Sonnet 87

Caveat Number One: I think kids and babies are cute.

Caveat Number Two: Just because I think babies and kids are cute does not mean I want to hear every detail about the kids of my colleagues and acquaintances.

Caveat Number Three: I have not experienced childbirth or parenting. This I know. Trust me that I know.

Caveat Number Four: I tend to give advice only when asked. I also don’t make broad statements about how someone else’s experience might be a twin image of my own.

So, with the caveats out of the way, I’d like to ask some of the mothers I know to please stop saying “Just you wait” to me.

Just you wait until you have kids.

Just you wait until you’re pregnant.

Just you wait until you deal with schools.

Just you wait until etc., etc., etc.

Now, again: no kids over here. I know I don’t know the things that parents go through, and I know that, as Johnson & Johnson says, having a baby changes everything. I know it does and will should IP and I have kids. I’m not even going to pretend that one aspect of my life will remain the same. Everything will change, and if we choose to have kids, IP and I will embrace the changes as best we can.

However? The unsolicited “just you waits” have got to stop. Now.

When you are speaking to someone else, sharing your birth stories, please do not turn to me, without prompting or observation from yours truly (because I hate those conversations and tune them out), to say “Just you wait.” When you are lamenting the spread of your hips, the new belly pooch you have, when you talk about breastfeeding, there is no reason to turn to me, again ignoring you, to say “Just you wait.” When there is a discussion about who is in the birthing room with you, do not shout down a currently pregnant woman who says she has decided on a limited amount of people, shrieking that all modesty goes out the window, finishing your rant on her ignorance with “Just you wait.” When you grouse about schools and someone makes a mild observation about how different school systems handle different situations, do not assume that that person’s children will have the experience as yours by proclaiming “Just you wait.”

Why? It’s arrogant, it’s rude, it’s smug, it’s dismissive. You assume, as in the last example, that all women and parents are the same, that there are truths and universals that no parent can escape. While there can be commonalities, of course, and the person you’re lecturing might experience those commonalities, it is dangerous and obnoxious to assume that there aren’t subtle yet powerful differences that’ll come into play for others. You come across not as informed, but holier-than-thou—you’ve already done it so you’re kindly imparting wisdom on the stupid child-free person. What fools, you chuckle. While we seethe. We seethe because you didn’t impart knowledge; you loftily condemned us as if you could condemn us. As if we must experience what you experience because you will it so.

Insufferable.

I heard similar “just you waits” from the same people when it came to marriage. Yet the vows did not change my husband: he is not the slothful, irresponsible mate that they seem to have scored; he has his quirks, as I have mine, but rarely do I go to my colleagues, acquaintances or friends bitching about what IP has or hasn’t done. I’d rather talk to IP to clear up our issues instead of commiserating with other women about what dumbasses our husbands are (and I use that word because that’s what I hear). I can’t tell you how many stories I hear about men and their forgetfulness, their inability to schedule things, their ineptitude at the smallest household chore. I heard “just you waits” about how IP would quickly turn into a sitcom husband. Yet . . . he didn’t. Wow! An exception to the “just you waits!”

I’m not saying that our potential experiences with pregnancy or parenthood would fall outside of the “just you waits.” I’m just saying that applying those “just you waits” to everyone is annoying and pompous and erroneous if you’re saying it to someone who chooses to be child-free. Especially when the person you’re admonishing didn’t ask. You sound like a prissy schoolteacher wagging his or her finger in the face of a child, telling them how wrong they are and will be about life until they experience X, Y, and Z. And you know what? Those generalizations never apply across the board.

So? Please shut up with the “just you waits.”

Love, WordNerd.

I will admit: in order to make my slog through Stephen King’s Under the Dome, I headed over to Wikipedia for a quick synopsis. I was, after all, just confirming what I already knew to be true about the book’s ending. The book was taking a long time in getting there, so I just hurried up the process for no other reason than to prove I was right. Since I was not enjoying the book, there wasn’t going to be an “Aha!” moment when everything that I thought would happen did. So Wikipedia it was. And yes. I was right.

Stephen King’s writing has been on and off for years now (on: Lisey’s Story, Duma Key for the most part, From a Buick 8; off: Cell, Just After Sunset taken as a whole, and now Under the Dome). I still read his works because a) I’m always hoping for an on and II) I like his characters. For the most part, King is able to create vivid, interesting characters who grow, change and learn in his stories. I also have an unabashed and unashamed love of the supernatural. His characters are usually distinct and memorable, and they drive the story.

So it’s a shame that both the supernatural and the characters fail in Under the Dome. The book is the tale of Chester’s Mill, a town in Maine that, on October 21, finds itself under an invisible dome that lets no one in and out, and barely allows air and moisture to pass through its transparent walls. The book is political allegory: the leaders of the town are Bush and Cheney in miniature, able to rally the town using lies, impossible promises, and escalating infringement on basic civil rights, all the while carrying out their own illegal activities without fear of exposure. While I still delight in a good hit on Bush and Cheney any day of the week, reading 1,100 pages of it was difficult. Why? Because there was no movement in the characters or the story. It was just one bad thing after another happening, built up with heavy-handed foreshadowing (paraphrase: “he was certainly wrong about that”; “he was right about it getting much worse”; “there would be no Halloween”).

The story just ends, too, with a halfhearted explanation as to why the Dome was there in the first place and why it was removed; I mean, I get that it was supposed to be halfhearted because of who put it there, but that doesn’t make the story any more satisfying. I don’t really need a reason for the Dome to be there, but I do need my characters to be distinctive and sympathetic, my resolution firm, my eyes to not be skimming long passages because I somehow know that they’re not relevant to the overarching plot.

It’s really hard to pinpoint one fatal flaw with Under the Dome; there are so many lowlights in the story, but the biggest one I can think of is this: I just wasn’t frightened. It’s not that the supernatural wasn’t present enough (it wasn’t), but it’s that inhumanity of some of the characters was so over the top as to be cartoonish. King can create the horror of detached humanity (Randall Flagg’s followers in The Stand immediately spring to mind), but the Cheney character (one James Rennie, used car salesman) was too detached; there was no conflict in his mind, there was no regret, just a sadism and hunger for control. Rennie was inhuman to the point of unbelievability; Flagg, for example, also has no conflict or regret, but that’s because he’s not human. The human followers of Flagg are responding negatively to things they see as real offenses and injuries and flaws, and the insecurity therein is exploited expertly by Flagg to create his Las Vegas enclave of evil. In the end, though, they think they’re doing things right and that’s why they continue on their path. Rennie and his cronies, though, know that what they’re doing is wrong, know that there will be a day when the Dome comes up and they’ll be accountable, but they don’t seem to care. I suppose that should be more frightening, but when my picture of Rennie resembles a fat Judge Doom from Who Framed Roger Rabbit, there’s some serious trouble with the characterization, motivation and resolutions of the bad guys.

I hope the next Stephen King is an on.

Onto the book list:

Finished:

1) The Broken Teaglass by Emily Arsenault
2) The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles by Steven Pressfield
3) The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peal Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
4) Shades of Grey: The Road to High Saffron by Jasper Fforde
5) Marie Antoinette: The Journey by Antonia Fraser
6) Unaccustomed Earth: Stories by Jhumpa Lahiri
7) Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher
8) Lavinia by Ursula K. Le Guin
9) Shakespeare’s Wife by Germaine Greer
10) The Case for Books: Past, Present, and Future by Robert Darnton
11) Under the Dome by Stephen King

Re-read:

Empty

Currently Reading:

1) Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge by Eleanor Herman

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) Sex with the Queen: 900 Years of Vile Kings, Virile Lovers, and Passionate Politics by Eleanor Herman
2) The World in Half by Cristina Henriquez

I think I’m a mite cranky thanks to having blood drawn today, but to the searches for “modern English translation to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 87″ . . . you can’t be serious, can you? I mean, really? Sonnet 87 (the sonnet, not the blog) is as plain as day. Read it a few times over, digest the words. Don’t assume it’s not modern English (because it is—it’s not written in Old or Middle English, after all); the language of it is so clear (but the meaning can be terribly, wonderfully complex) and I am fearful for those who think it requires a translation. It doesn’t need a translation. You need to drink deeply of the words to explore the various meanings. Read it out loud. Several times over. Let the cadence of the words take you. Make links between the words Shakespeare uses to create the sonnet and the imagery therein. Allow the language a chance to charm you before you give up in frustration and do such a search.

I think kids today just don’t know how to analyze. They look for the quick meaning, the quick fix. There’s no in-depth analysis, there’s no commitment or attempt to understand. Where’s the poetry? Where’s the analysis?

I’m sorry. Cranky. But seriously, I am appalled.

IP and I have booked our honeymoon! We’ll be headed to Cancun in April. Greece is still on the table, though: it’ll either be our “Damn, we’re stuck in D.C. for longer, huh? Let’s take a later summer vacation, dammit!” trip or our “We’ve decided to have kids: this may be the last vacation in which we will have peace but lack poof-cheeked goodness!” Either way, the books on Greece that my sister got us for Christmas will be put to use either this year or next.

To prepare for the trip, I assessed my current inventory of summer clothes and determine that it’s drab. Drab-drab-drinsky. So I headed over to Old Navy to check out the things I’d been eying. With the help of my sister, I ended up with the following:

A few skirts for those days when we’re out of our swimsuits and not on a tour. Or for the evenings, of course:

A few (more than few cute tops that’ll complement the skirts or shorts):

My sister specifically picked out the light sweater and tank below for the orange skirt pictured above:

And finally, I needed a new bathing suit. Lands’ End was having a sale. It was a match made in heaven:

And I’m not even close to done. Up next: new luggage, some shorts, and doing my best to resist buying this lovely dress from Athleta.com that I could also wear in Greece one day:

A brief vent:

I hate how my co-workers pronounce my first name. They say it—or attempt to say it—in Spanish, having once told me that I “deserve to have [my] name said properly.” Believe you me, the English pronunciation is hunky-dory! It makes me cringe each time a co-worker says my name. I told one new co-worker (who is pretty awesome), that she could use the English pronunciation (and confessed that I really hated the faux-Spanish version), but she mostly slips into what she hears from the majority. I want to make a general announcement at our company lunch tomorrow that they should cease and desist, but that might come across as bitchy. I do like my co-workers for the most part, but I haaaaaaaaaaaate how they pronounce my name.

That is all.

Brought to you by WordNerd.

I wrote this a year, maybe two years ago. I just reread it and found it slightly entertaining.

My mother was always somewhat halfhearted in her attempts to make our family a religious one. We were resistant in part because our father, who freely questioned the Church’s authority, allowed us to do so also—he wasn’t going to be any help to the woman. Additionally, my mother’s aforementioned, well-intentioned (I suppose) but ultimately unmotivated displays of faith didn’t help argue her case. Kids really do learn by example, and this was one lesson she didn’t teach with force.

The move to Mexico when I was 11 gave her the best chance she ever had to convert all four of us kids. The ringing church bell on Sundays can be heard throughout our village, and woe to the person caught heading away from the summons. In a town where “Esta es una casa católica—no solicitud” adorns windows and doors, where the Protestant population is relegated to the outskirts of the village, and where religious processions much like the York Cycle dominate during Lent, it’s hard to avoid Catholicism. It is immediate, ever-present, and enthusiastically invoked. You cannot escape it.

But, as my mother is wont to do, she put less effort into her endeavors than was required, trusting that the village’s religious fervor—bound up as it was with social interactions and the judgment hidden therein—would sweep us right along into piety. Alas, she miscalculated and discounted our lives prior to Mexico. Formative years in Saline, Michigan, where we were outcasts at best (as both Mexican and pseudo-Catholics), made us uncomfortable in large crowds and less willing to play follow the leader than she would’ve liked. Where large crowds with consensus go (white is better than Mexican, the Holy Spirit is in this wafer here), I personally tend to go in the other direction. Sensing this tendency in me, my mother re-grouped and re-focused. No longer would she depend on the village to raise the children. She instead pointed towards me and said:

“Next great Catholic.”

She probably did this for several reasons:

1. I’m the eldest daughter
2. I’m a woman, so I’m naturally in more need of spiritual guidance than, say, my older brother A
3. I had inherited my father’s “question everything” mantra, unseemly in a woman, especially since older brother A wasn’t as vocal about his dissent
4. I was already signaling rebellion and a burgeoning feminist streak (abortion was already about choice in my young mind—I started early), and;
5. She thought she needed to tame me because I was she felt I didn’t act like a lady should (Swearing is bad? Well, fuck me!)

So began catechism, probably the biggest time-waster I have ever been a party to (well, the Helix Lounge is a very close second). I was thrust into a small group of girls a bit younger than I was, expected to learn all the sacraments, the deadly sins, and every evil womankind has every wrought on Church, God, country, and pious man. I learned to cross myself; I had to peek on the first few tries because I did not know the super, awesomely-powered, ultra-protective cross (with four styles of crossing—forehead, lips, chest, and an all-encompassing cross that guaranteed your safety against devils [not a guarantee]). I began to memorize by rote a catechism booklet that told me what venial and mortal sins were, and how I could go to—fun!—hell for having a vagina. I grew tired to this damnation talk after about two Sundays’ worth of sessions and began to skip.

I’d pretend to leave my house, catechism book in hand like a good girl. When out of sight, I’d stash my book behind a tree, and then skip off to buy churritos, hielo if it was available, and anything my then-fast metabolism desired. I avoided the public square where catechism was held, but would wander in plain sight (well, except my mom’s sight), walking the length of the village, trying to ignore the 30-year-old men catcalling my 12-year-old ass (and women are evil? Rest assured, I stayed close to where I knew other women would be).

Much too soon, though, I was discovered. A schoolmate, of all people, ratted me out to my mother. I was then frog-marched to catechism by my mother or my fellow prisoners, and endured the wise teachings of Misogyny Central (led, curiously enough, by a woman who would later have a baby by the village priest and be called a whore for having seduced him, since priests obviously are helpless—I mean, no power of God behind them is helpful in the face of womanly temptation, right?). My eyes rolled to the back of my head during each class, but I figured the faster I learned this stuff, the faster I could get back to my churritos. With skepticism instilled by my father dominating, I didn’t have any sorts of revelations,  jumping wholeheartedly into religious devotion, though I’m sure that’s what Mom prayed for each night before going to bed.

Learn I did, or I at least regurgitated the catechism—the test was answering all 100 questions in the booklet, in order (what, no hymen check?). I then had to endure a confession session with the priest; they actually brought in another guy from a neighboring town since so many people were confessing that day (it had to do with the First Communions coming up and the festival day that was nigh). I was forced to confess to some strange man, face to face, on someone’s porch steps. Awkward! I was then given Hail Marys and Our Fathers to recite, told to sin no more (hah!), and went through the First Communion ceremony the next day.

The picture taken to commemorate the day (wherein my 12-year-old self towers over the seven- and eight-year-old girls who took their First Communion alongside me—again, awkward) shows my state of mind; my face is set in a scowl, my eyes purposely set away from the camera and looking off into the distance, clutching my candle and flowers and rosary and prayer book as if I were strangling someone. I was not a happy camper; picture me in a miniaturized wedding dress, my unkempt Roseanne Roseannadanna hair going every which way, clearly thinking that I’ve been entered into some weird community against my will.

None of it made any sense to me: the whole system was set up to make women patsies, and everyone around me seemed to be enjoying every minute of it. To me, it seemed like I was subjecting myself to another layer of monitoring, another layer of condemnation for having been born a woman, another layer of blame for things that had nothing to do with me. My mother was happy, flushed with maternal pride, but I was grumpy all day. I felt like I had been forced to sacrifice a little bit of my soul just to eat a wafer. I don’t blame the young girls for being so enthusiastic about it—with the dress, the flowers, the accessories, the pictures, all you needed was a groom to make it a wedding day (and, like 20+ years in terms of age); these kids were totally enthusiastic about playing their parts of Church princesses. At 12, though, you’re forming your own ideas about religion based on what you’ve experienced and learned, and I was furious. Nothing in my upbringing had ever prepared me for this to happen, and my other siblings were lucky enough to dodge the bullet.

I know this means a lot to Catholics, but like I said: to me it didn’t make any sense. I didn’t believe any of it. Even at 12, I was too cynical and analytical to take the spiritual with anything but a grain of salt. I know that that’s when my overriding philosophy about religion came sharply into focus: ceremony without belief is meaningless. It’s false to go through empty motions just to make family happy. I told myself then that I’d never compromise my beliefs just for the sake of giving someone else a ceremony of some sort.

The only redeeming part of it was that the village festival was going on, and that meant junk food and carnival rides in the evening.

I may have confessed once or twice again, and maybe flirted with the idea of doing so in later years, but my dedication to anything beyond the First Communion was non-existent. My mom tried to cajole me into doing my Confirmation, and she tried emphatically to steer IP and me toward a Catholic wedding, but in the end, our ceremony was completely and utterly secular. If we have kids, I’m sure she’ll push for baptism, but I feel it’s unnecessary. We will teach any kids we may have about religions of the world (101), and if they feel attracted to a certain faith we’ll do our best to be supportive, but ultimately we’d like to raise adults who question, analyze, and deconstruct existing religions while still respecting them (insomuch as that religion respects them, though; if you want to practice any religion, have at it, but don’t infringe on my right to not practice!); I know you can practice and question, but for me, the belief in a higher power wasn’t there. That right there should’ve been the deciding factor. I probably didn’t express it then, but you bet your ass I’ve learned to as an adult. I don’t seek out conflict with my mother in terms of religion, but I don’t back down when it comes to Catholic vs. Atheist: The Reckoning (coming to a theater near you). My disbelief is too much a part of me.

So, anyway, my story of my First Communion. Rest assured that I don’t hash this out with my mom every chance I get (so, Mathgeek: no accusatory phone calls, please!), but it certainly helps inform how I became the atheist I am today.

I didn’t set resolutions for 2010, but there are a few things I want to improve: I just didn’t feel the need to enumerate them at the New Year. I made a list which I titled “Things I Want To Do Better” in my notebook, and it included exercising smarter, writing, reading more, and searching for a new job; things I was already doing, but that needed some improvement. So I figured, why not a progress report now that the second month of 2010 is coming to a close?

Exercising Smarter: At the tail end of 2009, I started the New Rules of Lifting for Women (or NRoL4W as it’s affectionately known). I’d seen it recommended by various people in various places, but the place where it stuck was The Nest: Brie at The Fit Bride blog is very body positive and healthy in her fitness discussions. So I picked up the book, read through it, found it made more than enough sense, and started at it. So far I love the workouts (even the goddamn, blasted, cursed body weight matrix which I have to do tonight) and have seen some muscle gain. I’m doing less well on the nutrition aspect, though; Christmas, plus a trip to Michigan, plus a husband who loves to cook, plus a wife who’s learning all her mother’s recipes, and I find myself needing to revamp how I eat throughout the day. I use the Lose It app on the iPhone to keep track of my meals, though, so hopefully I’ll see some fat loss and more muscle gain. I’ve been lifting for years now, but I’d never done compound moves—my upper body’s already built, and I do have some nice ab definition, but I never thought I was strong enough to do a push-up until this program made me do 10 in a row. And my legs? Much stronger already. In addition to NRoL4W, I’m still running longer runs on the side; I’m registered for Cherry Blossom 10 Miler this year, and while I toyed with the idea of giving up my registration, I’ve decided to do it. I really am still at the point where running 10 miles isn’t a big deal for me. I’m slower than I once was (and faster than I’ll be, that’s not unusual*), but I can still do it. Also in the cards are the St. Patrick’s Day 8K and the RunAmuck 10K runs—I’ll be running both with my Jingle All the Way 10K buddy, so that should be fun.

Writing: I feel as if I’ve been writing more on the blog, and I have started the short story that’s been fermenting in my head since January 2009. I would say I’m about halfway through, and need to get on the ball again with the story: it’s terrible and no good, but I have enjoyed writing it and I would really like to finish it, edit it, have IP look at it, edit it again, then maybe have a friend do another reading, edit it again, and then maybe submit it. I also have an idea for a novel, and I’ve purchased some books for background research. So far it hasn’t been bad as I’ve done more now than I did in 2008 and 2009 combined, but I need to do more. I will do more, dammit. I’ve also started to write really bad, really cringe-worthy sonnets for this website, just for fun. One about Ann Arbor and the University of Michigan will be debuting soon.

Reading: I was complaining the other day to IP that I’ve only read eight books this year. He shrugged at me and said, “So? I’ve only read five.” I then looked back into Sonnet 87’s archives to see how much further along I was at this time of year in the past and, to my surprise: I’m ahead by three to five books depending on the year. I’m about to finish my ninth book of the year which, when compared to other people isn’t stellar, but it’s been a pretty good year so far. I have at least four books on my Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books) list; there are already books in my Amazon cart that I desperately want to buy (although I am terribly frustrated that Wolf Among Wolves, Hans Fallada’s newest translation, has been pushed back to May 25 instead of the March release that was on Melville House Publishing’s website). The best part is that I’ve yet to read a real stinker. That will probably change, and if it didn’t it would make for a very boring 2010 Book List Awards, but hell—reading is a fun and beautiful thing.

And finally, Searching for a New Job: I am searching for a new job. However, as I mentioned a few posts ago, I dropped that whole D.C. thing and decided to focus on my efforts on getting out West. IP has also started doing the same, and the idea of moving has become less than an if and more of a when. It may not happen this year, but we are putting in the time and effort to find jobs. I’ve only been able to apply to one job that matched my skills and their needs, but I keep on looking. I’ve set up my Google Reader to filter jobs ads from SimplyHired.com to me every day; I feel more on top of this than I ever did with my D.C. search. In this, I really feel the dedicated fire you need to make things happen. I’ve felt this about three things before, and here they are in chronological order: 1) losing 65lbs in college; b) making my long-distance relationship with IP work and III) getting myself out to D.C. to be with IP. With lots of work, lots of luck, and lots of hope, we can do it.

So that’s my progress in a nutshell. Here’s hoping the next couple of months see more improvement in all areas.

*$10 if you can tell me which song I paraphrased and the original line. WordNerdia-IPia family members not eligible for said $10.

As the sun does its work and powers through the hopelessly large of amount of snow still on the ground, IP and I have had a triumph: Saturday night we went shopping for the first time since January 29. Hallelujah!

And this week I have to start working full weeks again. The hell? Well, at least until April, when IP and I take some time off and head down to Cancún for what will be a well-deserved break away from D.C. We’re actually thinking that, if we haven’t moved by then, that we’ll take another vacation this year to Greece in Septemberish. Sounds good to me! So we’ll definitely have our Cancún trip, a visit from IP’s brothers, and a visit from my sister upcoming; IP and I also want to make time to visit my wonderfully geeky brother in Boston at some point, too. Throw in another trip to the South Pacific for me, and another wedding in the Pacific Northwest for the both of us, and IP maybe heading out to Cali at some point, and then both of us maybe going to Greece, and you’ll see we’ve actually got a lot of travel and visiting on our plates. Lots to look forward to, then, with these visits and trips breaking up the monotony that is life in D.C.

But first, I took a swing through Michigan during President’s Day weekend. It’s the easiest time to get away given the holiday and it’s also my dad’s birthday. So not only do I get to visit my family, but I get cake. What’s there to lose? For me, Michigan’s always filled with treats I can’t get here (although I did find Frozen Coke at 7-Eleven, it’s still not as good as Meijer), a trip to Meijer, a nice breakfast with the family at Big Boy or Bob Evans, playing Wii and, this trip around, watching the Olympics.

Ah over the clothes I bought at Kohl’s, Old Navy and M-Den (including my nifty ¡Vamos Azul! tee)! Oooh over the fact that my mom had to give me one of her pieces of luggage again because I couldn’t help myself when it came to buying new stuff. Hold your breath in anticipation as I describe having to substitute chili powder for cumin in my carnitas recipe because my mom hates cumin—only to have it turn out tasty and beloved by the Michigan WordNerdias.

The weekend was very fun, gentle teasing aside. I had fun being in a place that has less than half a foot of snow on the ground. To make me feel at home, my family even made sure I had some throwback Coke, which is basically Coke imported from Mexico since they still use real sugar down there:

Ah, tasty! Brings back lots of memories, too. Also in the cards was a Frozen Coke; my sister and I hit the Saline-Ann Arbor Road Target because, as she said, “They always have Frozen Coke there.” Imagine her surprise when there wasn’t any Frozen Coke; just Frozen Dr Pepper. While it was good, it was no Frozen Coke.

I wasn’t around a TV for Torino 2006, but I saw plenty of Vancouver 2010’s first weekend. I watched as Gretzky grimaced, a technical difficulty spoiling the lighting of the Olympic cauldron. I cringed when the Canadian women’s hockey team absolutely decimated Slovakia and Switzerland; as much as I’m rooting for them, the lopsided scores (18-0, 10-1) are painful to see. Hanging out with a friend, I saw Apolo Ohno win his sixth Olympic medal, watching the sure podium sweep by the Koreans become a disaster as the silver and bronze medalists-to-be knocked themselves out, allowing Ohno and his teammate J.R. Celski to move in and medal. I saw China’s Shen Xue and Zhao Hongo finally take the gold in pairs figure skating; although their programs were enjoyable, I was reminded that nobody comes close to being like Gordeeva and Grinkov these days.

In the end, it was just really nice to sit down and relax with my family for a few days. We celebrated our dad’s birthday with the aforementioned breakfast trip to Bob Evans, then filled up on ice cream and cake in the afternoon. We all pitched in and gave my dad a camera—he’s always been fond of taking pictures, but has never gotten a digital camera for himself. We found one that was mid-range, to get him started, but was more than just point and shoot. It was a quiet weekend (except for the afternoon where my sister and I did a Jackie Warner workout through On Demand; it was difficult, because I usually rest in between my damn lifting sets; my mom burst out laughing when I called Ms. Warner a bitch for making me do what was essentially five or six body weight matrices in a row—OUCH!). My mom also taught me how to make a new dish, which I’ve already made for IP and myself, which made us go “¡Delicioso!”

IP and I have to get through about eight weeks of work before heading to Cancún. He’ll take time off during that span when his youngest brother visits, and I’ll probably end up taking a day or two to work from home in order to greet our new dresser (whenever we may buy it; I didn’t suggest looking for it this weekend or next only because it seems to snow every single time I do). It’ll be a tough slog, but we’ll get there.

If you look back through my book list posts, Fagles’ translation of The Aeneid makes its first appearance in the October 26, 2007 entry: I mention that it’s in my cart at Barnes & Noble. I then mention that I’m reading it on December 4 of that same year. It stays on the Currently Reading list up until August 26, 2009; somewhere between that date and October 4 (nearly two years after I started it), Virgil’s epic finally makes it onto the Finished list. I had once joked to IP that The Aeneid was the Don Quixote of 2008 (while Don Quixote had been the Don Quixote of 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and probably 2010—I’ll never finish that book, will I?).

Anyway, I found The Aeneid difficult to get through—I was stumped by the funeral games for Anchises in Book V. I had been looking forward to Fagles’ translation very much as I had been a great fan of his translations of The Illiad and The Odyssey; I had tried to read Fitzgerald’s translation and failed (my sister, though, loved Fitzgerald’s rendering), and I thought that Fagles’ translation might resonate more. However, the funeral games knocked me off track sometime in February 2008 and I didn’t get back on the Virgil train until after the wedding this past August. I finally plowed through the last books, enjoying Fagles’ translation and, while I knew it was unfinished, cried out, “That’s it!?” when Aeneas kills Turnus and the screen goes to black.

I mean, what the hell!?

Kidding. I know that Virgil was dying and that his wish that the manuscript be burned was disregarded.

I didn’t expect myself to be writing about The Aeneid or Virgil on this blog anytime soon. After taking two years to read the poem, the idea of reviewing it for the blog seemed like nonsense. After all, it’s The Aeneid; it’s canon and it’s important and it is highly readable. When I committed to it, I enjoyed it, but because it took so long, something I recently read came to mind (and I think, but am possibly mistaken, that it was Harold Bloom who said it): if it takes more than a few days to read a book, you’re not fully committed to it; you’re not taking in the words and bonding to the writing like you should. It could be your fault, or it could be the text’s fault; however, if it takes you an inordinate amount of time (like, say, two years), then you’re not engaging the text as you should, nor should you offer it up for analysis. In this particular case, I agree (though I don’t always think that periods of time between readings renders you unable to analyze a book competently). I did not see myself mentioning The Aeneid again in any other context than an aside, or a joke about my slow reading of it.

In steps Ursula K. Le Guin and her superb novel, Lavinia.

Told from the point of view of Lavinia, daughter to King Latinus and Aeneas’ destined wife, the book follows the text of The Aeneid faithfully, allowing Lavinia to tell her side of the story as she sees it unfold. Le Guin does take liberties, assuming that Virgil got a few things wrong: for example, Lavinia is not a blonde, and does not tear at her hair when her mother kills herself (rather, I think Le Guin’s Lavinia is relieved, but intent on giving her mother the dignity and honors befitting a dead queen). But the text follows myth and legend for the most part, and it is Le Guin’s writing that carries the novel and allows Lavinia to come to life in a way Virgil did not.

The most interesting part of the text is that Lavinia, tuned into the gods and forces of her people and lands (though you’ll find no mischievous gods here), is able to communicate with the man who gave her life, but so little of it that her own telling is needed: Lavinia, in the forest of Albunea, speaks directly to Virgil, who lays dying centuries later aboard a ship. The Virgil of Le Guin’s story is thoughtful, intelligent, and aware that he has greatly underappreciated Lavinia as a person and character with a story; he laments that he did not let her light shine in his work. Their talks are cautious, with Virgil hesitant to give Lavinia too many details of her life, but it is in knowing those details that Lavinia sees her destiny: she must marry Aeneas, Turnus must die, and her descendants will give rise to the Roman Empire. The intersection of author and his myth and how much is will and how much is fate is an interesting conversation to say the least: what might you say to your creator? What might you say to your creation? And what would you say if you were the creator and suddenly found yourself created by another author (thanks to a throwaway line, Le Guin manages to tie in Dante’s Inferno)? The contrast of Lavinia’s myth and her personhood in Le Guin’s novel is a convoluted literary question to dwell on, but it is exciting nonetheless; where does Virgil end and where does Lavinia begin?

Once the war is over, the story is Lavinia’s entirely; she no longer has the writings of Virgil to guide her, or so she thinks. But the rendering of Lavinia’s world, in a Bronze Age glory that treats its inhabitants not as sophisticated Romans but as rough founders, is lovely, carrying the story past Virgil’s Aeneid and into its own realm. It’s a retelling, of course, but it is one done elegantly, seeking to give voice to a character whose importance was underrepresented. It does not attempt to perfect The Aeneid, of course, only expand. The women of Lavinia’s world are more than maneuvering goddesses and mad queens; they are essential to the society, striving to achieve what is best for their kingdom and their futures, bridging the Latin and Trojan ways in order to give rise to the rulers to come. As a character, Lavinia emerges as intelligent, resourceful, and pious; she makes mistakes, of course, but like Virgil’s hero, she strives to do what’s best for what is and what will come. In this, Aeneas and Lavinia are perfectly matched, and the domesticity they enjoy briefly is a beautiful literary snapshot in time.

A definite recommend. And as long it took me to read, be sure to read The Aeneid beforehand if you haven’t done so already. Also? Bernard Knox’s intro in Fagles’ translation is wonderful.

Onto the book list.

Finished:

1) The Broken Teaglass by Emily Arsenault
2) The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles by Steven Pressfield
3) The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peal Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
4) Shades of Grey: The Road to High Saffron by Jasper Fforde
5) Marie Antoinette: The Journey by Antonia Fraser
6) Unaccustomed Earth: Stories by Jhumpa Lahiri
7) Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher
8) Lavinia by Ursula K. Le Guin

Re-read:

Empty

Currently Reading:

1) Shakespeare’s Wife by Germaine Greer
2) The Case for Books: Past, Present, and Future by Robert Darnton

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) Under the Dome by Stephen King
2) Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge by Eleanor Herman
3) Sex with the Queen: 900 Years of Vile Kings, Virile Lovers, and Passionate Politics by Eleanor Herman
4) The World in Half by Cristina Henriquez

A very happy anniversary to my mom and dad! They were married at the very young ages of 19 and 25 in our little Mexican village. It’s been a long—and at times, tough—struggle for them, but I know I look to them as an example of a happy marriage, and as an example of stupendous parents. IP and I will be looking for their words of wisdom and experience if we choose to take on parenthood, and I’m very grateful they said “I do” 37 years ago today for obvious reasons. As IP and I celebrate our first six months of marriage, I hope we’re as happy 36.5 years from now.

I really admire my parents: not only did they successfully raise four kids in an alien environment, but they fought against racism; crappy jobs such as, yep, picking fruit; losing their first child; and dealing with it all with little to no support from their families since they chose to try to make it in Michigan as opposed to California (where the majority of our family is). My father’s father left his mother when my dad was five, yet he refused to repeat the same patterns and is the best dad ever (I guess I might be biased). My mother married my father a shy, retiring teenager, but has come into her own as a working, outspoken and caring woman. I hope IP and I can face changes and challenges with the same poise and resourcefulness that my parents did. I think my parents remembered, for the most part, that they were on the same team. It’s been a philosophy for IP and me for ages, but I didn’t realize that my parents also followed that mantra. Now, as they look to selling our childhood home and retiring to Mexico, I hope that we kids have made them proud, and I hope that they can go to Mexico knowing that they did an absolutely fantastic job: they really set us up to make it in the real world, whether they know it or not.

And you know what? They’ve more than earned their retirement in Mexico (hopefully next to the beach, ‘cuz you know that nothing gets the kids down there faster than proximity to the Pacific!). After many years of effort, they’ve gotten to a point where they should just chillax, marinate in the shade. And even though they think we won’t, we’ll definitely join them to celebrate them and to chillax alongside them when we’re able.

So happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. May you have at least 37 more, and may you focus on the most important people involved in your next step: the two of you. We’ll be here, your kids forever, no matter what you choose to do next.