Growing up is hard to do.

It's dark outside. It's dark too much now.

C-c-c-currently Reading

The World According to Garp-

I sat down on the breakfast table and found this book lying with it's spine up open to a page about halfway through. I picked it up and looked at it, (with a tiny bit of distaste, because it's in what I'd call a "junk paperback" edition.) But then I started reading it too, from the first page. I snowballed through the first ten pages and I was a little bit hooked. I'm enjoying the world of T.S. Garp.

ALSOOOO

Runaway, by Alice Munro

I bought this in the winter time, and never opened it. Something wrong with the scroll font of the title and the antiquated illo on the cover. But months later I discovered a love of Alice Munro and have been working my way a bit feverishly through her canon.

Reading her I find, is like being told stories about relatives who died before you were born and only being able to see one or two pictures of them in stiff dress clothes as a way of proving they were really human. Maybe that doesn't make any sense.

I find there is often more details that I wish I could have about each character and their story. And that I'm haunted by their stories; usually sad ones when I'm lying in bed with my eyes closed.

I'm about three stories in.

Mysteries of Pittsburgh

I've been reading quite a bit of novels recently, bits and pieces. And a book on Human Rights in China.

The above-above named book, which has become a movie with some yucky and some nice thespians.

Also, Disgrace, which apparently is a film now as well and was at TIFF in September.

Beijing Coma I am working through slowly, but it's a bit painful in the way that it's being dragged out. And I've watched real life footage of the climax now on the BBC.

It's Oct. 31 and very spring-like outside.

Tonight there will be smoked meat, pumpkin deserts and Scottish ale.

yum,yum

Who do you think you are?

Rose spends her entire adult life trying to run from her small town upbringing, and trying to invent herself as an artistic, "cool", middle class woman. She tries out several different lifestyles and styles of morality, but seemingly always to her own detriment, ultimately creating her own unhappiness. Her constant sadness and self-doubt rings very true, and is devastating at times to read. It ends sadly, but is beautifully written. A very nice Munro.

French Milk

Just put in my order for French Milk by Lucy Knisley. I love getting picture books.

From Today's Globe:

In light of the current financial crisis, a Bulgarian monk (former NASDAQ trader) recommended that his former colleagues place a jar of soil on their desks to remind them of where they are going and what really matters.

Also someone just bought a house in Michigan for $1.75 on Ebay. CRASHING housing prices.

How I like to

Come across my books of choice entirely independent of Oprah.

Sarah Palin on toast

Toasty Ebay Item

I can't believe there's thirty bidders at this point.

New Friend

Engaging her in conversation she uses her eyebrows' ups and downs and various other motions and adjustments in posture to gauge compatibility. In this way each can avoid giving offense and can then retreat before any unpleasant lines of conversation are crossed. They seal the deal with a handshake in kid gloves. A kid is just a young goat.

On a daily basis I will

conduct business over the top of my newspaper. Feel free to peer over the mottled black and white pages and peek behind headlines to procure eye contact. Make nice.

Lori and I

I realize, are in the most unique position in that our friends and relatives mix very easily and casually. We take our friends home. And when they get there they are reacquainted with great grandparents, grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, second cousins once removed, full and half siblings and spouses. We are one close knit blood related lot. Our family is an extension of our personal identities. And we all "fit" into it. Into a space or role. This used to feel like a burden, but not so much anymore. Is this a relic? Something from the olden days? Turn of the century values.

When my mother was young, she and her parents and brother lived in her grandparents white farmhouse. When I was a little girl my grandparents, great aunt and uncle, greatgrandparents and second cousins all lived in one big house. One family on top of the other, living beside a funeral home. I wish I could have experienced that personally and grown up as part of one big group. Stories from that time period, have always indicated to me that those were the golden years. Especially the 1970's when snow drifts were as high as houses. Things that I was born too, too late for.

Hot Air

The dress was purchased after her deliberation in the dressing room; a turning examination of the mirror's image. Standing there with the door half open, he was there too, watching her admire herself in it. She'd just dragged him off the street and into the store; her reaction to the sight of it hanging in the window. A glance at the price had sealed the deal. $15.00. It was that too cheap to be true feeling. WAY too cheap, but it was true, and the first time she wore it out, (with him again, to a friend's party) she'd felt like a princess. Well, sort of. An urban princess at least, the paper bag kind.

Weeks later the magic was gone. The garment was a wrinkled and disheveled shell of fabric. She put it on once more and examined her reflection. There she saw it, ballooning clownishly in parts while clinging unflatteringly to others. It was a purple parachute. She was hot air.