Couple of things

As I mentioned over in the Weblog, I've been having a terrific time building my library at LibraryThing. Liora introduced me to it, and I've been entering books whenever I think about it -- right now it's mostly books that are either within my eyesight either at home or at work, or are ones that I just think of randomly, and remember that I own. I'm up to about 150 now, I think.

One of the cool features of LibraryThing is the ability to see other peoples' libraries; one feaure that I particularly like is sorting them by similarity, so I can peruse people who have a lot of books that I also have, and maybe find some new books that I might enjoy by virtue of the fact that we appear to share interests. It doesn't always work that way, of course, but it's sort of like being able to look through someone else's bookshelves and getting an idea of their personality through the books they own.

My bookshelf is here; if anyone builds a library there (it's free for up to 200 books, $10 for more than 200), I'd love it if you'd send me the link to your library so that I could add you to my list of "watched" users.

Bob and I are going down to Bennett Spring for a few days so he can trout fish and I can knit and read and hopefully relax a little bit. I won't be posting anything here until we get back (I don't think the motel we're staying at even has phones, but I intend to post some pictures at the Mobile Blog from the (cell) phone periodically.

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October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Halloween surprises

I had the best surprise when I got home tonight!

When I called Bob to tell him I was in the car getting ready to come home, he said I had a box from Yankee Candles. Okay, actually, what I thought he said was, "You have a package from Naked Candles." I said, "What? Naked Candles? I have a package from Naked Candles?" and he said, "No! Yankee Candles." "Oh," I said. "I don't remember ordering anything from them, either."

Then I thought, well, I remember looking at the site a couple of weeks ago, and thinking about ordering some things . . . could I have placed an order and forgotten? Could I have put some stuff in my shopping cart and somehow managed to order them without even intending to? It was a mystery. But I figured even if I had ordered something accidentally (not likely), it would be okay, because I adore Yankee Candles.

But no! It was a surprise! It was a darling little black cat tealight holder with a box of yummy "Witches Brew" scented tealights, two amber colored glass candle holders with copper outer holders pierced with stars, and a bag of "Trick or Treat" scented votives, all from my friend Val in Indiana. I've never met Val, but we've corresponded for years, and she sent me this surprise out of the blue because she knows I love Halloween. I was actually having kind of a bad day, but that snapped me right out of it.

I think I'm going to take the little black cat to work with me and put it on my desk in my office. My office is looking really cool lately. I've got two light-up jack-o'lanterns, this sign on my door:

Clings on the window:

and you can just barely see the Halloween garland above the white board in this picture.

Kurt came in this morning and said, "Your office is really scary!"

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October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Food and opera

This entry at The Traveler's Lunchbox made me remember a lot of things about my childhood that had to do with food. Nothing as interesting or odd as corn chip and ketchup sandwiches, but we did have peanut and banana sandwiches, one of my dad's specialties (not fried, like Elvis', though!).

My dad also made Jell-O for us when we were sick, using orange juice for part of the liquid, which makes it kind of a different texture, somehow thicker, almost chewy. My grandmother would make sugar sandwiches for us when we wanted something sweet and she didn't have anything else in the house--white bread, butter, and sugar--brown sugar was the best. I think that's what made me start thinking about the subject, since the first item on that link was "The Sugar Box." At home, in my cabinet, I have a jar that my grandmother kept cocoa in, and I use it for sugar, and think about her every time I get it out.

I remember tea parties that I had with the little girls next door. We had tiny little teacups filled with tap water, and bread and butter to eat (nothing elaborate here, but it obviously made an impression on me). My mother would make "picnics" for us that we would take out in the backyard and eat; I don't really remember what kind of food was in them, but I remember sitting out in the backyard on a blanket and eating. Whatever it was, food always tastes better outside.

Food always tasted best at grandma's house, too. My mother's mother made wonderful fried chicken, I remember that, and the dish I remember most from my father's mother's kitchen was oyster plant casserole at Thanksgiving. A very odd dish, and one that I don't think any of my other siblings would ever try. And something that I've never seen anywhere else, or tried to duplicate. "Oyster plant" is the common name of salsify, a root vegetable. I don't even know whether I could buy it in the store; maybe I should try. These recipes sound good.

My mother always let us choose what she fixed for our birthday dinners, and I always chose Swiss Steak--cubes of presure-cooked beef in a tomato-based sauce over mashed potatoes. And for my birthday cake, Devil's Food with a white icing that was almost like divinity. She would color the icing different colors with food coloring; one memorable year she made a several-layers high cake with different colored icing between each layer.

Which makes me remember my childhood birthday parties. Oh, she went all out for us! We would dress up in our party dresses and invite our friends over, and mom would make the decorations. Flowers made from tissue paper or actual tissues, gathered with wire. She would buy little pipecleaner ornaments, like bumble bees, at the dimestore, and attach them to the flowers. We had the parties down in our basement, and would play pin-the-tail on the donkey and musical chairs. We also had hats that Mom made out of tissue paper. I'll have to see if there are photos of those sometime when I'm home. I know there are home movies.

As for the opera part of the title, well, I don't know anything about, or care for, opera as it is generally thought of. I don't like "show tunes," I can't stand musicals of any type, in fact, I don't like live theater at all, but that's a discussion for another time.

Musicals just seem so contrived to me. When I watch a movie, I want to be able to suspend disbelief, to at least try to believe that the scenes I'm watching could actually be happening. Of course, most real life situations don't come with background music, but they could; more importantly, we usually don't burst into song at the slightest provocation. Well, Bob does . . .

But against all reason, I've become a fan of what I think I've seen called "Popera," that is, opera sung to a rock beat, or modern songs sung in the style of opera. Who would have thought? Certainly not me. First it was Il Divo, and now it's the East Village Opera Company, whose album has become my preferred workout music. I think it's probably just because, by virtue of the fact that it's sung in a language I don't speak, it can become background music, but it's not boring background music.

I really have no idea. I just know that I love it.

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Annoying the cats

I seem to be waking up early again, like at 4:30, and lying there awake thinking about all the things I have to do. Then I fall back asleep, only so be so deeply asleep at 6:30 when the alarm goes off that I reach out and hit the snooze button without even realizing it, and do that several times until I finally surface about 7:15 and realize I have to get up if I want to make it to work on time.

Yesterday morning I really didn't want to wake up; then I got to work and my computer wouldn't wake up.

Macs outnumber PCs at my office; four of us are on Macs (me, Cello, Kurt and Dave) and John and Dan are on PC's. And Eugene, but he's offsite currently. But anyway, Cello is the Mac hardware go-to guy, and fortunately he was there yesterday. We spent most of the day working on it -- getting it to come back on, then reinstalling the OS, then frantically backing stuff up in preparation for the next time it won't start up. He thinks the hard drive is going out. Hopefully it won't go out before we get a new one.

Other than that excitement, things are pretty quiet. Bob went to the lake last weekend, so I spent most of the weekend cleaning and doing laundry. I cleaned out my bookcase in the front room and hauled a couple of boxes of books to the basement, and I even started alphabetizing the CDs in the living room, but my legs started hurting from sitting on the floor so long, so I abandoned that somewhere in the "B's."

I tend to go on cleaning sprees when Bob's out of town. I think it's a combination of things. One, it's partially boredom, I guess. And secondly, I don't want him to think I just lazed around all the time he was gone, I want there to be some concrete evidence that I actually did something, although I'm not really sure why. It's not as if he criticizes me for not doing anything. It's probably just mostly a way to fill the time with something productive. And it's always fun to annoy the cats with the vacuum cleaner.

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Every day you write the book

I posted this the other day on the weblog, but I think it's important enough to post it here again:

To be quite frank and not only that but possibly boring and repetitive as well, the way you get through the year is you do it one day at a time. One day at a time you get up in the morning and one day at a time you go to bed at night. If you are a person of faith you call on that faith every day. Every day, if there's a prayer that you know, you say it. If your doctor says you're depressed, every day you take your medicine. Every day, if there's a posture that you assume, you assume it. Every day you write the book. Every day you notice the minute shifting of light as the earth quietly surrounds the sun. Every day you take note of the precise quality of the miracle of life. Every day you write down your check numbers. Every day you count your change before leaving the counter. Every day you press the button for your floor.

And never do you let the coming year rise up like a monstrous wave and crush you with unimaginable tedium. Never do you let the dread sink in until you feel cold and dead inside; if you find yourself staring into the abyss you switch seats and think of ice cream.

This is advice from Salon.com's advice columnist, Cary Tennis, in an article entitled Must I have a grand calling in life? Mr. Tennis seems, to me, to have a very down-to-earth outlook, a way of saying what you need to do to get through things, to do what you have to do and get on with your life.

I don't know whether I know myself very well or not; I try to. One thing I've noticed over the past few months is that I can allow myself to spiral downward into depression if I don't catch myself. Sometimes that seems almost seductive. I'm not sure I understand that, but maybe it's kind of a self-indulgent thing, a wish to crawl back into the womb or something, a wanting to curl up under the covers and not come out. It's easy to wallow in misery, to worry, to start thinking about every bad thing, everything that might go wrong, every problem, every stressful event. It's easy for life to turn into 3:00 a.m. 24 hours a day.

I don't think this is a new thing for me, but my recognition of it and my conscious effort to stop the spiral is. When I recognize it happening, I try to stop the thoughts, try to think of something else. Easy to say, not so easy to do, but I try. I try to read things that I enjoy, and that can take me out of myself. I listen to an audio book in the car instead of listening to the news, most days. I feel guilty about that, because at some level I feel that bearing witness is important, but I also realize that I do what I can do -- I send what I can afford to help the relief effort, I donate some canned goods -- and it isn't going to do anyone any good if by immersing myself in other people's misery I become miserable myself.

There is always more that I could do, but I try not to feel guilty about it. I've got enough to feel guilty about.

I light a candle, and I hold a cat, and I listen to some music, and write. I put one foot in front of the other, and I take deep breaths. Every day I write the book.

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