Slipstitch

I've had a year to get ready. It seemed sufficient time. The bride and the groom were planning a large wedding; I just needed to find a dress and shoes, book a flight and reserve a room.

For a few months I harbored the hazy illusion that perhaps I would get in shape and pull my first novel together in a satisfying manner by this imposed deadline. Instead, at the eleventh hour I'm popping M & M's and attempting to hem a slip I've had since college.

You would not believe how difficult it is to find a good slip --I had to travel to the 80's for mine. I'm guessing that a lot of women out there are walking around slipless (which is probably better than being shiftless). I'm having second thoughts regarding my decision not to order an expensive slip I found online, but I was too outraged at the price and had the sneaking suspicion that the straps would show and to pay that price for something that would likely get little use or have to pay shipping twice when I returned it was more than I could face.

I purchased the only slip I could find that was clearly made for someone other than the Amish. It has a simple cut, clean lines without a lot of scratchy frou-frou lace. I thought it would be fine. Then I took it on a trial run in public and discovered that it is a migrating slip; it kept twisting to the right, making it look as though I was being strangled by my own lingerie. I should have known better, it is, afterall, referred to as a 'swing' slip. I shed it in a restroom and shoved it into my purse.

The old slip fits great, hangs in a perfect A line, hits me at the precise length for most dresses I would be likely to wear, except for this occasion. My dress for the wedding has maybe four slits (or six?) which create a certain amount of swishing above the knee. The effect will be lost or at the very least, distracting, if four inches of slip are showing.

In the grand scheme of the wedding weekend extravaganza, the state of my slip will be of little passing concern, unless I make a fashion faux pax that earns me dubious attention.

My mother used to have an adjustable hemming ruler that stood on its own tripod. A little clamp would hold the fabric in place for pinning. We even had an exact location in the house where we would use it, by the only full-length mirror, which happened to be located by the front door-- a less than ideal spot to be standing partially clothed or sporting a mouthful of straight pins and scooting around the floor pinning up a hem.

My current approach is not nearly so precise, and I'm actually struggling with the perceived dilemma of ruining a hard to replace item. Plus, my protagonist has just found something that could shed light on who is trying to ruin the college, and here I am, trying to stitch a slippery slip?

Love, Lies, and Loss

THE SONNET LOVER did not disappoint. I love how author Carol Goodman offers the reader numerous plausible possibilities in her mysteries.

Andrew Wilson's THE LYING TONGUE is a tad bit darker than I care to go, but it was an engaging read. (The author acknowledges something to the effect that this was not the novel he intended to write.) A new college graduate, an Englishman, seeks a fresh start to distance himself from the disappointing heartbreak of a love affair gone awry. When he arrives in Venice, he learns the tutoring position he had been promised no longer exists, but he finds an intriguing opportunity working for a reculsive British author. Once again, the plot could have unfolded in several different directions and Wilson effectively keeps the reader guessing.

Sheridan Hay's THE SECRET OF LOST THINGS is a coming of age story. After the death of her mother, the only parent she has ever known, a young Australian woman travels to New York in pursuit of her destiny. She finds work at a used book store, the Arcade, among an eclectic group of employees. There is a dreamlike quality to the novel with the occassional gem in phrasing or description. One of the things I liked best about the book is the complexity of the characters. The young protagonist learns the anguish of unrequited love as well as the potential complicity in being the object of attention.

And now for something completely different (with a nod to Monty Python's Flying Circus), I've begun reading a nonfiction work written about a woman my sister knew in a professional capacity. LIVING CONSCIOUSLY, DYING GRACEFULLY: A Journey with Cancer and Beyond, by Nancy Manahan and Becky Bohan, chronicles the diagnosis, treatment, and insights gleaned by Diane Manahan as she dealt with breast cancer.

I've been procrastinating in reading this book. I knew that my sister had found it very moving; she also presented a pre-conference seminar about the book at a national conference on holistic nursing.

I guess I was expecting a new-agey 'embrace the lessons your illness brings' saga and I was having a hard time opening my mind to delving into such content. Now that I'm about a third of the way into the book, I've been surprised at how uplifting it is.

There can be the tendency to place our deceased loved ones on a pedestal, and while the authors clearly respected and admired Diane, this book is far more than a tribute. The diary segments reveal Diane's humanness and her determination to live her life in the manner she chose. It takes a courageous person to do so, particularly in the face of tests which reveal increasingly grim news.

Indecent Composure

Chubby thigh guy cranks through his paces on the elliptical machine, thighs jiggling with abandon, oblivious to the eye level view provided to the row of people pedaling away on the recumbent bikes a few feet behind him.

He seems to be a very fit fellow, in the 65-ish range, who repeatedly makes the unfortunate decision to work out clad in teeny-tiny running shorts with maybe a half inch inseam. Anyone larger than a chopstick could not pull off this look.

If he bothered to scan the fitness center he might note that none of the other members has elected to climb on board the short-shorts express in quite some time.

I realize that I'm the last person who should be making any comments regarding someone's thigh size or workout attire. Just the other day I went walking in an outfit so hideous even the dog refused to be seen with me, and the less said about my thighs the better.

The important thing is that chubby thigh guy is doing the work, getting that heart pumping, and that those people on the recumbent bikes aren't likely to veer off course, although motion sickness is a possibility.

Fiction Finds

The premise in Beth Harbison's SHOE ADDICTS ANONYMOUS may seem a little shaky at first, four dissimilar women who share a passion for designer shoes and wear the same size form a support group, but the characterization is strong and the plot holds together. I can't help but cheer on a good buddy book that encourages friendships and empowerment.

Mark Childress does an amazing job of portraying adolescence in the 1970's in ONE MISSISSIPPI. His characterizations were fabulous and the plot twists just kept on coming but in a very plausible way. One of these day I'm going to have to check out his CRAZY IN ALABAMA.

Holly Peterson's THE MANNY offered a more substantial read than I was expecting. Network producer/mother/wife Jamie Whitfield struggles to overcome her middle class roots while navigating the strict social codes of high society. Her preppy husband laments how hard he works and that his paltry million and half annual income just isn't enough to provide them with the lifestyle to which he wants to become accustomed. The male nanny provides a nice counterpoint for a reality check of values and determining what really matters in life.

Everyone else in the world may be reading Harry Potter this weekend, but I'm burning through the latest from one of my favorite authors, Carol Goodman. In THE SONNET LOVER, literature professor Rose Asher is pulled into a research opportunity she resists despite the allure of the content, a folio believed to contain Shakespeare's lost sonnets. No need to pack a bag, but I'll be in Tuscany by tonight.

The Bitter Barn

Love Ophra, dislike the August cover. This is bound to happen from time to time due to the subjectivity of personal taste, but my reaction caused me to take a closer look (all I can tell you about last month’s issue is that the cover featured a great water shot of Ophra).

1) Visually we have the battle of the clashing oranges between the title box, a strap and the caftan Ophra is wearing.

2) She is holding a wooden pole, which I mistakenly thought was a large pencil in some sort of ‘back to school’ tribute until I realized it is part of a large beach umbrella.

3) Nestled in the sand below her hands, a copy of Jeffrey Eugenides’ Pulitzer Prize winning novel, MIDDLESEX.

While I haven’t read this book, yet, a friend recently recommended it and I probably will read it despite my irritation at its featured 'product placement' on the cover of O. I doubt that MIDDLESEX is your typical ‘beach read’ type of book, it's very likely the next selection for Ophra's book club, I just can't help but wish that Ophra would shine that bright light of publicity on the undiscovered gems of fiction that lack a publishing platform.

4) Finally, we have the large, bold font copy vying for our attention:
CHILL! 21 Things to Stop Worrying about Right Now: How to give yourself a major break.
Could a Man Drive you Crazy? What Really Made Astronaut Lisa Nowak Snap.
Live Your Best Love Life: O’s New Sex Column, don’t Go to Bed without it!
What your Hair Says about you and how to change the message.

I hate to think about what this cover says about the target audience for O. In general, it seems to be trivializing instead of empowering women.

Yeah, I know, I'm missing the whole 'lighten up' thematic point of the issue.

On those rare occasions when my friend Katarina finds herself whining about one of life’s injustices, she catches herself and makes some remark about getting out of the bitter barn. Maybe if I dip into the magazine, starting with the Books section, I'll find my way out of the bitter barn.

The Elite Force

On my immediate left, a man executed picture perfect chin-ups, a set of overhand, followed by some stretching and then a set of underhand, chin clearing the bar, legs crossed beneath him, smoothly pulling himself up and down.

I haven't witnessed such a feat since high school, and the last time I'd come anywhere near to doing it I'd been dangling off the end of my mother's clothesline wondering if the metal had rusted through.

I glanced at the screen of the elliptical machine I was using--PEDAL BACKWARD--before letting my gaze wander, noting the level of activity in the fitness center.

Somebody had raised the bar a few notches, and it sure wasn't me.

The place was a hive of activity during the off hour I had selected, and the obvious level of fitness was unlike anything I had witnessed previously.

When I later described it to my husband he asked if the people might have been guests, ie. visiting triathalon-inclined children or grandchildren. Nope, uh-uh. These athletes conveyed a sense of purpose and familiarity, this was their gym, this was their work-out, and you, there, are you going to use that exercise ball or just sit on it?

PEDAL FORWARD. After I completed my short-term contract with the elliptical machine, I carefully stepped between the bodies that were curling into sit-ups or streching out for push-ups and grabbed onto one of my favorite pieces of equipment: the ballet bar. At the opposite end, pull-up guy held one of his ankles behind him while he stepped on a block, stretching his calve, his forehead pressed into a towel against the wall. Note to self: avoid pull-up guy.

Behind me, a man twisted left and right with a bar across his shoulders. The area was looking a bit more 'somebody could poke an eye out' ominous. I made short work of the bar and darted for the door. I like a good work-out, I just don't want to have to engage in hand to hand combat to get it.

What Knot

Anita Amirrezvani’s THE BLOOD OF FLOWERS offers an exquisite glimpse into seventeenth century Iran. This is a vivid story of culture and survival from the eyes of a young, unnamed protagonist, a woman who is forced to leave the only home she has known when her father dies. She and her mother journey from their tiny village to a faraway city to live with a relative they have never met.

Mother and daughter learn many harsh lessons as they strive to earn their independence relying on their skills and hard work. Iranian folk tales are woven throughout the novel and readers can’t help but develop a new awareness to the art of rug making.

Those who enjoyed Anita Diamant’s THE RED TENT or Philippa Gregory’s historical novels will likely find Amirrezvani’s novel thoroughly engaging.

The book concludes with several pages of notes from the author where she acknowledges the sources of her research.

Searching for something a little lighter to read in contrast, I pulled FUNNY IN FARSI from the shelf. Author Firoozeh Dumas gave a humorous presentation at the 2006 Society of Southwestern Authors conference about growing up Iranian in America.

Swinging on the Gate

I'm at a midpoint in the revision process, a hinge, and I'm waiting for the characters to show me the way through the rest of the narrative.

I have the feeling a whole lot of cutting and rewriting lies ahead. The book could go in any number of directions, but I'm hoping to effortlessly leap over that gate instead of getting hung up in the revision process and going back and forth, back and forth.

Somehow it was more fun when I was seven and we had this really great white picket fence gate.

Happy 07/07/07