right here in my little town. Who knew? (Certainly not someone who lived ACROSS THE STREET from the mill for TWO YEARS and never knew what it was...aHEM) A local baker told stories of how much better her bread was with this local, fresh, organic flour. Huh. After reading that article, I looked forlornly at the 50 pounds of flour I had purchased the week previous. Sad. So I decided to wait. Get through my flour and try it then. Last week my bread was woeful. It didn't turn out very well. Honestly, my bread is usually good, but can sometimes be hit or miss. It's rarely consistent for some reason. But it's always edible and always better than store bought. But, this article made me wonder if changing my flour to something more fresh would help the inconsistency.

Last weekend I decided, while we were out for crepes, to just pop over and see if they had a price list. Half my 50 pound stash was gone, so I wanted to see what kind of money was needed to replenish. When we walked in, I was surprised by a lot of things, but the biggest thing is that they had 5 pound sacks on the shelf for purchase, in addition to their 50 pound sacks. WooHoo! We picked up one white and one whole wheat.

Yesterday was bread making day. I decided to use the white flour so that was the only change being made, to really see the difference. I didn't notice anything in the making / baking, but when Isaac got home and sliced off some to taste...he quickly gobbled up the whole thing. And called me in to taste. BEST. BREAD. EVER. It was soft and sweet and the perfect consistency. I don't think I could properly describe the differences, of which there were many. However...the real miracle was Sammy's bundt bread. For having so much wrong with it, ingredient wise, it was light and fluffy and edible (no so much taste wise...) and looked perfect. Not at all like the rock I imagined. So Sammy made his first loaf of bread. Maybe next week, I'll let him use real ingredients, now that we have miracle flour.




(just another day, jon secada)

Guilty Pleasure #545

I remember when Rock Your Body came out. I thought it was stupid. And certainly couldn't last long because aren't all former boy banders supposed to go gracefully into celebrity C-list-dom, only to show up on cheesy VH1 reality shows? And, geez. It was pop music, which I don't really love, so...strike two. But it was EVERYWHERE and INFECTIOUS and I found myself singing it on occasion. NEVER to be uttered to anyone, though. And then Cry Me a River happened and it was rumored to be about Britney and it was on the cusp on consciousness, but still I resisted and hated from afar.

We don't normally watch SNL, but my sister would make sure that we saw all the episodes of The Barry Gibb Talk Show (which, hello! Genius!) and I thought, huh. This guy is really funny. And, well, hot. But funny. But he sings those annoying songs! It was the beginning of the crumbling of resolve. And it was a crisis I found myself in. If only I weren't so cool, I could embrace the love fully...* Now, I don't know anything that can crack mine nor my sister's family up as much as The Barry Gibb Talk Show skits. Well, maybe saying "Pineapple Right Now", but that's another story.

About the time SexyBack came out, I was pregnant with Sammy. And I found myself embracing a little quicker, this time around. And then all things Justin invaded. A lovely cover by Glen:

And appearances everywhere and him being funny and What Goes Around (which I love) and the Single Ladies (NOT one of my guilty pleasures...) parody...Before I knew what happened? I loved Justin Timberlake. It's ok, though. Not TOO many people know. Knew.

And, now, while I don't own copious amounts of Timberlake, I will freely admit to several songs in my collection. Including (GASP!) Rock Your Body. Which I sing, unabashedly, at top voice. In my car. With the windows up...

*said very tongue in cheek...


(rock your body, justin timberlake)

Love Hurts

When younger, I remember wondering why people in their 30s would complain that things were "different" when injured. I figured, 30 isn't old. Surely they are just talking nonsense, right?

But then 30 comes, and you realize...oh, wait. It IS different. Things are slower to heal. Things that shouldn't hurt for very long, do. And you silently curse this growing old thing.

But then 35 comes and it's, again, a whole 'nuther battle. A little more slow to heal. A little more with the grunts and groans and noises when moving. Even when you're in decent shape and you not so silently anymore curse this growing old thing.

And then 36 1/2 happens and one day you find yourself, say, making a train track on your dining room floor. And when you are done, you want to stand up and admire your handiwork, but a sharp granite corner of a bar to just above your hip stops you. So you, naturally, jerk out from under it, twisting your back, to finish standing. And it gets more and more sore as the day goes on and the next day you are relegated to taking your kid's ugly doll to church as a cushion for your back and the NEXT day you're at your chiropractors, crying, because FOR THE LOVE OF PETER PAUL AND MARY your back does not feel good and SERIOUSLY, it was merely standing up and getting a bump from your bar on your back and holy hannah, holy hannah, holy hannah MAKE IT FEEL BETTER NOW, NOW, NOW!

Or, you know, so I've heard...


(franz ferdinand, take me out)