Breathing new life into my blog...

I'm resurrecting my blog.

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To Buy, or Not to Buy: Snooki's Novel

This weekend I took the plunge and bought Snooki's novel A Shore Thing.  The jury is still out on whether or not I'm the proud owner of a delicious morsel of literature. As of today I haven't begun reading it, so I'm unable to testify to its quality just yet.  However, I fully expect to enjoy it; and I promise to report back in blog post form regarding my thoughts on the reality star's attempt at fiction.  Honestly though, how can a book go wrong when it begins with an explanation of crafting the perfect "pouf"--perhaps the only thing that Snooki and I have in common? And then features said pouf on the cover of its pages?

Holding A Shore Thing gingerly in Wal-Mart, I prayed silently that no acquaintance or friend of mine would turn the corner. I feared being made fun of and ostracized for contemplating such a purchase! But then I caught sight of its first line and knew in an instant that I had to have it:

"Life was hard.  But a pouf?  That should be easy."

Move over, Herman Melville, with your "Call me Ishmael."  Watch out, Jane Austen, with your oft quoted opener of Pride and Prejudice.  Can the first line of a novel get any better than this? Okay, I'm being facetious.  But it did get my attention, and I can't wait to hear what the rest of Snooki's reading public has to say about her work.

Many people tend to criticize Snooki and the other stars of Jersey Shore, the MTV reality television series whose fourth season will air in August, for a variety of reasons.  I, on the other hand, happen to like the show and was hooked after watching the first couple of episodes.  My mind reeled with that all-important question, "Just what are they going to do next?" 

I was instantly drawn in by the humorous catchlines of Pauly D, especially those referring to his hair:

"My hair's windproof, waterproof, soccerproof, motorcycleproof.  I'm not sure if my hair's bulletproof.  I'm not willin' to try that."

(Is it just me, or is the cast of Jersey Shore preoccupied with hairstyles?)  I'm likewise entertained by the drama that is Ronnie and Sammi's relationship, as it has unfolded before my very eyes on national television. They seem to be drawn to each other like magnets, as if there's some force preventing them from severing ties once and for all.  Yet, they're completely toxic to one another, as the other Jersey Shore castmates have adamantly expressed.  Nevertheless, I google their names periodically to update myself on most the recent status of their on-again, off-again tryst.

But back to Snooki's novel--I think I'm most interested in her work because I'm an aspiring writer myself.  In many ways, it's seems unfair that all it takes to get a book deal in our day is making a spectacle of yourself on national television.  What about the real talent out there that's passed up for publication every day?  I guess the attitude I've decided to take toward it is this:  If Snooki can become a published author, so can I.

Right?

Reading for Pleasure

Last week I had the opporunity (and good fortune) to read four books!  Prior to that, I can't remember when I last had the time and freedom to read works of my choosing.  It's a good feeling! 

While in graduate school, a prescribed reading list loomed over my head, so I didn't allow myself to read for pleasure.  Or write for pleasure, for that matter.  By engaging in either activity, I thought I would be "cheating" on my preparation and study for the comprehensive exam.  On the subject of assigned reading lists, I truly don't know where I stand.  I'm tempted to agree with Samuel Johnson, who is quoted as saying:

"A man ought to read just as inclination leads him, for what he reads as a task will do him little good."

Even when assigned reading lists are developed through a collaborative effort, the thought of including some "important" works while excluding others is such an impossibly subjective task.  Good thing I'm not commissioned to make those judgment calls.  I doubt I'd ever be able to come to a hard and fast decision.

As much as I hate to admit it, the aforementioned reading list wasn't all bad.  After all, it did introduce me to Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence and Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie--two books I might not have read on my own but now consider a couple of my favorites.

In any case, I'm now free to read whatever I want!  I've recently developed a renewed interest in crime novels with a subplot of romance thrown in for good measure, especially when I'm in the mood for quick and light reading.  I really enjoyed reading The Dark Tide by Andrew Gross and bought two more of his novels to read (Reckless and The Blue Zone).  In many ways, crime novels are all the same--simple characters, basic and predictable plots. But the elements of suspense within encourage me to read faster than normal, which means moving on to the next thing even sooner.  When it comes to good thrillers, I can generally churn out a book a day.

On the other hand, there's a lot to be said for reading materials of "heavier" subject matter--a novel (because I prefer fiction) that communicates some universal truth, makes a statement about human nature, or describes the society/culture of a group of people.  I recently read both The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison and The Color Purple by Alice Walker, which are thought-provoking, powerful, and the opposite of light reading!  For me, reading for pleasure equals alternating the meaningless, dime-a-dozen crime or romance novel with a beloved literary classic.

I didn't realize how much I missed reading for pleasure until I was forced to focus all of my efforts on assigned reading.  I had taken the luxury for granted, and when I didn't have it anymore, truly felt as if something were missing in my life! 

Reading is a big part of any given week for me.  It's a means by which I decompress and relax; it's a distraction that keeps my mind occupied and free of anxiety or stress.  More importantly, it's an opportunity to discover new things about myself and about the world around me.

Pay at the Pump

When I am running late, I especially enjoy the convenience of paying for gas at the pump.  Only recently have I discovered how much of a luxury it is, and I suspect that my generation largely takes it for granted.  I didn't realize--until moving into our current residence--that gas stations exist that aren't equipped with pay-at-the-pump technology. I had previously categorized them as obsolete, lumping them in with VHS copies of Disney movies and my Rocky soundtrack on cassette tape.

Though I've just confirmed that I like the convenience of such technology, I believe the advertisement can be misleading.  We consumers are tricked into thinking that it means the entire process, which includes getting a receipt, will take place at the pump.  Yet it has been my experience that, in my moments of utmost desperation and hurry, the receipt dispenser at the pump is inevitably out of paper.  I'm henceforth instructed to "Please see attendant" in order to obtain proof of my purchase. 

Now, why on earth would I want to go in for my receipt if I've chosen to pay at the pump?  Doesn't that defeat the purpose?  What's the use of swiping your card at the pump if you have to go inside for the receipt?  I will not go see your attendant no matter how politely your machine suggests it! 

You know, there are some establishments (like Quiznos) that offer complementary "stuff" if you don't get a receipt with your purchase.  I think someone should force this upon gas stations.  Like, I would get free gas if I paid at the pump and didn't get a receipt at the pump. If such a proposal were granted, we consumers would see a lot fewer attendants and a lot more receipt paper...

Creative Writing

I remember taking advanced math courses in high school such as trigonometry, pre-calculus, and calculus in addition to the core curriculum algebra courses.  And in all of those courses, I remember teachers stressing the importance of showing your work.  For when a student encounters a math problem, there might be several methods of arriving at the right answer.  As the teacher grades, he or she looks for that one right answer and marks all others wrong.

I enjoyed math courses and excelled in them.  Yet, I knew that math wasn't something I wanted to pursue as a career.  I felt stifled and "imprisoned" by the fact that there was only one right answer to any given problem.  Yes, you might get partial credit for executing some process of the figuring correctly.  But where was creativity? Imagination? Individual expression?

For all of those reasons, I like creative writing.  I like the fact that a scene written on, let's say, a Monday would be different than the same scene written the following Thursday, the following week, or next month.  When I write, I know that any number of influences--whether I'm conscious of them or not--will contribute to the finished product.  I like the freedom that creative writing offers, knowing that the end result doesn't have to fit some prescribed mold, that it won't be marked "wrong" in red ink. Because I will be pleased and satisfied with my own work even when (perhaps) a publisher is not.

I've thought about what it would be like to lose all of my files, all of my precious works in progress.  I could try to recreate the documents with the same plot and characters in mind, but I would never be able to recapture the exact phrasing of the original manuscripts. Creative work can't be duplicated or replicated in the exact same way like an answer to a math problem can. Who knows? If I had to start from scratch, with only my ideas, a rewrite might turn out better.  Or it might turn out worse.  In either case, it all depends on me, the writer.  I'm responsible for my own successes and my own failures.  And most importantly, I alone decide what's right or wrong when it comes to my work.

Turd Watch 2011

I've often joked that my smallest (and youngest) dog will be the death of me.  She's a Hoover vacuum, sucking up anything and everything in her path.  She scarfs food down as if every meal is her last, and most recently she's taken up eating earthworms in the backyard when she's supposed to be going potty.

The first day she was sick, I didn't panic.  We're used to her eating treebark and other paraphernalia in the yard and throwing it all up later.  So when I saw foreign objects in the mess, I dismissed her upset stomach as resulting from her usual outdoor antics.  The rest of that week, however, she continued to show signs of an upset stomach.  We finally put together, and I think we're right, that she'd chomp on a few live earthworms during each A.M. trip outside and spend the rest of her day paying the price for it.  It became a week of inspecting turds and vomit for the root of her problem, hence the title of this blog post.

It's always something with my sweet little baby.  In the spring, she likes to eat little white flowers (weeds) that grow in our backyard.  In the summer, it's earthworms--mostly the crunchy, dried up ones--which don't seem to give her any problems.  Finally, in the autumn months, we'll see her sniffing out acorns.  I try to prevent her from eating any, if possible, since I found out through "googling" that they contain toxins and should not be ingested in large quantities.

The jury is still out on whether she will be the death of me or not, but I do spend a significant amount of time worrying about her health.  Pets are like perpetual babies.  They can't tell you what's hurting, and they depend on their owners to provide proper care.  That's why I invest time and money as needed to ensure that my dogs are properly vaccinated and/or protected from disease, parasites, etc.  Likewise, I try to pick up on any unusual behavior that might indicate a serious contition so that I may schedule a trip to the vet if necessary. 

On that subject, the vet's office either loves me or hates me.  I certainly pay them a great deal for services and medicine, and if I had a couple more pets, could probably keep their practice in business singlehandedly.  On the other hand, it's probable that they are annoyed by my frequent calls and questions.  I have been known to call the "emergency" number after hours regarding circumstances that end up not being emergencies.  But my philosophy is that they shouldn't put one of the vet's phone numbers on the answering machine if they don't want me calling it.  Because I will, and I have.

My husband tries to discourage me from researching doggy symptoms on the Internet because inevitably I'll find worst-case-scenario, life-threatening conditions to link them to.  Is it possible to be a hypochondriac for your pet?  If so, I think I could be certifiably diagnosed. It's both a blessing and a curse that websites like protectyourdogfromthings.com and petmd.com exist on the World Wide Web.

But enough on this subject.  I have worried myself into a frenzy.

The Miracle of (Bird) Life

This spring I had the pleasure of housing a family of birds on our property. 

In light of the damaging weather we'd experienced, I was happy to provide a safe haven for this mama bird and her eggs.  Because she built her nest on a ladder hanging horizontally in our carport, I was able to watch her secretly from our enclosed porch; I routinely checked on her as she incubated her eggs.  She was always aware of my presence when I needed to go to and from my car, but she only occasionally abandoned her nest to perch on the eletrical wiring overhead. 

I was mesmerized as new bird life emerged before my eyes.  When the eggs hatched, the baby birds had long, skinny necks--there were four of them--that peaked over the rim of the nest.  They had beaks that never seemed to close, and their heads were too big for their bodies so they looked like bobblehead dolls.  Likewise, I noticed that two different birds shared in searching out and feeding worms to their nestlings.  Why was I so surprised that a second bird, I'm guessing the daddy, would play a role in furthering the nestlings' development? 

After a couple of weeks, the babies were so big that two of them had to sit outside the nest, on the ladder. And one got so big all of a sudden that on first glance I thought it was one of its parents! The baby birds didn't have any orange on them yet like their mama and daddy. (From what I could figure out, they were American robins.)  But they were beautiful, and I was sad to see them go.

The babies have flown the nest by now.  I saw one of them, the biggest one, not long afterward in our backyard on a piece of patio furniture.  I don't know which one of us was more surprised:  I jumped back frightened, and the once-baby bird flew off squawking.  I see the parents daily, as they scavenge our yard for sustenance.

This spring I became a silent observer of the miracle of bird life and all that it entails.  Now if I can only convince them to come back and stay again next year...