The Guy Not Taken

Given the link on my weblog, it probably comes as no surprise that I'm a Jennifer Weiner fan. There is something I find so endearing about this author. She is funny and intelligent and a generous soul, what's not to like? Reading her blog is likely receiving a letter from a friend you wished lived closer.

While I have read her novels and tracked down some of her short stories in magazines, I didn't rush to purchase the collection of stories she published last year (sorry Jen). I've always been drawn to the novel as a form and generally found short stories too sparse for a really satisfying read.

I read The Guy Not Taken last week and, of course, thoroughly enjoyed it. The book contains stories that Weiner has written over the past twenty years, offering a glimpse into the personal journey she embarked upon when she explored her parents' divorce during her college years, and revealing her astute powers of empathy and observation.

The title draws upon the concept that we all have our 'what if' relationships. The original idea behind my novel, Alumni Affairs, was sparked by a 'what if' experience I had in college where I was repeatedly thrown together with a man from an illustrious family. Nothing happened between us, and I look back on this experience as one in which I was spared from something that probably would have ended badly.

The style and content of Weiner's stories vary, from the hysterical depiction of the flatulant bride coping with the outcome of her cabbage soup crash diet and her ever-so-helpful siblings, to the trusting young woman who surrenders her home to a lover who proves to be unworthy, only to have her life blossom in unexpected ways. Then there is the haunting story of unlikely friendship and how the shadow of suspicion plays a role in unraveling a family.

Weiner is in the process of putting the finishing touches on her sequel to the popular Good in Bed, once again astonishing me with her ability to balance marriage and motherhood with a prolific writing career.

Happy Birthday Jen.

"Make the appointment."

Since an earnest application of hot compresses didn't seem to be helping the sty situation (notice the word shift from 'aggressive' to 'earnest,' a closer reflection of my personal philosophy), it occurred to me that perhaps actually steaming my face might be a good idea.

If it didn't help my eyelid, at least my skin would benefit, in theory.

Now I have a sty + that lovely boiled lobster glow, something akin to windburn, AND a rash on my neck.

My husband has begun echoing my MD, anything that has hung around this long is going to need a little assistance in moving on. I'd feel so much better about it if that didn't involve a sharp utensil in the direct vicinity of my eye.

Okay, I'll make the appointment, once I decide just when might be a good time between the upcoming spring concert/writers'workshop/Easter schedule, or whenever the doctor is available.

Gloves off

"No gloves?" I said, when what I really meant was: I can't believe you just stuck your finger in my eye after shaking my hand and touching everything in the room.

He rather snootily affirmed his gloveless state, and things became increasingly terse from that point on. Oh those pesky patients that actually expect you to answer their questions regarding their own health.

If an aggressive application of hot compresses and massage does not succeed in clearing up the sty situation in a week or two, his colleague will excise the sty.

Makes me picture her using an exacto knife.
I wonder if she'll wear gloves.

I don't respond well to aggression, I doubt my sty, which already seems pretty angry, is going to feel good about it.

Oh, the optometrist did wash his hands, AFTER he'd examined my eye.

Hold the Phone

I probably shouldn't answer the phone, ever, except, you know, in case of emergency.

Or like today, when we're expecting several calls and the phone keeps ringing with unrelated matters and my brain tries to function on 'pause.' I've actually heard from three different people at the same office, following a thread of the same tanget, and the situation still isn't resolved.

Remarkable, really, when you consider that this is the same place where a call back can run from 48 hours to five days, AND today's a Monday, AND the boss is out of town for the week.

We are not phone people. Or rather, my husband thought he wasn't a phone person until he met me. If our long distance courtship had continued much longer, there probably wouldn't have been a marriage due to the long pauses in our nightly chats.

E-mail is my friend, the phone is often an interuption, except when you're waiting for it to ring.

Going Nowhere, Not So Fast

Business transaction completed, we sped away in our truck, eager to leave a less than desirable part of town.

Except, we'd forgotten a key step of the process.

I was on the phone, taking care of what was probably an unnecessary background check while my husband decided whether or not we needed to turn around.

And then he turned, but he didn't turn a-r-o-u-n-d. He took a right and a right and we were faced with a series of signs proclaiming NO OUTLET, NOT A THROUGH STREET, and IF YOU ARE HERE, THERE'S a VERY GOOD CHANCE THAT YOU WILL NEVER GET TO WHERE YOU WERE GOING.

Okay, so I made that last one up. We were, however, lost in a very small residential/industrial section near the interstate. I wrapped up my phone call so I could bear witness.

Showing a surprising lack of judgment, my husband pulled up to the only person in sight and asked for directions, and waited, while I stared at him dumbfounded.

The stranger spun and rattled off fragmented directions, sort of like that girl in the EXORCIST, if she'd been clenching a little baggy of some unknown, likely illegal substance in her fist.

We were directed to go both left and right, but in a kind and generous, well intended way.

My husband thanked the fellow and rolled up his window as he pulled away. To his credit, he acknowledged, "That probably wasn't a good idea."

Wonder of wonders, I suggested a left and a left and we wound up back on the road we had been on.

Going in circles isn't so bad, it's that NO OUTLET sort of stuff you need to be wary of.

The Sty That Came to Stay


"Is that a mole on your eyelid?" My doctor swooped in for a closer look.

So much for my vain hope that it wasn't really noticeable.

According to Mayo.com, the Mayo Clinic website, I am not contagious.
According to my sister, RN, it's a "STAFF INFECTION." I suspect she wiped down her telephone with antibacterial cleanser after I called.

I thought it would clear up on its own after a couple of weeks. And, I might add, those were some hideous-looking weeks. I followed the standard protocol of hot compresses and keeping the area clean.

Okay, so I sort of skipped the hot compresses and now I've had this inflatable wart on my eyelid for over two blooming months. It's better than it was, but it's still there, and I'm fairly certain that I am not going to like what comes next.

Anti-bacterial eyedrops, a referral to an opthamololgist, and the mention of the word 'lance.'

Ack.

Follow up: physics, fraud, and murder.

SPECIAL TOPICS IN CALAMITY PHYSICS is a superb novel, hard to believe it is a debut work. Some mysteries fall apart at the end. Readers guess 'who done it' and continue reading for the satisfaction of finding out that they were right. Pessl keeps us guessing at possibilities, all of them plausible. I did start to find the storyline a little wearing about two thirds of the way, blame it on my attention span or the weakness of my forearms (it's a big book), but I rallied and I'm glad I did.

Real life intrudes: My unexpected Valentine's day gift from my bank was a report of fraud on my account. A month later I'm still trying to get matters resolved. The sums involved were not huge, thankfully, but there seems to be a chunk of change missing from the bank's efforts to credit my account-- the account that was restricted and closed, the money that I couldn't access for the past month, through no fault of my own. We appreciate your business, just don't try to use your money right now.

I'm halfway through Deanna Raybourn's SILENT IN THE GRAVE, another first novel. Her opening page thrusts the reader into the action and reveals a light sense of humor: "To say that I met Nicholas Brisbane over my husband's dead body is not entriely accurate. Edward, it should be noted, was still twitiching upon the floor." The setting is Victorian England, the protagonist the mild mannered yet forward thinking Lady Julia. I anticipate a fun romp.

The saucy wench parade.

Singing in a madrigal was one of the highlights of my high school experience, but, despite my vague intentions, I never seemed to make it to the Renaissance Festival held near Minneapolis. Yesterday, prompted in part by a need to distance ourselves from our ringing telephone, we hopped in the car and spent a few hours wandering around a designated patch of desert sporting an interesting assortment of creatures. While the elephants had expressive faces and inquisitive trunks, the human beings were consistently mind boggling.

The shoppes, the juggling, the costumes, the bosoms on display--I’ve seen less cleavage at the beach. ‘Saucy wench’ seemed to be the most popular outfit among the visitors. I hadn’t expected those paying general admission to be dressing the part, and yet, why not? Where else can you walk around dressed like a pirate or a queen and people will greet you with a smile?

“The Cap’n told me to watch for you two.” The street performer sidled up to us, taking us into her confidence. “The meetin’s at midnight an the password is ‘squid ‘on accounts of the last time it was ‘halibut’ and you can imagine the jokes they had with that one.”

We stopped by several stages and saw the same basic juggling and gags performed in varying routines and sequences, but our favorite was the silent magician. He’d perform a trick, then inadvertently reveal it as a fake, then perform a more difficult, ‘real’ trick. He cajoled the audience and incorporated them into the act with hilarious results. He did it all with the same grumpy dead-panned expression, like he just wanted to get through this show and get on with his life and we had no idea how very tiring it all was. Picture Bill Murray as a sarcastic mime.

Visiting the Renaissance Festival provided a welcome change of scene. We saw wonderful costumes, spirited performers, and interesting items for sale, but I don’t think I’ll rush out and purchase a season’s pass just yet. Maybe I should create a couple costumes to help us get in the spirit of things? Traipsing through the sand in yards of stifling velvet is something less than appealing . . . I know, what about a saucy wench?

I was one third of the way into Marisha Pessl's SPECIAL TOPICS IN CALAMITY PHYSICS before it hit me: groan, another book about a prep school experience.

Pessl is an astonishing writer with an exquisite gift for figurative language. Her protagonist, Blue van Meer, is an unconventional seventeen year old who has spent her life criss-crossing the United States with her professor father. The novel focuses on Blue's senior year, the year that her father puts her first by enrolling her in a school which he intends to be her springboard to Harvard.

Blue is extremely well read. This thread seems to be supported throughout by annotations as she draws comparisons to people, descriptions and occurences by referring to books she's read.

I'd like to thank the author for illustrating the practice of giving credit to sources, and I'm wondering how many of these sources are complete fabrications.

I'd also like to thank the author for providing a wonderful footnote chuckle on page 184:
"For the record, there were no framed pictures of me around our house, and the only class portrait Dad had ever ordered was from Sparta Elementary in which I'd sat, knees glued together, in front of a background that looked like Yosemite, sporting pink overalls and a lazy eye. "This is classic," Dad said. "That they shamelessly send me an order form so I can pay $69.95 for prints large and small of a photo in which my daughter looks as if she just suffered a great blow to her head . . ."

If I hadn't read an appealing review of this novel, it is unlikely I ever would have picked it up. The title is overwhelming, the size intimidating, and the font on the back cover is teeny-tiny. Parts of the book remind me a bit of Jonathan Franzen's style (THE CORRECTIONS), so it seemed fitting that he provided a jacket blurb.

'It's not my issue. '

This is a lovely tag phrase I received from a very insightful woman when I was going through a difficult phase in my life. I like it because it provides a short prompt, reminding me to pick my battles, and that some battles, indeed, really aren't mine.

Alas, my inner Mrs. Butt-in-ski is not always so eagerly appeased.

Over the past month I have been waving my perspective like a white hanky in a dust storm. My husband just shakes his head. He knows that the issue at the heart of things is not mine, but I still keep sticking my inquisitive nose in there: 'what's happening?' 'has she done _____?' 'has he done ______?'

I guess when something happens to someone we care about, there's an unavoidable desire to know ALL of the details, looking for ways we can help, offering active listening and compassion, perhaps seeing some options that others who are closer to the issue may not see.

Or maybe we just succeed in making a pest of ourselves.

Anyhoo, the experience has reminded me of the time my childhood neighbor and friend hit my sister in the head with a rolling pin.

And not just the head, the face.

The tidy little cut in her eyebrow spouted blood and I freaked out: Why did he do this? What should I do about it? Somebody, do something!

I was about six-years-old, and my reaction response probably hasn't changed.

My sister ran to the kitchen where my practical mother assessed the situation, pressed one of her white terrycloth handtowels to the wound and took my sister to the ER for stitches. The neighbor wasn't a violent kid, so I doubt any disciplinary actions were taken. He was probably doing something goofy like pretending he was playing the drums and she just happened to wander into his blind spot. It just happened.

Who is to blame? What damage has been done? What action should be taken?

During my shift at the thrift store yesterday one of the workers fell. She was hurrying, carrying an awkward container in a cramped, cluttered space. She tripped and landed on the plastic container of china and whatnot.

'I'm fine, really.' She looked dazed and had an angry red mark across her face. She was embarrassed by the fall.

She'll be mighty sore today, and lucky if she didn't break her nose.

Who's to blame? What can be done, after the fact?

An ideal place to start seems to be to take preventative measures. Let's clean up the area, make a practice of keeping the aisles clear. Let's train customers to take their own items to the register, instead of relying on volunteers to be doing numerous things at once in a cramped area. Let's remind volunteers that this is not a race, it's a charitable shopping endeavor providing unique items to customers. Breathe.

When something random and senseless happens, all we can do is try to learn from the experience, and, if possible, take steps to ensure that it doesn't happen again. That is my issue.