I have finally come to the realization that the best way to spend time with my sisters is to make plans to be in the area and book appointments through their offices.

Maybe I can target the last appointment of the day, receive the benefit of their care (skill sets/expertise/knowledge base), and then try to entice them to join me for a meal at the venue of their choice.

I have also identified a disturbing pattern in my visits with my family: 1) I sleep poorly, and 2) I get cranky.

I love my family, and I love spending time with them, but as I reflect on our last few annual/bi-annual visits, I realize that they are not always witnessing the brighter side of my personality.

Although my writing got tabled for the past week, I did read Susan Vreeland's GIRL IN HYACINTH BLUE. Short stories rarely appeal to me, but this novel is comprised of a series of stories that trace the history and impact of an oil painting. It is a charming book, full of detail that breathes life into each era, setting and situation.

I like the blurb by the NY TIMES BOOK REVIEW the best: "Intelligent, searching and unusual, the novel is filled with luminous moments; like the painting it describes so well, it has a way of lingering in the reader's mind."

I was so excited. It had been a couple years since my family had gathered and this time we were meeting at my home, a first.

We cleaned, we shopped, we prepared food (I was looking forward to doting on them).

We coordinated trips to the airport, sleeping arrangements, nutritional needs.

And then, after I experienced an impromptu bout of gymnastics in the kitchen, they spent the remainder of their visit taking care of me. (I "turned" my ankle, rolled right, then left, and then forward to brace the fall with my nose before landing on my back; in some circles, I'm certain it would have been considered a thing of beauty.)

We continued with our plans for an extended family reunion on Easter Sunday, and I had to relinquish control of my kitchen (where are the other rolls? did anybody think to put the lettuce out? the silverware?) In hindsight I probably should have taken a little more pain medication and RELAXED, but at the time it didn't even seem an option.

The weather was gorgeous, the company charming, and I am sore but grateful.

Sorry the blogs have been few and far between lately. It's actually a good sign, an indicator that I'm doing other things, like, you know, writing fiction.

Sure, I wish I could say that I've just returned from a book fair in London or Charlotte, but that's simply not the case.

One small scene and the most difficult part of the current revision will be completed (hopefully), but the second half of the book awaits tweaking to reflect the changes made in the first half. After all of this, I still like the characters and hope I am doing justice to telling their story.

I think the biggest challenge in working on this book has been figuring out which type of novel it is, which may strike you as a "duh" sort of comment. It isn't chick lit, it isn't a mystery, it isn't a romance, it is a book about friendship that contains humor, romance and mystery. It is commerical women's literature.

And then I picked up Tom Perrotta's LITTLE CHILDREN. (Yes, I realize that I'm still not quite finished reading EAST OF EDEN, and I dawdled along the way to read a collection of Marian Keyes' essays and columns, but somebody mentioned the Perrotta book and there it was in front of me so I thought I'd have a look-see.)

As an author, Perrotta is probably best known for writing ELECTION (made into a popular movie starring Matthew Broderick and Reese Witherspoon).

This is my first experience reading his fiction, and after finishing the book I plunged into a Barnes & Noble online discussion, trying to resolve the gap between the qoutes on the jacket and my interpretation of the novel.

"LITTLE CHILDREN made me laugh so hard I had to put it down . . . a precise and witty evocation of the sweet, mind-numbing routines and everyday martial conflicts . . . an effervescent new work." ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

Okay, maybe I shouldn't have started with that one, but at no point in reading this novel did I laugh. I don't recall even chuckling.

THE NEW YORK TIMES describes the book as "poignantly funny." And while, again, I can't agree with the "funny" part, the word choice of "poignant" does fit.

"A greatly auspicious and instructive encounter with the dreaded world of maturity." Yeah, that's a closer fit from THE WASHINGTON POST.

The book presents a slice of life look at several suburban families. It's a deliberately messy examination of what happens when people are propelled in directions they hadn't anticipated over the course of one summer.

Perrotta effectively slips into the heads of a variety of characters, each juggling their own challenges. While the book didn't grip me, I didn't put it down. Despite feeling emotionally distanced from the characters I was intrigued with the progression of the story.

"Extraordinary . . . at once suspenseful, ruefully funny, and ultimately generous . . ."--THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

The sub-plot focuses on a pedophile moving into the community--definitely suspenseful.

So what catergory does Perrotta consider this book? Probably literary fiction. Aspects of LITLE CHILDREN remind me of the film AMERICAN BEAUTY, peeling back the surface to reveal the darkness and uncertainty in life.

And in the category of pointless and infuriating endeavors:

I had driven across town, totally out of my way, to pick up some x-rays.

It took the staff a few minutes to figure out why the x-rays weren't at the desk. A unique method was used to discover the answer to this question. One clerk dialed telephone numbers, while another clerk repeated the information I provided.

"They aren't our x-rays."

After several phone calls handled in this Cyrano manner, I was informed that the x-rays were at another site.

Apparently both clerks could read the panicked expression on my face:
1) I didn't know this part of town, it had taken me an hour to get there, and
2) I was enroute to another appointment.

"It's 5 minutes from here." They thrust a sheet of paper at me which contained about six small maps. They circled the facility I was supposed to go to, "Building C."

building C, building C, building C.

I got to the area, only to discover the buildings were listed numerically, not alphabetically. I ran into a building, really annoyed, "Building C?"

Next parking lot.

Sure enough, up close, the corner of the building had a "C" on it. I speedwalked down the corridor, seeing only office after office, no clearly affiliated radiology office. I asked for directions a second time, and a third time, and then, there it was.

A large sign above the desk read "24 hour notice required for x-ray pick-up."

I made my request and the first question was "Did you call prior to 24 hours?"

They must encounter this a lot.

Must run along the same lines of
I HAVE NEVER BEEN IN THIS OFFICE BEFORE,
HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT MY X-RAYS WERE HERE?

Present ID, receive x-rays, leave building,
look at map and see that in tiny print there is the street address for the office.
Feel foolish.
And angry.

All of this, and for what? All I needed was a two paragraph description on the typed records. Couldn't somebody, somewhere, have faxed me and simplified this whole process?

I was cooking some brown basmati rice for dinner when I noticed a suggestion at the bottom of the package:

"We recommend refrigeration."

As a way of life?

As a personal philosophy?

In general?

This package of rice has been in our cupboard for about a year. Was it supposed to be refrigerated during that time? Does it now have the nutritional value of paste?

We watched a light-hearted movie last night, SEDUCING DR. LEWIS. The storyline dealt with a remote fishing village struggling to attract industry for employment in face of the declining fishing industry. (Hmm, that hardly sounds light-hearted.)

It is one of those films about compromise, how far are you willing to go to get what you want/need? But the humor was charming and two hours without swearing and a car chase was also a relief (okay, it was in French and I don't speak French, but the subtitles seemed to cover everything, including describing various sounds).

Meanwhile I seem to be acquiring wonderful books but I'm too busy writing to read them just yet. (mixed blessings, but HURRAY in general)

"And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any directions it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built on a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that is one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one thing that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost." -- John Steinbeck, EAST OF EDEN, p. 131

A friend of mine read EAST OF EDEN earlier this year and enjoyed it so much that she began reading it again as soon as she finished.

I predict that will not be my response.

Yes, it is an amazing book, rich in character depth and description--the abundance of which is wearing me down.

For the first half of the book I wrangled with where and when I might have read it before. Everything felt familiar. Was it in the first masterpieces course I took? I was a sophomore in college and every week we were expected to read another classic--PORTRAIT OF A LADY, MOBY DICK--serious works, works that needed more time and attention than one week and four other classes, work, sleep and life could allow.

The class did succeed in exposing me to a number of authors I was not familiar with, and I went on to read Edith Wharton's novels and several of Tolstoy's as a result (but don't bother to ask about PORTRAIT OF A LADY, I discovered a low tolerance for Henry James, which might surprise my former students as we read and discussed DAISY MILLER--a much shorter work).

Around the middle of EAST OF EDEN there is a key passage regarding the naming of children, rich in biblical references and central to the book, but I found my patience wearing thin (get on with the story!).

The intrusive narrator takes a little getting used to, but when he speaks with the eloquence shown in the quote above he can speak as much as he likes. The author is, after all, writing about his own family history which adds to the credibility of the characters. I also can't help but think this quotation reflects the political turmoil of the 1950s (McCarthyism, personal attacks on filmmakers, actors and writers for supposedly subversive communist ties). Serious readers of this novel will want to track down JOURNAL OF A NOVEL: THE EAST OF EDEN LETTERS (1967).

Go forth and exercise your unique individual mind. Dear Mr. Steinbeck, thanks for making me think.

It was a dilemma of minor proportions.

Our small black dog, freshly bathed two days ago (which is oh, such a joyous occasion), crawled under the drooping branches of an unfamiliar bush in the front yard.

Despite his inquisitive enthusiasm, I managed to extricate him from the situation, only to discover he was now sporting festive yellow polka dots, nature's golden pollen jewelry.

Okay, he looked ADORABLE. I wanted to run for the camera but I didn't know if we had enough antihistamine in the house to deal with the possible reactions so I picked the colorful beads out of his coat, much to his annoyance.

In hindsight, I should have gone for the camera. I'm even toying with letting him near the bush again . . .

I love a good massage. A skillful therapist and an environment conduicive to relaxation -- ahhh, it can be a wonderful thing.

After our prolonged episode of musical chairs (aka "moooving") and the ensuing home improvement, four months had passed and I felt ready.

I checked with my limited contacts for a referral and called the massage therapist who lived closest to us (an irony of our lives is that we moved to be closer to a city, and now we go to great lengths to avoid driving in the city).

The idea of working with a new massage therapist is not exactly a soothing one. What if she doesn't use enough pressure; what if she uses too much pressure; what if I'm not comfortable with her; what if I'm not comfortable period.

Toss into this anxiety the reality that I had never experienced this type of massage before: Thai massage. One of my sisters warned me to be careful, that this type of massage could be rough. Just what had I gotten myself into anyway?

"How did it go?" My husband asked when I returned home.

"It was interesting."

"Uh-oh."

"No, not 'interesting in a bad way,' just different. It was like being stretched by a complete stranger over a prolonged period of time. Like paired yoga where one participant remains passive. I feel taller, and a little sore."

I was worried that I might have a lot of joint pain the next day, but the truth is I feel pretty good. Yesterday I figured I probably wouldn't pursue another Thai massage in the future, but I think I'll remain open to the possibility. First I need to resolve just how I feel about some of these moves.

Truly, I would not recommend Thai massage to anyone who has ever experienced sexual or physical abuse, unless they know and trust the therapist and have had ample dialogue regarding the massage process prior to the massage. I think it could bring up a lot of past experiences.

I was something less than thrilled at several points when I realized where her feet were placed to faciliate the stretching. I felt I could have asked her to stop at any point and she would have, so I just tried to trust the process. She was mindful to check with me regarding particular moves, that I wasn't experiencing too much discomfort, but hey, maybe she could have given me a little warning about where she was going to place her feet? Something I would ask for if there is a next time.

Thai massage, a great stretch. Leave your clothing on but your inhibitions at the door.

We spent a chunk of the morning hiking in a canyon that I have decided to name Boulder Canyon (it already has a different name, but mine is more appropriate).

The unmarked path followed a snake-like progression, back and forth, back and forth across a rocky creek which we crossed about seven times before turning back.

At one point I told my husband, "I'm glad we're here, and, make the most of it, because I don't plan on returning any time soon." I was repeatedly grateful for my sturdy boots although it may be awhile before my ankles and knees forgive me.

Last night I watched a recently released DVD that I had not heard anything about: I (HEART) HUCKABEE'S. The nearest I could tell, it was about a search for truth in one's existence, an exploration of existentialism and nihilism, oh yeah.

I watched the film, endured it, looked for a logical sequence in plot and socially relevant content. My husband decided to read in the other room.

It had a great cast, including Dustin Hoffman, Lily Tomlin, and Jude Law (which would annoy Chris Rock and please Sean Penn).

And when it was over, all 107 minutes of it, I said to myself, "Well, that was made."

We watched a much, much better unheard of film over the weekend, AROUND THE BEND. The acting was strong (Michael Caine, Christopher Walkin), the content worthwhile, the plot intriguing with a strong dash of quirkiness.