A girl. Some shoes. And Target. August 28, 2007

Last October, when I told my soul-sucking demon bitch boss to “take this job and shove it“, I found some absolutely adorable shoes at DSW. Steve Madden ribboned ballet flats. For the first time, I experienced shoe lust. But I’d just quit my job, and I didn’t think that spending $40 on ballet flats was a sensible use of our money, and so I walked on by. A few weeks later, after getting a new job, I went back and they were gone.

My first experience of shoe lust ends in heartbreak.

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine who goes by the name of Marguerite de Ville (who knew about the shoe lust because she has fabulous shoes and up until that moment in DSW I’d never fallen in love with a pair of shoes in my life and so I immediately filled her in on the object of my affection and my eventual disappointment) informed me that Target was doing a knock-off of the Steve Madden ribboned ballet flats for $14.99!  

Such joy! Such bliss! And imagine my near orgasmic reaction to finding out that they were on sale for $10.99! Clearly, this relationship was meant to be.

I wore them to work today, with my bootcut jeans and a white blouse. So, so, so cute. And they so, so, so gave me blisters on my heels. But I don’t care. I love them. And love means never having to say you’re sorry.

Bookwoman.

So the lovely and beloved Peach did a meme a while back on her blog. Now, I know that generally memes are considered to be scraping the bottom of the barrel for blog topics, but I must confess to something.

Hello. My name is Beege. And I am a meme junkie.

I love them. Mostly, I think, because I like telling people what I think on a wide range of topics and I have no shame so that I will share any embarassing story that I can (have I shared the story of my very first job in high school? When I was Frosty the Snowman? And I fell over in the Tampon/Pad aisle and couldn’t get up because of my freaking big snowman head? If I haven’t, let me know. It’s stellar…).

This one, though, is about books. And I love books. I always have. I like new books, because they’re new and the binding cracks when you open it and the ink is all fresh-smelling and maybe a little smudgy. I like old books because they’re old and the binding is beat up and the ink is pre-smudged and maybe someone has written their name in the inside cover, or notes in the margins, and I like to wonder what sort of journey that book has been on before it ends up in the “Ten Books for a Dollar” bin and from there into my greedy little book-loving hands.

So, for your dining and dancing pleasure: a book meme.

What are you reading now?
I’m currently reading The Language of the Threads which is the sequel to Women of the Silk. I picked up Women of the Silk because it was such an intriguing title, and The Language of the Threads  at the same time because there’s nothing I like less than getting into a story and then having it all cliff-hangery and I’m stuck not knowing what happens next because I didn’t buy the freaking sequel at the same time. Granted: I’m often stuck with some pretty bad stories because of this, but I’m also able to sustain my journey through some pretty incredible ones, too. It’s a trade off.
 

Do you have any idea what you’ll read when you’re done with that?
I hadn’t. But after reading Dix’s meme on this subject, I think I have to get back into Lamb. This book is freaking high-larious. I love the subtitle: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. It’s a wonderful book that fully embraces the humanity of Christ…many of my collegues have dismissed the book as being “irreverent”. To which I have two things to say. The first: What the hell’s wrong with irreverent? The second: You’re clearly dismissing this book without ever having read it. It’s funny, yes. Jesus plays a peeping Tom, yes. He drinks and does all the things you and I do every damn day. But Moore also portrays Christ’s agony and his resolve in a way that I think is probably pretty true to form, and for that reason alone: I recommend this book to people all the time.
 

What’s the worst thing you were ever forced to read?
For school, it’s a toss up between The Hobbit and A Farewell to Arms and The Heart of Darkness. I hated all of them, and I don’t think I was able to finish any of them. Because of The Hobbit, I was extremely resistent to Tolkein. Because of A Farewell to Arms and Heart of Darkness: I’ve never read any more Hemingway or Conrad. As a side note: M loves The Heart of Darkness. Dude. I’m Strawberry Shortcake to his Gargamel.

The worst thing I’ve ever just read on my own would have to be anything by Nicholas Sparks. Nearly everybody raves about him, and so I keep thinking, “I’ll pick up THIS book and it will be good.” But he’s just so. not. good. He’s not even “a book to read on the plane” good–and I’m willing to read some pretty craptacular stuff on a plane. But, as I shared on Dix’s blog: I find his writing to be somewhat inspiriational, because if HE can get an agent and a publisher: I shouldn’t have much trouble.
 

What’s one book you always recommend to just about anyone?
I don’t have just one book I always recommend to just about anyone. Lamb, as I mentioned, is pretty frequently recommended. As is “The Passion of the Magdalene“. If you want to have your mind blown wide open about God and his relationship with humanity, pick up and read anything by Gerhard Forde (I recommend Where God Meets Man–that book, along with On Being a Theologian of the Cross literally changed my life and my faith for the better). Oddly enough, I’ve never recommended the Bible. I guess I just figure that’s a given…

Admit it, sadly the librarians at your library know you on a first name basis, don’t they?
No. I’m too into my books to ever borrow them. I want to own them. An expensive passion, but I don’t know too many passions that aren’t costly in one way or another…
Is there a book you absolutely love, but for some reason, people never think it sounds interesting, or maybe they read it and don’t like it at all?
Probably anything I’d recommend by Forde. It’s theology. And it will rock your world. But there’s not too many people out there who are just burning to expand their collection of books on theology…and those that are probably already have Forde.
Do you read books while you eat?
No. It’s too hard to keep the book open and get food in my mouth at the same time.
While you bathe?
When I get to take a bath: I love to read. As long as the book isn’t too heavy. But I rarely have that amount of “me time” anymore.
While you watch movies or TV?
Nope. I watch movies. I watch TV. I read books. Never all at the same time–too much media and information flowing into my poor tired brain.
While you listen to music?
I do like to listen to music that I think fits the story I’m reading. I love to listen to Bach while reading Forde. I like to listen to Celtic music while reading The Outlander books by Diana Gabaldon. It helps make things come alive for me. Oddly enough: I can’t listen to music with words when I read. I’m just not able to separate the two different stories coming at me, and I just get pissed off.
While you’re on the computer?
Um. No. I’m on the computer when I’m on the computer.
When you were little did other children tease you about your reading habits?
No. But it DID get me the reputation of being a brain, because I’d rather read than do almost anything else, and I was always the best reader in the highest reading group. It would have made me a real pain in the ass, except I was also the dumbest kid in the lower math group, so it evened out.
What’s the last thing you stayed up half the night reading because it was so good you couldn’t put it down?
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling. I wrote a blog entry about how I was conflicted over whether to keep reading, or have sex with M. I found a way to have my cake and eat it, too.
I’m not going to tag anyone on this, but I think I’d be fascinated to hear what Jules has to say about this.

Me. And my Mum. And my Dad. August 27, 2007

My mother and I are very close. We always have been. Sure, we had the usual adolescent bumps along the way, but for the most part: she’s always been someone I could count on, and now that I’m all grow’d up, she’s one of my true friends.

People say I look like her. Which I’ve never contested. We’re clearly related. Almost nobody (including me) has ever thought I look like Dad.

But the other day, she sent me a picture of her and Dad, taken at a Seattle Mariner’s game, and I was startled at how much I do look like my Dad. I showed M the pic, and said, “Dude. I look like Dad.” I have my Dad’s eyes, and his lips, and his smile. I have my paternal grandmother’s nose. I have his hair as far as thickness goes, lots of it, with a slight wave. But I’m blonde like my Mum. I don’t know where my skin tone comes from, because I’m so white I’m nearly blue, and neither parent can lay claim to whiteness like that (although I have passed that creamy-milk skin on to Sarah…). So of all the features that make up my face: I got my mother’s hair color. And yet: everyone says I look just like her.

 Which is rather strange to me. M says it’s our bone structure–could be he’s right. But for the first time, I realized that the few people who always maintained I look like Dad were not, in fact, smoking dope. And some part of me is glad to realize that I am not my mother’s little clone, as people have always maintained. My Dad had something to do with me, too. And given the fact that I am an unrepentantly incurable Daddy’s Girl: that makes me very happy. 🙂

Oh no she di-int!

At work on Saturday, I actually had a customer tell me, “You have such a pretty face!” As in, “Too bad the rest of you looks like a bus.” Which I think is a little unfair. I mean, I just had a baby for crap’s sake! Granted, it’s not like I was a size 4 before the event, but my body is different now. Stretched out a little. Like Plastic Man. And I’m a size 12! So no. Not tiny. But tinier than the customer who saw fit to make the comment. And what on earth makes her think she has a right ot make that sort of comment to anyone, anyway?!  Damn near slapped her with the packet of Spanx she was purchasing.

On a side note: The Bra-lelujah has me slightly intrigued. Wonder it would work for a buxom gal with a pretty face and boobalicious tatas?

Yesterday was a long day at work. We’re transfering out sale items (hooray! Stupid fugly summer clothing that’s been hanging around for freaking MONTHS) and I was part of the transfer team. We worked all day, and then had an all-store meeting at night. It was nearly an 11-hour day, and all of it (except the meeting) on my feet.

I really like my job. I like my bosses (and I’d say that even if one of them didn’t come and read my blog ;)). I like most of the people I work with, and the people I don’t like: I can get along with, so it’s not too bad. I like the clothes they want me to sell (well, usually I like them. This particular collection has more misses than hits for me, which is good for my bank account). I like that they are striving to be a “green” company. I like that they truly care about their employees as a whole.

But it’s not what I’m born to do. I’m good at it. I like it. But I’m at the point in my life where I need more in my job than pants. It’s all about the pants. God help me: I’m ready to do a funeral again (although I’ve always sort of liked funerals. I like saying the Creed in front of the casket–it’s like I’m giving death a nice big, “Fuck you!”). Here’s hoping something a little more in my area of expertise comes my way soon.

Must. Not. Laugh. Must. Be. Good. Parent. August 24, 2007

I was making dinner tonight–a sumptuous salmon with cucumber salad and dill sauce– and was getting Nea settled in her seat for the meal. I was walking back and forth putting things on her plate. M was feeding Sarah.

On one of my walks by, I heard Linnea say, “Where’s my fucking onions?”
I immediately look at M, certain I must have heard incorrectly. His shocked expression mirrored my own.
“What did you say, Baby?” I asked.
“Where’s my fucking onions?”

Oh….sweet fancy Moses. I’m chewing the insides of my cheek, trying not to laugh (or God forbid: smile, because once I smiled then all was lost) and I look out the window, praying desperately for control, when M bravely steps up to the plate and tells Linnea that she should never say that word, because it’s a very very naughty one, and nice little girls don’t say it.

I asked, “Baby, where did you hear that word?” (Because I’ve been SO careful to prune the f-bomb from my vocabulary–I have developed a sort of vulgar affection for it, but also knew: I didn’t want my children using it. So: I dropped it.)

She looked at me, sighed and said, “Mom. We live in America.” and proceeded to dig into her dinner.

Oh. Well. Silly me.

Mmmmm…giant burritos…. August 22, 2007

So there’s much excitement over the fact that a Chipotle is going to be moving in to the mall that I work at.

Jules (I won’t link to her because I don’t know if she wants all that attention that my fives of readers would bring her…if she tells me it’s OK, then I’ll do it) and I were talking today about how nummy Chipotle is, and then, it happened: a craving was born. A craving that could only be satisfied by a huge honking burrito.

Luckily, M shared my hankering for a honking burrito, so we loaded the girls into the trusty ol’ CR-V and off we went for quasi-Mexican nirvana.

Now that my Mexcian mojo has been satified, I want some tequila.

On a slightly unrelated note: what in the hell is mojo? My boss apologized for “messing with” my mojo today when she asked me to move so she could put a huge box of handbags on a shelf I was standing in front of. This puzzled me for a number of reasons, mainly: I’m not even sure what mojo is. I’m not sure that I have any. And I’m not sure why her asking me to move would mess with whatever mojo I might be in possession of. 

She’s a nice lady. I didn’t mind moving for her, with or without my mojo.  

Silver rattle August 20, 2007

When I was in junior high and high school, my Grandma Marge took it upon herself to help me stock my hope chest. Nevermind that I didn’t even have a hope chest. Never mind that “hope chesting” was the furthest thing from my mind–I was much more interested in getting Scott Braser to notice me. Nevermind that I hadn’t even expressed an interest in collecting items toward the day when I’d be a homemaker. Or, rather, a co-homemaker.

Grandma started buying me stuff. Most of which was sterling silver plated gadgets. A spork (yep, a sterling silver plated spork. Useful, no?), salad tongs, bread basket, fruit bowl, etc. And one year: a rattle.

Nothing fancy, this rattle. Just a sterling silver plated dumbell, with little beads inside. I didn’t particularly WANT a sterling silver baby rattle. I wanted Garrett Mason (by this point in time, Scott was long gone), a sweat from County Seat, and a Geo Storm. None of which Grandma Marge could have gotten me, so I smiled, put the rattle in my “hope cardboard box” and forgot about it.

Marge died in May of 2000. I was out here in St. Paul, finishing up my second year of seminary. It was decided by all (myself included) that it would be foolish and expensive to fly back for the funeral, particularly since Marge had been sick and threatening to die for a good 20 years at that point. My whole life had been spent making my final good-byes to my grandmother. Nobody really saw much point in my going and making an actual final goodbye.

I really came to regret that. Her death took a long time to sink in. It still seems a bit unreal–my grandfather’s death last spring seems much more concrete to me than hers does. I don’t have the sterling silver spork, salad tongs, bread basket or much of the rest of what she bought me. They were just…pieces. No value, and so discarded.

But when I was pregnant with Linnea, Mom sent me the rattle. Pretty tarnished after many years just sitting in its little box. My head thought, “How impractical! A sterling silver baby rattle!” but my heart ignored it. And when my first baby grasped that baby rattle and shook it and beamed in delighted triumph, it was as though Grandma Marge was there with me, smiling at her great-granddaughter.

Today, for the first time, Sarah grasped the rattle. She didn’t shake it. She’s not like that–all wild and crazy. But she examined it closely. Chewed on it a bit. Bonked herself on the head. Looked at it thoughtfully. Then smiled at it.

This rattle is one of the few links I can give my daughters to their greatgrandmother. I know that I will keep this rattle when they’ve grown. While they’re dreaming of boys and cars and college, I will have that rattle tucked away. While they’re building their careers and changing their world, I will keep it safe. And then, one day, when I get an excited phone call, I will take that rattle and I will send it on to my grandchild. And in it I will put a note that says, “Years before you were ever even dreamt about, your greatgrandmother saw this and thought of you.”

Thanks, Grandma. I miss you.

I tried to be good, but I got bored…

Linnea has a shirt that says this. I like it. I especially like it for her. It fits her to a T. Snort. Really bad pun not intended.

I should borrow it to wear today. I’m just bored. I even (briefly) considered calling in to work and asking if they needed me to come in and do anything. M said I couldn’t.

I’ve got a ton of stuff I COULD do–dishes, clean the litter box (I’m sort of almost completely over cats as housepets. I’m tired of picking hairs off my babies, I’m tired of having to deal with the shit of five of the six mammals that occupy our apartment, and I’m tired of they way they lie in wait to trip me in the dark when they can see a speck of blue plastic at the bottom of their food bowl), organize the clothing Sarah’s outgrown (sniff! She’s got clothing she’s outgrown already!) to sell to Once Upon a Child and go through our stored baby clothes to get her stocked for her next size run (3-6 months, for those of you keeping score at home).

But I don’t want to do any of that.

Problem is, I don’t know what else I’d like to do either.

I’m just bored.

Maybe I’ll dream up something fabulous for dinner. But probably not.

This is f*cked up… August 19, 2007

We found out a couple of weeks ago, after months of harassing the state, that we are ineligible for state-sponsored health insurance. Why? We have assets in excess of $20,000. What assets are these? Our car, and our 401ks.

We found out today, after not harassing anyone, that we ARE, in fact, poor enough to qualify for free membership to the Minnesota Children’s Museum.

So what did we do? Took Nea to the Children’s Museum and hoped she didn’t do anything that required a trip to the doctor to fix…

Ahhhhh…. August 16, 2007

I finished Year Seven last night. All day yesterday before I had to go to work, I read. I laid on a blanket beside Sarah (so hopefully her little four-month-old brain would think I was playing with her. I know: Bad Mommy…) and read. When she went down for a nap: I read. I didn’t do ANYTHING except nurse Sarah and read yesterday (plus, somewhere along the line I got a shower, since I DID have to go to work…and I confess that before doing so I tried to figure out a way I could continue reading while showering). I did have to leave it at home while I went to work, but I finished it when I got home.

The only thing I will say about it is this: I was satisfied. There are always so many questions around books and characters like these. You become so invested in them that you hate to see them “end” so to speak–you want the little world you inhabit with them to go on forever. So there is an almost inevitible sense of disappointment when you know that it will, in point of fact, end.  And it’s rarely done well.

But Rowling pulled it off. When I closed the book last night, I was content that it be over. Not happy, because in the two years since M first made me read them, I’ve become an honest-to-goodness Potterphile (witness my being torn between sex or getting to read Chapter 2). But she resolved the story in such a way that I’m not left feeling like we said goodbye too soon.

And, on an off note: work last night was not so good. I didn’t get to work with any of my pals….I didn’t have to work with anyone I don’t like (because there’s nobody at work that I don’t like) but on a slow Wednesday night, working with pals makes the night go a little bit faster. I got to work with a supervisor who seems to think I’m after her job (I’m not); an older woman who tore into me one day when I was pregnant for finding out that Sarah was a girl before she was born (bite my flat, pregnant ass); and a sweet girl who is starting at the U this fall. I’m nearly twice as old as she is…gads. She’s young enough to be my daughter. Eek.

Note to self: don’t do math this early in the morning. It’s NEVER pretty.