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 |  Breaking the laws of blogging, one entry at a time. |
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Wanted: For repeated blog faux pas, including, but not limited to: Obsessive ranting - guilty on 92 counts. Repeatedly beating a dead horse - guilty on 17 counts. Unnecessary use of curse words - guilty on 142 counts. Boring daily recounts - guilty on 45 counts. Pointless entries - guilty on 214 counts. Contradictory statements - guilty on 72 counts. Recounting toilet actions - guilty on 15 counts. Overdramatization of insignificant things - guilty on 152 counts. Overreacting to meaningless gestures - guilty on 22 counts. Unnecessary temper tantrums - guilty on 75 counts. Cruelty towards animals, superiors, peers, and inferiors - guilty on 146 counts. Repeated bad grammar, spelling, and opinionations - guilty on 214 counts. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous. Do not confront directly, instead call the authorities and slowly back away. Do not provoke suspect, as she is easy to agitate. The best action to take is to smile and nod. Any other response could lead suspect to rant and rave for days without ceasing. REWARD OFFERED FOR CAPTURE Dead or alive. Offending evidence: ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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Given for penning the favorite response entry in the Follow the Leader contest with "Come Again?"](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Journaling-2180.gif) (Exhibit A) ![Merit Badge in Variety
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Because I never knew what to expect from your Follow the Leader entries, but I'm oh so glad you played!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Variety-2500.gif) (Exhibit B) (Exhibit C) ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| In this new year, I make no resolutions so that I break no resolutions. I always end up making this or that, and not following through. Last year was no more fast food. We made it through February with that one, though we did cut down significantly from the amount we were eating before the resolution. Instead of two to three times per week, we only have it once a month. Another resolution I had made was to run a 5K, which I did keep. I was so proud of myself for actually sticking to that one. If I could run one again this year, I would make that as another resolution, since I know it's one I could keep, but by the time the 5K races start up again, I'm going to be very pregnant and the race organizers won't let a pregnant woman run. And another I had made was to get down to my target weight and stay there. I got pretty close, but the last few pounds stuck to me for dear life. I got tired of see-sawing back and forth with the same three pounds, and got pregnant before I could give it another college try. At least when I make resolutions, I try to follow through with them to the best of my ability. Then again, I would never let myself get in a condition where getting down to my target weight wasn't a realistic goal. The only obstacle at that point is my willpower, which is sometimes suspect, but I've been able to be "good" most times. Which reminds me... We went to Wal*Mart yesterday to get some groceries for the New Year's party at my in-law's. We usually don't do our grocery shopping there, since it isn't a Super Center so the selection is limited, but I didn't want to go in to Meijer for some cups and Ritz crackers where I'd have to deal with the rest of the alcohol buying population. I guess a few other people had the same idea, too, because their grocery section was pretty busy. We went down the cracker aisle and got caught behind a lady in one of those motorized cart things. She looked like she was probably in her mid-30s, and the cart was severely stressed by her weight. I always wonder, when I see someone like that, how that person let him or herself get to that point in the first place. I am pretty diligent about watching my weight. 180 pounds is fat, to me. But then again, I'm 5'4 3/4" tall, so 180 pounds sits on me a lot differently than it would a 5'10" tall person. But when I got on a scale 3 years ago and saw 194 pounds tipping under my feet, I freaked. I promised myself I would never, ever get that heavy again. I began eating healthier, watching my portion sizes, taking my doctor's advice on how to best get the weight off and keep it off. Between the months of February 2004 and May 2004, I dropped from 194 pounds to 154 pounds. I get pissed off when I see either of my sisters, who are both overweight, and they tell me that my ability to stay thin makes them sick, all while they shove every gluttonous thing in their mouth as they speak and I eat 1/3 of the portions that they do. If you aren't happy with what you see when you look in the mirror or when you step on the scale, then grow some willpower. Don't blame it on a poor metabolism, when you have every capability of getting up, moving around, and changing that metabolism. Don't blame it on genes, because I share the same genes as you and I don't weigh 200 pounds. Don't blame it on health problems, either, because even if it makes it more difficult for you, you can still do it. Yes, I do get a little judgemental when I see someone who's morbidly obese. Everyone on earth could be morbidly obese, if given the chance, but they aren't because they take care of themselves. Most people learn how to eat to live, instead of living to eat. Don't get me wrong; I have my emotional eating problems. I've been known to binge on chocolate for days, eating nothing but the chocolate, but I don't do it for months or years. At some point, I start to realize what I'm doing and change my behavior. It takes a lot of hard work to lose weight. I realize this more than anyone knows. My weight is a constant struggle for me, which sounds silly because I'm not what could be considered fat. But I'm not "fat" because I practice moderation when it comes to foods that may taste good, but end up looking pretty sick once I've eaten them. I'm tired of hearing people say that they're not going to sacrifice the food they love to eat in order to be healthy. I'm tired of hearing people say that they're going to change the way they view food, and then can't practice the restraint it requires. It is hard. If it weren't, it wouldn't be called restraint. Giving up just because something is difficult just means you don't have the intestinal fortitude it takes in order to make a commitment and stick to it. You have an emotional connection with food? So do I. Every time something bad in my life happens, every time that someone says something mean to me, every time that I fail, my first reaction is to eat whatever I can find. Sometimes, I give in to that reaction a lot. Sometimes, I give in to that reaction just a little. Sometimes, I don't give in to it at all. The food doesn't make me feel better. It never has. In fact, it makes me feel worse. I feel guilty because I know I shouldn't do it. And sometimes, that guilt makes me want to eat even more. I might as well, since I've given in to it already. It doesn't take long for me to recognize what I've just done, though. Then I work my ass off to reverse the damage I've done. I exercise, I cut back on indulgent things. In other words, I work hard. When I hear someone whining about their weight, I get pissed off. Whining doesn't solve anything. Actually do something about it. Don't tell me what you'd like to do. Actions speak louder than words. If one of your resolutions, this year, is to lose weight, I cheer you on. I offer you support. I don't wish you luck, because it isn't luck that makes you lose weight. The only secret you need to know is good, old-fashioned, willpower. Roll your eyes at me all you want, but as someone who constantly struggles with her weight and has for years, that is the only constant tool I've had to use. |
Leading entry: "Invalid Entry"  What can I say? Santa is as much fun for the adults as he is for the children. I can't wait until Ethan is old enough that he actually understands and gets excited about Santa. We planted the seeds all year, letting Christmas presents magically appear where they were not before on Christmas Eve. We talked about Santa and things he would need when he came to visit. I asked Ethan which kind of cookies I should bake for him, do we leave him milk or juice, do you think he might like hot cocoa instead? Santa had gingerbread cookies, Punch Juicy Juice, and soda crackers left for him this year. That was what Ethan had chosen. And when E woke up Christmas morning, we brought him his stocking. Inside, was a "note" from Santa, thanking him for the cookies, juice, and crackers. He was excited to have his very own letter from Santa, though he still doesn't quite understand who Santa is. When asked, he pointed at Daddy, instead of the Jolly Red Man, whose picture was painted on the book I held in my lap. Next year, I suspect, Santa will be something truly special. Christmas Eve will start to become as exciting to him as it was to me when I was a kid. I may be a member of the brotherhood of adults, but Santa still exists in my world. Santa isn't a person. Instead, he's something more. Santa envelopes everything that is childhood and the spirit of Christmas. Santa is what made me actually decorate my tree this year, even though the spirit betrayed me early one. Santa is what's brought the fun back into Christmas for me, since Ethan was born. Santa is what allows adults, like me, to relive the most exciting moments of childhood innocense through our children. Santa is one of my favorite people, because he reminds me that even at 27, I can still have as much joy on Christmas morning as I did when I was 8. |
| Leading entry: "Love" Love for your fellow man. Easy to say, hard to practice. There's videos out, now, of Saddam's hanging, showing him strangling to death, hanging from a rope in the gallows. The very thought of watching it turns my stomach and chills my bones. Why would anyone take pleasure in watching another human being die? Aren't those who choose to watch this video just as bad as him, in a sick and twisted, hypocritical way? Jason had told me about it this morning. "Did you watch it?" I asked him. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to know. "Only the first few moments, when they were putting the noose around his neck. I couldn't stand to watch more than that." What is it about this generation of people, that they like to record events of people being killed, dying, breathing their last breath? I don't need to watch it to know it happened. Just show me a photo of his body laying on an autopsy table, eyes closed, skin pale, unmoving, dead. Would they have done this to Gerald Ford in his last hours, if the option were available to them? Would they have made this man forever remembered, in time, by his death? Is it because of the life that Saddam chose to live that we choose to take pleasure in his death? I'm not saying that the man didn't deserve to have his life taken away, but does anyone deserve to have the last, violent moments of their life displayed for all of the world to view? To me, this does not show love for your fellow man. It shows that we, as human beings, have a long way to go. |
| "In the Company of Fine Women and Wine" Men don't "get it," but I'm not completely clear on it, either. Then again, I'm not quite the typical female. The only time I have ever spent hanging out with a person of the same gender, talking for hours at a time, is when I had hemmerhoid surgery and the Vicodin made me sick to my stomach. Every time that I moved, I would vomit, or at least dry heave for several minutes. With a three-month-old baby, it was kind of hard for Jason to take care of me and Ethan at the same time. He had things to get done around the house, as well. The lawn needed to be mowed, dinner needed to be cooked, and he had to make a trip to Walgreens to pick up the antinausea suppositories that the doctor had called in for me, along with a new pain perscription for Darvocet. ("With an asshole that was held together by stitches, you expect me to stick those where?" Those were my exact words to the doctor. I could never bring myself to actually use them. The thought terrified me.) Ethan was napping, and I was laying on the couch, trying not to move. I kept thinking that I should call Richelle and see if she could come help Jason out because I knew that there was no way he was going to be able to do everything without my help. It was like Richelle had read my mind, because not 15 minutes after I had thought about her, then passed out while I let the Vicodin get out of my system, she was calling to see how things were going. I've never cried in front of another girl. Richelle always has been and probably always will be the only one. I started bawling and told her of the horrible time I was having with the Vicodin and that Jason was trying to get everything done before he had to go back to work the next day. So, she came over to the house and helped out for about 10 hours. In that time, she helped me take a sitz bath, held my hair while I puked, brushed my hair and braided it so I wouldn't need it held the next time I puked, changed my son's diapers, kept my husband sane, and talked to me about anything we could think of to try to keep my mind off of the fact that I couldn't walk 2 feet without tossing my cookies. After 12 total hours of vomitting, the Vicodin finally wore off and I could function in a semi-normal state again. I asked her if she would be there for the birth of my next baby, and she said she would be honored, as long as she never had to hold my hair to puke again. The things we talked about while I was in a semi-drugged state of mind are hilarious. I do still want her to be there when this next baby is born, though. She knows how to tell me to get over "it" without hurting my feelings or me worrying about hurting her feelings. When you can be that honest with someone, and let her see you naked in all of your glory, you know she's someone you can trust. Especially since we all know how grumpy I can be inclined to get. |
| Leading entry: "Invalid Entry" I can't think of a favorite poem right now. Not without being cliche' and saying something like EAP's The Raven, even though that isn't my most favorite. It would probably be something by Emily Dickens, though I couldn't name a title right this moment. To be honest, I'm exhausted. I'm trying to get all caught up with this contest, and finding that the closer to the end I get, the more challenging the responses have become. Every entrant has brought his or her best to the table, and I have not been able to offer that, for one reason or another. I've felt, in the past couple of weeks of reading each leading entry, that I am out of my league. I am overwhelmed by how well everyone else has done with their leading entries and also with their responses. I know I'm a journaler of my own merit, otherwise I wouldn't even be in this competition, but I don't know if competing is the right word I would give my effort this time around. I think the right word is probably keeping up. I could give every excuse in the book, but my heart hasn't been in much of anything creative the past three weeks or so. I've sort of burned myself out on blogging, scrapbooking, reading, writing, anything that involves utilizing my imagination. To be honest, I'm surprised I've stayed up past 8 p.m. the past two nights in order to get some entries written. But I took a nap today so I would be able to give it one last push to the end. I will see this through. And there you have it. My response has absolutely nothing to do with the original leading entry, but that is the response it inspired. |
| "Invalid Entry" When I lived in Kentucky, I would occasionally do work for a farmer by the last name of Detmer. He looked as old as dirt and acted like he was only in his 20s. The sun had beaten his skin a dark leather and arthritis had twisted his fingers into odd directions at the first knuckle. Me, the city girl, had never seen anything like him. He had white hair, was clean shaven, and wore a baseball cap to protect his bald spot. I think every time that I worked for him, he wore a flannel shirt of one kind or another, even though the temperature was always higher than 80 degrees. The first time I'd ever worked for him, Trisha told me we would be going to gather bales of straw. Straw is lighter than hay, she told me, so it shouldn't be too hard for me. I was a soft city girl and she knew it, but she figured I could handle repeatedly lifting 50 pounds, even though I'd never done any farm work like it in my life. I wore a long sleeved shirt and jeans, like I was instructed. Straw will leave sliver splinters in your arms and legs that will itch like crazy if you don't do something to cover your skin. The temperature was somewhere in the 90s, and it was 2 p.m. when we started work. He had asked us to come for 4 hours. We'd make $25 for our efforts, which I thought was fair. Farm work was good when you needed fast cash and you didn't have time to wait for a pay check and you especially wanted to be paid under-the-table. Most farmers wouldn't pay $5 an hour, you'd be lucky to clear $4. But Detmer paid a fair $5, which would at least get fuel in my car to get me to my real job that I was starting the following week. We started at one end of the field, and progressed to the other side, where we'd turn and drive up another row. Detmer was driving the tractor, Trisha and Deidre were on the wagon, stacking the straw bales as Chris, Anthony, and I all threw them up on the wagon. I did well the first row, picking up about 10 bales without a problem. My cheeks were burning, my lungs were burning, my arms were burning, and my legs were burning, but I was determined not to let it get to me. By the time we got through the second row, I was slowing down and Chris and Anthony were having to pick up the slack. Did I mention that I was a soft city girl, weighing in at a whopping 175 fat-girl pounds? The most exercise I'd seen in the past year was marching the 3 miles in the Memorial Day parade for marching band. The most weight I'd lifted was somewhere around 25 pounds, though it was nestled comfortably on a harnass that held the bass drum in place. (I carried the one we called tinker - it looked like a snare drum turned sideways and made a "tink" noise whenever a player struck it.) By the fourth row, Trisha called me up to sit on the trailor to take a rest for the last two rows before our 15-minute break. My face was completely flushed and she thought my blood might be boiling. I felt like a complete failure, not really wanting to give up so easily, but knowing that if I didn't I would probably stroke out. When Detmer stopped for our "soda break," he took one look at me and told me to sit under a tree for the rest of the time. If I looked better by the time it came to load the straw into the barn, I could join back in on the fun. I protested, with my hard-headed city slickness. "No, sir. I can do this job." "You might be able to, but you look like an over-ripe tomato right now, and I ain't paying you no workman's comp. So sit there, drink this water, and enjoy watching the rest of 'em work, girl." I did as I was told, and when they finished the last 4 rows, they went to the barn. If I had thought the field was hot, the barn only took the field and multiplied it by about 500. The air was so stagnant, I felt like I couldn't breathe. "Go sit down, girl. You ain't heat strokin' on my property." I was ashamed of myself. I had set out to prove that I could work as hard as the next person and pull my weight, and the only thing I'd proved was that I was as soft as they all had originally thought. I went and sat down by the tree, drinking more water, and watching the rest of them unload the straw bales. 6 o' clock came, and it was time to get paid. Detmer had written each of us a check beforehand. When he handed me the check, I protested, "No, sir. I only worked for 2 hours." "I don't care how long you worked, girl. You put more effort into your 2 hours than the rest of them did in all 4. You earned your $25. Just don't spend it in one place." He gave me a sly wink. "Thank you, sir." I smiled, appreciative of his generosity. "Call me Alan." He winked at me again. "I hope you're able to make it 3 hours next time." His heart was as warm and kind as his skin was weathered and his knuckles gnarled. I always enjoyed working for Alan Detmer. |
| Leading entry: "Invalid Entry" I worked for Wal*Mart once, when I was going to school to do what I do now, sort of. Well sort of in that I'm not really doing what I went to college to learn, not sort of in working for Wal*Mart. I hated those blue vests, too. They pay a lot more than they did in the days of Ivy Tech, though. I made $6.75 an hour at my top pay scale, working as a cashier on second shift. I'm sure that night stockers made a dollar more an hour. It's something I remember vaguely during my training. "$6.00 as a floor associate during regular hours. 50 cents more an hour if you work as a cashier, though only if scheduled as a cashier. Register trained associates scheduled to work on the floor will always only make $6.00 an hour. If you work on Sundays, you get a dollar more an hour. If you work third shift, you get a dollar more an hour." At least they gave incentives, I guess. And Wal*Mart wasn't bad to work for, for the most part, unless you count multiple late lunch breaks during Christmas season or multiple occurances of being scheduled to work during class times. That's actually what ended my working relationship and the wearing of the blue vest. It's no secret that college students' class schedules may change with each semester. It is also no secret that we can only schedule said classes at a certain time before the semester is to begin, unless, of course, you qualify for early registration, which I did not. Since this particular semester was going from summer to fall, there was only something like 3 weeks before the semester began and I scheduled my classes. For Wal*Mart, at least my store, you had to turn in schedule changes at least 4 weeks in advance, preferrably 6. I turned in my schedule change the very same day that I made my new schedule, apologizing to my department manager and the girl who made the schedule, citing no choice in school policy. My department manager said that since they didn't want to discourage students from working for Wal*Mart, they would make appropriate changes to the schedule and I wouldn't have to work the days where I had classes, even though I had been assigned to do so. A week before classes were to begin, I checked the newly posted schedules for September and the first half of October, and every single week I was to work during 3 of my 4 classes, three days in a row. I went to my department manager, and she said not to worry about it. So I didn't. On the fourth day, I went in to work, attempted to clock in and found my badge to be invalid. When I went to my department manager, she said, "Well 3 no-call-no-shows in a row is considered quitting." I just didn't bother. It wasn't that important. I had two other jobs, anyway, so it's not like I would be hurting for money. In fact, I was happy to have the night off to catch up on homework. |
| Leading entry: "Invalid Entry" . . . I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it. - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities But the disparaging of those we love always alienates us from them to some extent. We must not touch our idols; the gilt comes off in our hands. - Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary I can't talk to Jason about loving him. He doesn't take me seriously, nor does he understand exactly what I'm saying. He sees things in black and white, and I describe them in various shades of polka dot, stripes, and sometimes stars. He doesn't understand what it means for me to love someone, to trust someone, especially a person of the male persuasion. I have never wholly loved someone, not like that. I mean, I love my son with every ounce of my being, but mothers love their sons in different ways than women love their husbands. Some ounce of me puts up a wall, and while that wall is, for the most part, penetrable, there is always one section that won't come down for one reason or another. I often suffer from flight syndrome. I want to leave, to prevent him from leaving me and breaking my heart, because I feel somewhere that it's impossible for him to love me unconditionally and as the imperfect being that I am. Nobody else has ever found a way to do it, so why should he? Fleeing from the fear is much easier than staying to test my trust. Nobody has ever given me reason to trust in such a manner before, so why should he? In all of the little snits and problems, I have given him permission to leave me many times. Yet, he's always stayed. He's always told me that whatever anger he's feeling at the moment won't reduce his love for me, and I can't trust that completely. We all have conditions to our love, don't we? Isn't that why marriages fail like they do? I'll love you forever, or until you do something of which I don't approve. "Till death do us part," no longer applies, so it seems by the divorce rates and constant splits between celebrity couples announced in tabloids. Then I look at my parents, his parents, and my grandparents. 29 years, 32 years, and 50 years respectfully. Each has gone through things that might cause other marriages to fail, yet they still hold strong. Well, mostly, anyway. It makes me wonder why I'm so cynical about love. I mean, I do love my husband in more than a "playing house is so fun!" sort of way. I would stick by him in sickness, in health, in poorness, in wealth, in good times, in bad times, and be there for him whenever he needs me. That's what love really is, isn't it? It's one of the few scriptures we had in our wedding, anyway: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace. Ecclesiastes 3 I sure hope so, because otherwise I'm going to be really embarassed when someone tells me otherwise. When Jason started courting me, I thought it wasn't possible for my heart to love again, and I was scared he put me on a pedestal from which I would eventually fall. I've learned, though, that if he had me on a pedestal, I had fallen long ago and he either didn't notice or didn't care. I found out that I can love again, and I'm glad because I like it. |
| Leading entry: "Invalid Entry" Hmmm... my going commando only happens once in a blue moon, and I honestly wouldn't want to know if someone I know is walking around without their under garments. I like to be ignorant in knowing that the only thing that separates me from their... junk (as Problematic Content  would say) is a thin piece of fabric. That sentiment goes thrice as much for Ernie. I think Jason had to go commando for the same reason, once, though. He's a boxers man, so it isn't much different. He has the same zipper issue, in that he got, in his words, "my peepee stuck in the zipper. I kind of zipped it up too quickly." He had tears in his eyes and a big, red pinch blister on the shaft. I had tears in my eyes, too, but only because I was laughing my ass off. He wears jeans most of the time, and relaxed fit at that, so he's safe from male camel toe and tattle-tale pee spots. He's more likely to get fake pee spots from me squirting his pants with a spray bottle than he is to not shake his junk enough and have it leak all over his pants. If you shake it more than three times, you're playing with it. That's words from Jason's mouth, not mine. I see him shaking it repeatedly all of the time, so we know what he's really doing. The only thing worse than going commando, Jason says, is wearing satin or silk boxer shorts. You end up with a woody all day long, no matter what you do. He kind of likes how it feels against his junk, though, so every once in a while I see a tent springing in his pants and I know what's separating his junk from the rest of the world. |
| Leading entry: "Invalid Entry" I haven't gotten the chance to buy many books, though I had an addiction for a while. I still have a shelf of books I've been given that I haven't had the chance to read, but thankfully, I haven't bought more in the past year or so to add to that collection. I've been given a few, but for the most part I've devoured them right away, leaving only this shelf to sit and gather dust. Most of my collection involves Stephen King books. Actually, I purged many of my books and only kept the ones I haven't read and my absolute favorites. It consists of: * Stephen King, On Writing * Stephen King, The Dark Tower I: The Gunslinger * Stephen King, The Dark Tower II: The Drawing of the Three * Stephen King, The Dark Tower III: The Waste Lands * Stephen King, The Dark Tower IV: Wizards and Glass * Stephen King, The Dark Tower V: Wolves of the Calla * Stephen King, The Dark Tower VI: Song of Susannah * Stephen King, It # Stephen King, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon # Stephen King, Everything's Eventual * John Grisham, The Partner (One of my most recent purchases, made at Walgreens so I would have something to do while waiting at the doctor's offices and whatnot when I was sick back in August or September or whenever that was. I read it in two days. It was OK, but it won't make my next purge.) # James Welch, Fools Crow (Someone recommended this to me, and I bought it but haven't had the chance to read it. I've had it for four years now. I will eventually get around to reading it, I promise.) # Rebecca Wells, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood # Rebecca Wells, Little Altars Everywhere (Someone bought me both in a boxed set for a gift. I'm not sure if these books are something I would normally read, but one day I'll get bored and get around to it, I hope. They're taking up valuable shelf space when they go unread for six years. * Cyn D Pagliolo, Poisoned Fear * Cyn D Pagliolo, Emotional Rollercoaster (These are both books by Lady Stars .)# Ed. Peter Haining, The Mammoth Book of Haunted House Stories (Bought on a whim, it includes stories by M.R. James, Hugh Walpole, Fay Weldon, Robert Bloch, Ramsey Campbell, L.P. Hartley, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Joan Aiken, James Herbert, Ruth Rendell and others. There's 35 contributions in all. I've read two or three here and there, but not the full monte.) # Ed. Wendy Martin, More Stories We Tell (Richelle gave this to me for my birthday last year, and I haven't gotten around to reading any of it, yet. It features "The Best Contemporary Stories by North American Women." Authors include Margaret Atwood, Toni Cade Bambara, Andrea Barrett, Ann Beattie, Amy Bloom, Sandra Cisneros, Louise Erdrich, Lynn Freed, Mary Gaitskill, Ellen Gilcrist, Amy Hempel, Gish Jen, Jamaica Kincaid, Jhumpa Lahiri, Andrea Lee, Bobbie Ann Mason, Alice McDermott, Lorrie Moore, Alice Munro, Joyce Carol Oates, ZZ Packer, Grace Palye, Marisa Silver, and Stephanie Vaughn.) # J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (OK, so I bought this because my friends pressured me to, even though I'm not into the trends like Napoleon Dynamite, but only because I liked the movie. I got three pages into it and read one of my Stephen King books again, instead.) # Jane Hamilton, The Book of Ruth (Another recommendation that I actually made the purchase though I haven't gotten around to reading it quite yet.) */# Jack Kerouac, On the Road (I read about half of it, loved it, but put it down and haven't made my way back to it, yet.) * JRR Tolkein, The Fellowship of the Ring (It was given as a gift. I haven't read this exact book, but I'd read them in high school where I checked them out from the library.) Of course, I have my Questions of the Bizarro, If, If Squared, and Jenny McCarthy's books that my mother-in-law bought me for my birthday and then my first mother's day. Those books are there mostly just for fun, though. They're not there for literary entertainment, though since the other ones are just sitting there they haven't been much entertainment, either. That's mostly my fault, though. I have 30 - 40 other books in boxes downstairs, though they'll most likely be put in a garage sale this summer. I don't have the space to keep oodles of books, even though I wish I did. Maybe I can be like Cappy, one of these days, and just start knocking off books so I can make room for new ones. I have nothing like 70-something, though. And for that, I'm thankful. |
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Whatever you do, hang in there, he'll be sleeping like a big boy in no time!