A short list of books I have on my shelves that I have not yet read.

• David Halberstam, The Fifties
• Richard Howard, Alone with America
• Jeff Schmidt, Disciplined Minds
• Helen Vendler, Soul Says
• Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon
• Antonio Gramsci, The Prison Notebooks
• Jesus de Nazaret, Las Palabras (mistakenly ordered in Spanish)
• Fodor's New York City 1999
• Deborah Solomon, Utopia Parkway:  the Life and Work of Joseph Cornell
• Ruth Rendell, The Crocodile Bird

I should make other lists of the same ilk:  assorted CDs I never listen to; assorted clothes I haven't worn in years; files I will never again consult. Boxes of tea I'll never drink.  I do, however, hope to get around to reading almost all of the above books, including The Words of Jesus in Spanish.  If I ever learn Spanish.

Fun stuff because I love y'all.

First of all, this, especially in honor of theorris:

(courtesy Scotland daughter, via navel gazing at its finest)

And second of all, because I read fashion blogs, I found this for you:  Aretha Franklin Is Not Sure if She Can Bear to Give 'The Hat' to the Smithsonian.  Better than that:  "The Hat" photoshopped onto Stephen Colbert and Karl Rove and assorted dogs:

Do not fail to check out the whole page.  It, like the hat itself on Inauguration Day, will lift your spirits.  And who doesn't need to look at pictures of dogs in hats in these dark days?

Lost and found.

Having internet access back, after two days of not having it, is like your kitten being lost, then finding her and bringing her back home.  All you want to do, once she's home, is pet the kitten.  

Sweet, sweet kitten.

Analog error.

After spending an hour or so that I will never get back on the phone with my phone co., trouble-shooting the modem and everything else under the sun, I called my third party ISP (which I probably don't need--that was me, over-reading the instructions about how to set up DSL when I first got the magic box in the mail) to find out that I haven't been able to connect to the internet at home for the past 48 hours because . . . wait for it . . . I have not paid my bill.

I would start feeling like a dork except, wait, why didn't I get my usual e-mail from them saying, "Hey! your bill is due!"  So really, even though I'm a tad sheepish that I didn't think of this, I'm more uh, hello, third party ISP, YOU were delinquent.  Not me, YOU.

And I also now feel motivated to rethink this whole DSL provider/ISP conundrum, which I have been content until now to let alone because I'm lazy.  Lesson for third-party ISP, in case you're listening, which you're not, I know that now:  DO NOT INTERRUPT MY INTERNET ACCESS, or I will be forced to rethink the order of the universe.  And cancel my account with you.

In other news, I have ordered the smokingest iMac in the universe with upgraded RAM and lots and lots of hard drive to fill up with my stuff.  I will have it next week.  Beware of my computing power and general computing awesomeness.  Beware!

Oh my gosh, no internet.

So, you guys, last night when I checked the tubes not for the last time but for the very last time, everything was working fine.  I connected to Safari and my computer hummed like a busy, efficient bee.  Gmail, blog, Huffington--up-to-date and off to bed.  But this morning, the internet has stopped being my friend, as in our friend, and there are all sorts of errors and problems, and failures to connect.  

Failures.  To connect.  As in, my efforts to connect all failed.

Rebooting like a mad woman has done nothing.  I can't even isolate the problem:  the historian's laptop won't connect, not even with the ethernet cable, but I can't connect to singing son's wireless, so what is it? and why this sudden meltdown?  The thought of talking to some probably very hardworking IT guy on the phone to troubleshoot it all makes me simultaneously itchy and weepy and rage-y.  

I am not amused.

Conversation with singing son.

me: Hi! my friend Ann said she saw you today at the Legislature--

  I'm so sorry I missed that!

  what did you sing?

9:51 PM Isaac: you can see that on line or hear a bad recording anyway

 me: yay! what did you sing?

9:52 PM Isaac: mostly snoop dogg covers

 me: awesome.

9:54 PM Isaac: we sang the national anthem prayer of the children Battle hymn of the republic and utah man but not bob dylan as per my incessant requests. or snoop dog-- my requests were not so incessant for the dogg

9:55 PM me: my friend Ann said you guyz were jaw-droppingly good.

 Isaac: yeah well drop your jaw to this

  http://recordings.le.state.ut.us/mp3/House/rhouse-0126090.mp3

 Isaac: you will hear Russel M. Praying and Former Speaker Bumbling

  we are after that

 me: Is Bumbling his name? Mr. Bumbling?

  The Honorable Bumbling?

9:58 PM because that would be awesome.

 Isaac: no it is Cxxxxx as in I am a doof Gxxx Cxxxxx

 me: The Honorable Gxxx "Bumbling" "I Am a Doof" Cxxxxx, then. Great.

9:59 PM Thank you for the link! I am going to post it on my blog, btw.

 

10:04 P




M    Isaac: What are you posting that I ain't got no status or that I sang for the lechislatyour

 me: lechislatyour

  It's cool, man.

10:05 PM Isaac: That is how I say it now it seems to fit them better.

  it sounds like leach or lech or something

 me: I might use that spelling, also--it's good.

10:06 PM Isaac: it is like they are going to lech your is sooner or later

 me: Excellent analysis.

  

Writing writing writing writing writing: a report.

Here are a bunch of things I would rather do than write, if I am to judge by my performance today:

1.  read the rest of an Irish detective novel that I started last night.

2.  find the book I'm supposed to be reading for my reading group.

3.  take a tiny nap.

4.  check my e-mail and all the blogs and aggregators a truly shocking number of times.

5.  check when The Closer and Trust Me are going to be on tonight.

6.  Twitter.

However:  I did finally bring myself to do it.  I circled around it first by making a revision agenda: what poems in the manuscript are pretty close to finished, what ones are in need of a stiff revision, what ones still need to be fleshed out quite a bit.  Then, I started in on one of them, making notes and looking at the feedback my group gave me, etc. etc.  Also some notes for a new poem or so.  Even the detective novel ended up feeling like not a waste of my time--something about the writing in it, and the way sex and death and curiosity and persistence intertwined in its plot, kept me going while I wrote and wrote and wrote. 

Agenda for this week.

1.  Heavy and exciting television watching.

2.  Excavating a room downstairs so that it is useable again.

3.  Exploring whether I like beets grated onto my salad.

4.  Making a sourdough start?

5.  Buying a new Mac of my very own.

6.  Sending poems out into the void.

7.  Writing writing writing writing writing.

8.  Reading something slightly more aspirational than crime fiction?

9.  Going to the movies--at least on the weekend.

10. Lunch with a friend.

11.  More writing.

12.  Walking with Bruiser.

13.  A nap or three.

The historian, it's your birthday, happy birthday, the historian.

Happy birthday to the historian!  I asked him to tell me ten things he wished for.  He said he wished 

1. that he understood more about economics;

2. that he were a painter; and/or

3. that he were a musician, and especially that he understood jazz;

4. that we will be able to travel in the future to at least some of the places we want to go;

5. that he would enjoy good health for the rest of his life;

6. that the Scotlands would move here in the not-too-distant future;

7. that he would remain productive as a historian;

8. that he were a swell pool player;

9. that he were a magician; and finally,

10. that none of our kids will have financial difficulties.

In light of these wishes, I wish the historian a year filled with learning, art, music and especially jazz, travel, excellent health, lots of family visits, new and exciting historical projects, pool-shooting, magic, and prosperity spread all around--to everyone, because prosperity is just better that way.  

In conclusion, please substitute "the historian" for "Lisa" in this song:

Elizabeth Alexander explains what poetry is to Stephen Colbert.

And very well, I might add:

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Elizabeth Alexander

Colbert at Christmas
Colbert Christmas DVD

Green Screen
Bill O'Reilly Interview

Props to Professor Pulitzer Yale: well done!

It is time to lie down,

I am sorry to report, since it's only 9:12 p.m. and I am NOT THAT OLD, am I? But before I do, curling up with my French Theory book and my French detective novel (hello, Gallic!), I must report that I found a petite package on my porch this afternoon, and I asked myself, now what in the world can this petite package be? and then I ripped open the box with my car keys like a sensible person, and lo! it was the complete box set of Faerie Tale Theatre, Shelley Duvall's live-action project of fairy tale reenactments (sort of like Civil War reenactments, but with talking animals and occasional fairies) from back in the 80s.  

It was originally shown on Showtime, but we used to rent episodes on VHS from Video Voyager out in Kearns, for you west siders, and watch 'em with the kids.  We particularly liked The Dancing Princesses (Lesley Ann Warren) and The Three Little Pigs (Jeff Goldblum as the Wolf, Billy Crystal, Fred Willard, and Stephen Furst as the pigs), and especially, especially Pinocchio, starring none other than Paul Reubens, aka Pee Wee Herman, as the wooden puppet.  

I found out about this on some "The Most Awesome DVDs of 2008 You Never Even Heard Of" list, and ordered them toute de suite.  And now I have them.  So:  if you never saw them but want to see them; if you are a child of mine and cannot believe the good fortune of having a mom who found these precious, precious recordings and then purchased them; or if you grew up watching them, too:  you know where to come.  Over to my house, where the good times roll.

A moment and some words.

"The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness."

Things that make you feel better.

In no particular order:

• having delicious homemade cake laying around.
• a dog that wags his whole body when you come home.
• having the chance to talk to your daughter while driving all the way down to Provo and all the way home.
• making a toddler smile.
• doughnuts for the drive home.
• having tickets to a concert but not wanting to leave the house, but going anyway and having a great time.
• finding out that your four-year-old granddaughter in Scotland has taken a picture of you when you were having a webchat.
• reading. 
• having a dinner that consists of toast. Lots of toast.

Dinner.

Today we went to a memorial service for a friend's husband who recently died of cancer.  After, I find myself face to face with--or more aptly catching a glimpse as it turns a corner--the flatness of the things you can say, compare to what you wish to say.  I am remembering this man, whom I did not know well--his lovely smile, his way in the kitchen, his voice--and thinking about how many things there are to miss in life, how often I avoid what is awkward or difficult, which means not being surprised by what may be beyond the awkwardness, the difficulty.    

Tonight I feel grieved by this, by what feels to me like a failure.

When we got home, I made dinner for us and two of running son's friends.  I took special pleasure in the preparations--omelets and toast; roasted potatoes, carrots, parsnips; sliced oranges and black grapes; a lemon cake.  My friend and her husband together were geniuses of hospitality, conviviality.  I want to nurture that in myself and in our home, the simple human gestures by which we help each other live, connect, thrive. 

Sleep clinic.

A version of this article from the L.A. Times appeared in the Salt Lake Tribune this morning, headlined "If you sleep more, you may sneeze less."  Some highlights:

"The longer you sleep, the better off you are, the less susceptible you are to colds," said lead author Sheldon Cohen, who studies the effects of stress on health at Pittsburgh's Carnegie Mellon University.  Prior research has suggested that sleep boosts the immune system at the cell level. This is the first study to show small sleep disturbances increasing the risk of getting sick, said Dr. Michael Irwin. 

and 

The people who slept less than seven hours a night in the weeks before they were exposed to the virus were three times more likely to catch a cold than those who slept eight hours or more.

 and finally 

Sleeping fitfully also was tied to greater risk of catching a cold. Those who tossed and turned more than 8 percent of their time in bed were five times more likely to get sick than those who were sleepless only 2 percent of the time. 

So:  if you sleep seven hours, you're basically saying to the virus, I want you for my very own.  Sleeping fitfully?  It's like a mating dance you're doing for the virus.  And the advice of the experts:  "The message is to maintain regular sleep habits because those are really critical for health," Irwin said. 

No, let me just repeat that in case you missed its perspicacity, and in a larger font size, and indented: 

"The message is to maintain regular sleep habits because those are really critical for health," Irwin said. 

Oh, thank you.  How very helpful.  I will telepathically communicate my gratitude for this advice to the researchers tonight, while I'm tossing and turning during my less than eight hours of sleep.

 

Fine cinema.

Me, in my study; historian, in front of the television at 11:30 p.m., shooting through the channels with the remote. 

Historian  (to himself or to Bruiser--or both):  There are a lot of great movies on late at night.

Me: (from my study, laughing)

Historian:  For instance, Lost Boys: The Tribe. "After moving to a new California town, a young woman learns that her new friends are a pack of vampires."

The tome: a consideration, and other items.

1.  I am reading a big fat novel, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I bought it, I think, at Powell's, hardback, for a good price, and I am enjoying it quite a bit.  It is nearly eight hundred pages, and frankly, this presents some challenges.  These challenges have caused me to weigh (literally) the pluses and minuses of the very large book:  

• on the one hand, a long book that's a good book has more goodness to love; 
• on the other hand, my wrists sometimes hurt after I've read twenty-five pages.
• On the one hand, who does not relish her appointment to spend an hour or two in the company of a splendid work of literature?
• On the other hand, why is said work of literature so unwieldy?
• On the one hand, reading a wonderful book for a little moment before falling asleep is one of the great pleasures of the reading life, but 
• on the other hand, fitting this book in bed with myself, my pillow, and my husband (not to mention my dog for awhile before we usher him out and turn out the lights) is a feat that might require technical drawings and perhaps the services of a time-motion expert to perform properly.  

I don't wish this book were shorter--it is wonderful, and here Gregory Maguire says some of the reasons why--but I do wish I had more efficacious large-book-wrangling powers.  

2.  I recycled about a zillion magazines of all sorts today.  This has given me some new shelf space to work with, and that's a good thing.  If I can give away ten percent of my books, that would be even better.

I tried not to look at the magazines as I whisked them from my shelves.  I have done this before, and looking at the magazines typically extends the duration of the organizing project from a brisk "let's take an armload or ten out to the recycling bin" Clean Sweep, to a leisurely consideration of why people thought Obama was unelectable in 2007, and what color of lipstick the authorities were recommending for the spring of 2005. 

I was mostly successful in applying this broad, "if it's a magazine, it's trash" policy, but some quick judgment calls got made (save the Times Magazine with Joseph Gordon Leavitt on the cover; toss the Times Magazine with the article about the conservative powerhouse 4th Circuit Court of Appeals).  I filled the recycling bin halfway with periodical literature.  My triumph over the magazines may give me courage to tackle some closets.

3.  I roasted the giant spaghetti squash I had hanging around from the last day of the Pioneer Park farmer's market.  I was reluctant to buy it because it was literally bigger than my head, but it's good to have some hard squash around, and the historian likes spaghetti squash, and I don't know, it was the end of the market! I was contemplating months and months on end of straitened vegetable access!  

So we bought it and it has been sitting on my counter, a giant yellow squash of reproach, until today, when, giddy with my new organizational powers, I thought, let's just cook that sucker up and see what we can do with it.  Here's what:  

• mix some roasted tomatoes, which you have tucked away in your freezer, in with the squash.  
• Then give a couple of good glugs of olive oil.  
• Rip some fresh mozzarella up into the mix, about a pound; 
• crumble some ricotta salata in there too.  
• Stir till it's all well acquainted.  
• Crumble a little more ricotta salata on the top and 
• bake for awhile at 350 degrees.  
• Take  your dog for a walk.  
• Come home and eat a delicious and wholesome dinner which will make you feel like a homemaking genius.
  

You say it's your birthday.

Fact:  every birthday of every one of my children occurs in December or January.  

Fact:  my mother's birthday is in January.

Fact:  the historian's birthday is . . . in January.

Fact:  my son-in-law's birthday is also in January.

Fact:  my son the soccer coach, who joined our family kind of midstream--his birthday is in February.

There was a time in my life when I didn't go for more than a few days without baking a cake. Today I bought a bunch of birthday candles, just in case.  One time, I asked my doctor about what might explain so many births clustered so tightly.  "I guess you all liked to have sex in April," she said.  Oh: that.

[via PinkCakeBox]

Anyway:  happy birthdays to running son (20), college daughter (22), my daughter the makeup artist (26), and singing son (28), whose birthdays have already taken place.  Happy birthday to my mom (ageless!), whose birthday is right around the corner.  Happy birthday to my daughter in Scotland, who will be 30 very soon.  Each of them is so splendid a person, there should be fireworks, parades, confetti, and all sorts of delights to round out the celebration. (Also, the fact that I will soon have a thirty-year old daughter--I'm not quite sure what this signifies, but I fear it may mean I am old.)  

I have baked nary a birthday cake this year.  Everyone's grown up, plans are more malleable, people live out of town, etc.  And I'm sure I don't technically need birthday cake, but it does seem kind of a shame.  The historian's birthday, upcoming, may call for an extravagant cake.  I do have the candles.  

This will fix what is wrong with your life.

Today, I went to Target (shopping list: 1. ibuprofen, the giant bottle. 2. Marshmallow Mateys. 3. Lorna Doones. 4. rechargeable batteries that aren't lame. 5. CD sleeves. 6. this. 7. that.) and I found this:

This, people, is a Pure Komachi 2 knife.  Even though the blade and the handle are apple green and therefore this knife is officially adorable, the blade has a full tang and it is super sharp. Also, according to a review I read, the blade is "coated in a fluorinated resin coating that keeps foods from sticking to the blade and helps to resist bacteria." This knife is sharp.  It is cute.  It only cost $12.99.  And with this knife, I made this awesome dish for dinner:

Greens & White Beans

In a pan, put about 3/4 c. dried flageolet beans, or other white beans that don't have as snooty a resume, in plenty of water.  Also in the pan with the beans and water put some fresh rosemary. Bring to a boil then reduce to a simmer.  Cook till beans are tender and discard the branchy parts of the rosemary, although you can leave the leaves.  They're fine.  This will take a couple of hours.  

When the beans are just about finished simmering, take

1 bunch of rainbow chard (or any winter greens)

and toss into a pot of simmering, salted water.  Cover and simmer for about 3-4 minutes. Drain immediately.  Cut the chard crosswise so that the pieces are close to bite-size--but no need to be fussy or too exacting.  Toss with

about 1/3 c. finely sliced red onion

2 cloves garlic, minced

sea salt

coarsely ground black pepper

olive oil to taste (don't be stingy)

a fruity vinegar to taste

If you happen to have some cherry or grape tomatoes, slice them in half and toss them in, too. Then add the drained beans.  Grate plenty of Parmigiano-Reggiano over it all, and toss it till everything has met everything else.  Eat it and be amazed that relatively humble ingredients can taste so splendid.  You might think there will be leftovers but there won't because you will eat it all up.  And don't forget to give props to your knife for the good work it did.

The facts about today.

Bruiser woke me at 4 a.m.

Wrote.  Ate a bowl of Kix.

Woke the historian and climbed back in bed at 7.

Awoke three and a half hours later.  

Cleared my head, got dressed, ran some errands.

Found this, this, this and this in the piles of cds everywhere.

Bought lipstick and Sundance tickets.

Wrote some more.

Asked myself this question:  What connects grief and the will?

Read.

Made red lentil soup. Laundered. Waited for the historian to get home. Walked Bruiser.

Tried this and viewed this. (via kottke)

The Jazz beat Indiana.

That is all.