The Care and Feeding of an Introvert

I had a fairly epic meltdown yesterday.

Not only was it epic, but it was entirely unexpected.  I mean, the usual triggers were all there: too much socializing, too little sleep, too many commitments.  I'd been on the go on Friday non-stop from 6am til after 11pm.  It was a long weekend with Kaylee, who likes waking up around 6 am. We stayed out late Monday at a movie.  I battled Walmart on the day before a holiday and baked 4 desserts in the span from Monday evening til Tuesday morning.

But I didn't feel stressed out.  I didn't feel like crying.  I just felt, well, exhausted.  And the exhaustion covered almost every other sign that I was on the verge of losing my Vulcan-like cool.

So, when Mark asked me what I wanted for dinner (how dare he, am I right?), I may have exploded.

Okay.  I did.  I exploded.  I lost my cool.  I completely melted down and sobbed for about five minutes.  It was embarrassing and frustrating and I hated every damn second of it.

And now all I can do is think about the many and various ways that scenario could have easily been avoided.

You see, in my exhaustion and determination to Do All the Things and Bake All the Things, I forgot something very important.

I'm an introvert.

Quite simply, I can't do all the things.  Not all the time.  (I can still try to bake all the things, though.  Try and stop me.)

I know I talk about being an introvert a lot.  I admit it.  But it's important to me and how I function.

Being an introvert isn't just an reason to stay home or leave early.  It's not a convenient or handy excuse.   In fact, most of the time it makes me feel guilty.  I don't always want to stay home.  I don't always want to relax.  Sometimes I do want to do all the things and go to all the places and see all my friends.

But I can't.

Being an introvert is who I am.  And, if I ignore who I am for too long, if I keep pretending to be someone else (someone who can be blithely be a social butterfly), and if I don't remember the proper care and feeding of an introvert, there are consequences.

What is the proper care and feeing of an introvert?

Well.  I'm glad you asked, since I clearly need my own reminder.

Before we begin, please remember this: being an introvert does not make me anti-social.  I love my friends and my family and enjoy spending time with them.  To an extent.  And then I need a break.

What To Do With Your Introvert: A Manual

1. Give her space.  Introverts, more than extroverts, have a precious personal bubble that only certain people are allowed inside. (Note: Most pets are welcome inside the bubble at all times.)  Space is not just physical.  Space is needed in conversations, in emotions, and in new experiences.  All these things take careful consideration for an introvert, and answers to serious (or not-so-serious) questions often need to be worded just right in an introvert's head before being spoken aloud.  New situations need easing into.  Don't rush an introvert if at all possible.

2. Give her alone time.  If you see your introvert curled up with a book, or eating by herself, don't worry.  She's not bored.  She's not upset.  She's recharging.  This is very important for an introvert, especially after a long period of socializing.  (Most introverts bring a book along with them to help maintain proper battery strength throughout the day.)  She'd probably like some coffee, if you do feel the need to contribute.

3. Give her a book.  Suggest a movie.  Start a Netflix marathon.  Basically, give her an escape and a mental break.  A lot goes on inside an introvert's head.  All the time.  Constantly.  The average introvert is almost always playing and replaying past situations, present dilemmas, and future scenarios.  She is remembering song lyrics and movie quotes.  She's making up stories.  She's agonizing over a mistake she made ten years ago.  She's analyzing the next day's schedule.  She's worried someone's mad at her.  Books are a refuge, a focusing point.  They shut out the excess noise.  So do movies and TV shows.  If you're lucky, your introvert will snuggle on the couch with you, or at least share her popcorn.  (Bonus points if you suggest she goes to a bookstore, takes a bath, or both.)

4. Make her food.  Bring her a snack.  Order a pizza.  Pour her a glass of wine, or beer, or drink of choice.  Or just let her loose in the kitchen, since cooking is one of the best therapeutic activities there is. (Maybe offer to help clean up, if the coast seems clear).  Really, just do this for anyone.  Everyone likes food.  Food is awesome.

5. Don't issue last-minute invites.  While this is not a hard and fast rule (see #6), as even introverts can behave spontaneously, it is a very handy guideline.  You are more likely to lure your introvert from the safety of her den if you plan ahead and give her time to mentally prepare for leaving said den.  Introverts, in general, like to know what to expect from day to day.  Last-minute invites tend to trigger the warning bells.  Note: planning ahead doesn't guarantee the presence of your introvert.  Sometimes, it's best to stay home in spite of the best-laid plans.  It happens.

6. Don't stop inviting her to things (even if it is last-minute).  Introverts want to know that they're welcome to join in an activity, even if they decide not to.  Introverts know that they live in an extroverted world and often feel guilty for not attending parties/group events, or for leaving said events early.  Continued invites keep introverts from feeling unwanted and encourage your introvert to step outside her bubble (just a bit), but don't be discouraged if she stays home instead.  Remember: your introvert still loves you, even if she didn't go to a concert with you, of if she only stayed for an hour at your party.

7. Text her.  Introverts have an innate dislike for phone calls (and are often known for not answering).  Most introverts prefer texting for day-to-day casual conversation, as it allows for fully-formulated thoughts at convenient intervals.  Through reading what an introvert has to say (be it text, e-mails, Facebook comments, or blogs), you may come to realize that introverts are actually as funny, sarcastic, and ridiculous as any extrovert.  They simply need the correct medium and comfort level to communicate effectively.

8. Accept her.  Note: more important than any other step.  Introverts need to be accepted.  They have grown up in an extroverted world and have often tried to "pass" for extroverts in order to succeed at school, in business, or in relationships.  There is no greater relief for an introvert than to be loved (like Bridget Jones) just as she is.  Putting up a false front is far more exhausting than any crowded party or loud concert, and most introverts are willing to risk a little emotional exhaustion for those people who truly accept who she is.

A Uniquely Portable Magic

I know I said I was officially an Illinois resident two weeks ago... but now it's really, really official.

I unpacked my books.

(As Mark's dad said, "I guess that means she's staying, huh?"  And, well, yes.  It does.)

It was about time, right?  We moved my books over with the first load of boxes (okay, my 20+ boxes of books were the first load of boxes) back in February.

I've been without my books since February, guys.  I don't know how I did it.

Actually, that's a lie.  I know exactly how I did it.  I bought more books, obviously.

And I got a library card.  That helped.  If, by helped, you mean that I brought home a gigantic pile of books that I can't possiby read in three weeks.

But, over this past week, I methodically unpacked my books, put them back in order (alphabetical by author's last name, as God intended) and loaded up my bookshelves.

There are truly few things I find as purely and thoroughly satisfying as organizing my books.  I know, I'm a freak.  

I don't care.

Mark called it a "ceremony," and I suppose it is, a finely honed process that I've practiced throughout the years, with every move, with every life change (and with every major book purchase).  Book by book, shelf by shelf, until everything is just right.

Books are, quite possibly, my one true love.  They've been around longer than any of my other friends, certainly longer than any of my romantic relationships.  They've been a source of comfort, of escape, and of familiarity.  I bring books with me everywhere.  I carted them back and forth to college (well, not all of them, but more than I could possibly need).  I moved them to our campus apartment at seminary.  I moved them to the old apartment in South City (and then moved them within that apartment after my ex left).

I bring them along on vacation.  I always have at least one in my purse.  I've cried with them, laughed with them, and fallen asleep with them.  I horde them and loan them out and always, always want more of them.  I pick up books like abandoned pennies on the sidewalk, tucking them away for a rainy day.

There's a great Stephen King quote that says "books are a uniquely portable magic," and I very much believe it.  They have great power, as I said, to comfort and relax me.  When I had my back surgery at age ten, I constantly asked my parents to read to me, to take me away from the hospital bed and the IVs and the sterile cacophony of the hospital itself.  Together, we worked our way through the Chronicles of Narnia, and I drifted in and out of that make-believe world on a trippy ride of morphine-fueled imagination.

Not much has changed, minus the morphine.  I still rely on books, only now I don't need them to escape.

Now? My books feel like... well, like home.  

And, even better, they make our house feel that much more like home for me.  We're still struggling to move into a place that has still not been entirely moved out of (and, honestly, it's starting to stress me out), so every little bit helps.  Seeing my books, in my bookshelves, lined up along the wall?

That helps quite a bit.

Happy and You Know It

I like to think that I'm a happy person these days.

Why shouldn't I be?  I have a good job, a wonderful husband, a sweet stepkid, a house of my own, still-married parents, and an amazing circle of friends.  I have money in the bank and all my basic needs are met.  Sure, I go through my sometimes-monthly moodiness and have moments of melancholy (and always adore alliteration), not to mention recent wedding-and-house-buying stress, but for the most part I would say that I'm definitely happy.  At the very least I'm content, and I think that's pretty awesome as well.

It's not that I expect to be happy all the time.  That would actually be boring, not to mention unrealistic.  And obviously, even though I have every reason to be thrilled with life, I'm not always.  It happens.

But I do very much enjoy my happiness.

And, quite frankly, I think I could improve on it.

Mainly, I struggle with the fact that I often let myself get overly upset by the little things.  More specifically, I let myself get overly upset by the little things that I can't control: by the guy who doesn't have his turn signal on but turns anyway, by the client who misses a question that I asked, or by someone not acting exactly how I think they should act.

Coincidentally (or not), I recently read The Happiness Project, by Gretchen Rubin, a stunt book (do something slightly crazy for a year and then write about it in a very clever manner) in which Gretchen spends a year trying every means possible to be happier and more invested in her own (already very pleasant) life.

I recognize that this kind of book is not for everyone.  But I find that I'm actually a sucker for the stunt genre.  I adored The Year of Living Biblically, The Know-It-All, and (of course) Julie and Julia, the book/movie that forever changed my attitude about cooking.  I'm unashamed of my love for the year-long-commitment genre of books.  Maybe it's because I do my own yearly commitment to reading at least 50 books.  Maybe it's because I've always subscribed to the mantra of "you can do anything for a year."  Maybe I just like the fact that I'm not the only person who writes excessively about their daily life, and the fact that some people actually become famous by doing so.

Whatever the case, I completely loved The Happiness Project.  Gretchen dealt with a lot of the same issues I have (or have had).  She's a bit of a control freak.  She's messy.  She's a slight hoarder.  She judges herself for the things she enjoys, and struggles with an innate sense of "I can totally make do without this necessary item."

In her book, Gretchen works her way through 12 months of happiness improvement, focusing each month on a different aspect of her life (kids, friends, husband, work, creativity, money, etc).

While I certainly don't intend to undertake a similar project right now, I do feel like I can improve my own happiness in baby steps, mostly by chilling the fuck out and recognizing that I do not have to (and, quite frankly, should not be allowed to) run the whole world.

So far, it's (kindof) working.

I'm trying very hard not to immediately rant when someone doesn't answer my entire e-mail.  I'm trying not to swan dive into automatic road rage (curse words and middle fingers blazing) when other drivers fail to follow common sense road rules.  I'm trying not to think that I know best about what other people should be doing.  Just because I'm multi-tasking doesn't mean everyone else needs to be.

I'm trying, ultimately, to cut other people some slack.

Is venting fun?  Is feeling superior to the idiotic drivers on the road enjoyable?  Hell yes.  Why else would we do it?  But what I'm wondering is if it is actually worthwhile.  I'm starting to think that, instead of innocently blowing off steam, I'm more likely blowing things out of proportion and giving myself a reason to be upset.  Negativity breeds more negativity, at least for me.  Once I start looking for the bad, I can always find more.  And more.

I'd rather focus on the good.  I'd rather focus on and remember Kaylee's joy of waking up and looking for Easter eggs and of opening her Easter basket rather than fixating on her stubbornness the night before.

Life isn't always going to be good.  There are going to be times when I'm going to be sad, or anxious, or sick, or heart-broken, or any number of negative emotions.  I'm going to be criticized, or be frustrated, or furious.  But while I'm happy, and while I can be happy, I don't see the point in blatantly spoiling it for myself for no good reason.

Definitely a happy day.

I can't tell you I'm going to stop being snarky and sarcastic.  Because I'm not.  And if you consider that to be a character flaw or negative trait, then so be it.  But I consider it to be an inherent part of my personality, and I actually do find happiness in a perfectly-crafted snarky comment, particularly when it makes other people laugh.  My favorite relationships (both fictional and my own) are based on the snarky, witty repartee of two people generally giving each other a hard time.

So, I'm not going to turn into Little Miss Sunshine, but I am going to try to stop bitching quite so much about things that don't really matter in the grand scheme.

And I don't care what Yoda says, because "try" is truly the operative word here.

A Pretty Vintage (Engagement) Photo Shoot

Obviously, I'm a day late in blogging.  But yesterday was a day for recovering from the election results, and both Ben and I took a day off work.  I did some retail therapy at Goodwill and then got to have lunch with my friend Katie (who I haven't properly hung out with in ages).  So there was no blogging.  Sorry not sorry.

Today?  Today I'm not going to talk about politics.  Enough people are doing enough of that.  I don't need to join in.  Today I'm going to talk about something much better: engagement pictures.

Instead of waking up to discover the new president, like yesterday, I woke up this morning to a text from Casey (my co-worker, friend, and photographer) with a link (and, more importantly, the password) to the rest of our engagement photos that she took a little over a week ago!

It was the first Sunday where I wasn't working, the weather was finally vaguely fall-like, and we were all amazingly free.  We met up at Lafayette Square Park (along with several other groups and their attending photographers), and dived right in.

Obviously, this was not my first time for the whole engagement picture thing.  The last time was, oh... 10 years ago?  I'll admit I tried to find some lingering proof of those pictures to serve as some bizarre time capsule (I had bangs, my natural hair color, and was dressing boho-chic at the time), but I'm pretty sure I very thoroughly destroyed nearly all evidence that I was ever married before.  And that's more than fine with me.

So while it felt vaguely familiar when Casey started posing us, it wasn't exactly as if I'm an old pro at it.  Plus, I still get incredibly self-conscious whenever someone points a camera at me.  (I know, I know.  I'm the queen of selfies and I take pictures of myself, selfies and otherwise, all the time at work.  But that's different.)

It helped that Casey is a good friend and that I feel comfortable with her (and, more importantly, with Mark).  I will admit that there was a brief moment in the bookstore where I flailed around and exclaimed that I "didn't know what to do with my arms!" but otherwise, my posing game has gotten a little bit better over the years.

We may have been a little too comfortable with Casey.  I don't know how many times we cracked up when we were supposed to be looking at each other "lovingly."  Moreover, we had to hold chaste little kisses so repeatedly that the whole concept of kissing just became... odd.  So very odd.

But, I think she got some good photos.  Maybe.

After walking all over Lafayette Square Park, we drug Casey over to one of our favorite bookstores, The Book House, and continued the madness there.  And I bought a few books, of course.  Well... Mark bought them for me, since I had accidentally (Mark: "Sure, accidentally.") left my wallet and keys in my other purse.

Obviously, we had a pretty good time taking pictures.  That in itself is not surprising, seeing as we generally have a good time no matter what.  But it was great having Casey along for the ride to make us look all presentable and photogenic and tell us where to stand (and what to do with my arms), instead of looking like the hot mess we usually are.  Plus, it's nice to not have the only pictures of us be a) selfies or b) Fish Eye Fun photos.

So.  We still have absolutely no plans as far as what we're actually doing for our wedding (besides "as little as possible"), BUT.  We have engagement pictures accomplished!  So, I think that's something.

It's better than nothing, anyway.

Right?

Of course right.

Morning Coffee in Stars Hollow

I grew up with Rory Gilmore.

Not literally, of course.  She is, obviously, a fictional character and all I could do was watch Gilmore Girls on television, not live it.  But, in a way, I felt like she was a possible classmate and might have been a friend if I was very lucky indeed.  We were just about the same age and went through high school and college together, as far as timelines were concerned.  She may have lived in quirky and idyllic Stars Hallow while I lived in less-than-exciting Collinsville, IL, but she was still, as they say, my spirit animal.  We were both studious, mostly-unpopular bookworms who always brought along a back-up book and who were completely devastated by a bad grade.  I modeled my own 16th birthday party on hers, complete with pink boas.

Of course, she had far better hair than I ever have managed to have, her boyfriends were all remarkably attractive (if all generally rather terrible ideas... like many of mine), and she seemed to subsist on a diet entirely comprised of coffee and junk food, all while maintaining a perfect figure and flawless skin.

Some people blame their unrealistic life expectations on Disney princesses.  I rather think I can chalk mine up to Rory Gilmore.

I watched the show religiously all through its seven seasons, have re-watched it twice since, and am ridiculously excited about the mini-series coming up later this year! (Though, if Luke and Lorelei don't get married, it might be over.)

All this is just leading up to explaining why exactly I spent an hour and a half this morning standing in line for a free cup of coffee.

The short answer?  Because it had a Luke's Diner sleeve around it, that's why.

The long answer? Let's back up a moment.

Today is the 16th anniversary of the show's premiere (ohmyGodI'msoold), and so Netflix sponsored around 200 coffee shops around the country to turn into pop-up Luke's Diners for the day.  Clearly, I had to go.

And clearly, I had to be a complete nerd about it.

Guys, I cosplayed Rory Gilmore.

I dug out my old "Reading is Sexy" shirt, which she wore in a college episode, and my Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, which she is also seen reading in an episode, and I headed out the door to meet Jake (appropriately dressed in flannel and a backwards hat, a la Luke).

I also was unknowingly headed out to meet half of St. Louis.  That's a slight exaggeration, but only slight.  The line to get in to Luke's Diner/Shameless Grounds was half a block long.

I had expected a bit of a crowd.  Gilmore Girls had a large following, after all, particularly among my age group.  But the announcement of the pop-ups had only gone out yesterday, and surely most people would have jobs to go to on a Wednesday morning, wouldn't they?

Apparently not.

But, I had company, I had a book, and I was surrounded by other apparently just-as-rabid fans who were equally as willing to waste over an hour of their lives to get a few photo ops and a free coffee.

At last, we reached the counter and achieved our goal.  I appropriately geeked out, took selfies, got my coffee, and headed in to work.

Was it worth the wait?  Hard to say.  It's not like I couldn't get basically free coffee at home.  Or at work, for that matter (and in much less time).

But it was the experience.  That's the part that I couldn't get at home, or at work.  Like Mark told me, it was like standing in line to buy Harry Potter at midnight, or camping out for a midnight showing of the new Star Wars movie (all things that I've done).  It was all about the experience, about being there, not necessarily about the end result.  It's about being surrounded by like-minded weirdos who get excited about the same nerdy things you do.  It's about reliving the days when I'd sit down with my mom, or my roommate, to watch a new episode of Gilmore Girls.  It's about taking time to do something just because, and to indulge in the silly and pointless side of life that says, "why not?" instead of "why?"

It's about getting the chance to be in Stars Hollow, even if just for a cup of coffee.

My Uniquely Common Life

We are all special little snowflakes.

Or are we?

I'm bringing this up because I just finished reading Judy Blume's Wifey two days ago.  It's been sitting on my shelf for years after I bought it on impulse at a used book store.  For some reason, I picked it up for a quick read on Sunday.  It obviously was a quick read, as I finished it Monday.  Besides being far dirtier of a book than I ever imagined, it also was another in a long list of books that I can relate to a little too much.  Believe me, I didn't expect this summer fluff of a book to hit me the way it did.

In Wifey, main character Sandy is exactly what the title says: the perfect little 1960s housewife.  She makes the same thing for dinner every week, has sex with her husband on Saturdays whether she wants to or not, is desperately unhappy, and has a very dirty mind.  She feels trapped in a marriage to a man she's not sure she ever loved and who doesn't understand her unhappiness or care to change anything about their marriage.  Her husband can't cook for himself, dictates how she should dress, is disappointed when she doesn't live up to his standards, and uses the phrase "wifely duties" quite seriously.

Basically, she was me, pre-divorce.  I found myself exceedingly grateful that I hadn't read Wifey while I was still married.  It would have been far too depressing.

But it's not the first time I've found myself reading a book that hit close to home in all the wrong ways, a book that gave voice to my very private despairs and desires.

Obviously, unhappy marriages are far from unique.  Even though Leo Tolstoy wrote that "happy families are all alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way," I'm not really sure he was correct.  Still, I'm continually amazed when a book (or song or movie) perfectly echoes something I've already thought or said.  Shouldn't I at least have my own unique thoughts about what I've been through, about my own unique experiences?

Apparently not.

The longer I live and the more I see, the more convinced I am that there truly is nothing new under the sun.  There are only seven different plotlines.  There are no original ideas.  Think you've done something unique?  Think again.  Someone is amazed by your brand new thought?  Don't get too excited; someone else already thought of it years ago.  Someone is shocked and appalled by something you did?  Don't feel so bad; someone else has already been there and done that long before you had the idea.

Songs, movies, and books all resonate with us because they speak to our own personal experience.  We relate to these things on deep, intimate levels.  But these things also speak to hundreds and thousands of other people's own personal, intimate experiences.  Look around at a wedding, or a show, or a concert, or a bookstore.  You're not the only one singing along, or crying, or laughing, or reaching that book.

We all live some form or another of the "human experience," after all.  We have all loved and have all lost.  We've been overjoyed and we've been inconsolable.  It's what helps bring us together, recognize each other as human.  We may be different, but we are also recognizably the same.  I can talk to someone who has lived an entirely different life from me, who believes and values different things, and still relate to them, still find common ground.  I can read a book written over 30 years ago and feel like I'm quite possibly reading my own diary.  I can share some of my darkest secrets and have someone unexpectedly and shyly admit, "Me too."

I think it is the inability to see others as human, to actively share in that human experience, that leads to much of life's tragedies and pain.  It leads to the desire to control others, or to hurt others.  I know from experience that it's much easier to hate someone when you can solidly deny that you could possibly have anything in common with them.

Of course, we are not all cookie cutter copies of each other.   Not by a long shot. What fun would that be?  There would be no need for thousands of different books and movies and songs.  We are uniquely individual, in spite of our similarities.  We can experience the same events and feelings, true, but in different orders, with different people, in different places, with different consequences.  The things we create are different, even if not necessarily new or revolutionary.  And so we can keep telling the same stories over and over, the same seven plot lines.  People will keep reading.  Or watching.  Or listening.

Because we can keep relating to each other, story after story.  We're not alone.  We've been there, in one way or another, even when that means being able to relate far too much to an incredibly dirty Judy Blume book.

Not Quite Raindrops on Roses

So.  Last week was a rough blog, huh?

Let's talk about something cheerier, shall we?

... Except I've been struggling the past two days with being entirely too grumpy for anyone's good.  It's a shame, really, because I'm coming off of at least one really excellent week of being more social than normal and having very few negative experiences at all.  Even coming home last night to a meal cooked by my boyfriend wasn't enough to drag me out of my mood.

But, all things in moderation and all that.  The most perfectly wonderful Monday off with Mark is balanced by a not-so-great Tuesday.  And that's the way it goes.  As I've said before, not every day is fantastic.  And that's ok.  I just have to remind myself of that.

And I can remind myself of all the things that do make me happy lately.  So I will.

1. Everything about this new dress.

2. Day date adventures.  Mark and I went to Meramec Caverns on Monday and ended up with a private tour.  And a pound of fudge.  Along the way, we ate a giant burrito, got free sopapillas, did some antique shopping and rescued a midcentury lamp that someone woefully decided to paint.  And we also ate at The Shaved Duck.  Which was, quite simply, incredible and perfect.  Like the rest of the day.

3. Finishing a book, which I just did (Egg and Spoon, by Gregory Maguire).  And re-reading a favorite book, which I'm beginning to do (The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger). Or just looking at books.  I'm not that picky.

4. Being with someone who I'm so completely comfortable with, who lets me pout on the couch next to him, who encourages me in everything I do, and who writes the best love letters. 

5.  My friends, both old and new and everything in between.  

6. Margaritas.  Tacos.  Alright, food and drinks in general. Let's be honest here.

7. Having freshly red hair.

8. Routines. I'm an introvert, remember?  I like knowing what to expect.  This is not to say that I don't enjoy spontaneous adventures and spur-of-the-moment decisions, because that's not true.  But there's a definite reassurance for me in having several daily routines.  This is particularly reinforced by having a dog that also thrives on routine and knowing what to expect and a boyfriend who enjoys ending our evenings with a seldom-altered shared routine of getting ready for bed. 

9. My paperback book perfume.  Mark gave it to me a while ago when I was having a terrible day.  I've never before had a perfume that I really loved.  I'm highly sensitive to smells and never used to wear perfume, but this stuff is wonderful.  It's subtle and slightly sweet and I love wearing it and smelling faintly of great literature.

10. Puns and alliteration and nerdy jokes.

11. Comments on my blog or my Facebook blog posts.  I'm entirely shameless that way.  So please continue to cheer me up by telling me something that makes you happy.  

I'm feeling a bit better already.

Things That Go Bump

It's almost Halloween, the season for spooky things, and so, in honor of the upcoming holiday, I made the completely misguided decision to read The Shining.  Which has now become the decision to read The Shining only during daylight hours.

Because I really hate scary things.  I always have.  I don't watch scary movies.  I don't watch American Horror Story.  I don't do haunted houses.  I don't like creepy stories about hauntings or possessions or anything.  I don't like being scared.

As a child, I had recurring slasher-esque nightmares of being chased by horrifying creatures and monsters, in spite of the fact that I never watched anything remotely scary.  I didn't read Goosebumps or watch Are You Afraid of the Dark? because I was afraid of the dark, and of the dreams I had.  I would wake up, almost paralyzed by fear and by the certainty that there was Something under my bed, ready to grab my ankles if I dared to put my feet on the ground.  If I did work up the nerve to get out of bed, it was only through leaping several feet into the room and away from whatever was lurking.  I went through a phase where I would have to check the entire house for burglars or killers before I could feel safe.

I was also convinced that I was going to be kidnapped.  It was the early 90s, when stories of kidnapped kids were everywhere on the news, and I just knew I was going to be one of them.  My face was going to be on a milk carton one day.  Those fears also found their way into my dreams.

Now, I'm allegedly an adult.  I'm thirty years old.  I no longer think I'm going to be kidnapped and I (usually) no longer need to check the bathroom for murderers.  

That doesn't mean I'm not still scared of things.  It just means the fears have changed.  The monsters have changed, and some of them are all too real.

I also still have nightmares, but they've changed too.  Now my recurring nightmares are of my ex-husband coming back, of running into him unexpectedly, of him telling me that he's bugged my house and knows everything I do.  I wake up from those just as panicked as from the nightmares of my childhood, and the thing that makes it worse is that these nightmares are based at least somewhat in reality.  No, I don't think that my house is under surveillance, but the possibility that he could be anywhere near me brings on a panic that I never before understood.  It brings back the memory of the months I spent being afraid to be alone with him, of secretly moving in with a different friend so he wouldn't know where I was.

There are other things I'm afraid of.  Failure.  Judgement.  Of not being good enough.  Spiders.   You know, the usual.

And I'm scared of making the same mistakes I did before, scared that the person I love and trust will somehow stop being the person he has proven, time and again, to be.  I'm scared that I will become someone unloveable.  

These fears really have no more validity than the things that chased me in my childhood dreams.  (Except spiders.  Spiders are the worst.)  They are, like all fears and nightmares, things that come out at night when you're alone, or feel alone.  They prey on vulnerability and make you second guess every decision, every word.

It's little wonder that Stephen King is capable of terrifying so many.  He doesn't just use monsters and crazed dogs and things that go bump in the night.  He taps into other, more real terrors: losing family, having those we love and trust turn on us, the inability to stop the inevitable, and the inability to overpower our own personal demons.  These are the things that are truly frightening, the things that can happen to any of us.

Luckily, life is not a Stephen King novel.  And I'm very rarely laying in bed, paralyzed by fear.  Anymore, things that go bump in the night are usually just my dog and my upstairs neighbors.  And, for the most part, the scariest thing that happens to me is my kitchen sink being clogged and my roof being replaced all in one day. 

And, in spite of being a giant scaredy-cat, I do like Halloween.  Of course I like Halloween.  I love dressing up.  I love costumes.  I love themed parties (so long as I can avoid any and all slasher movies on the TV), and Halloween is the ultimate combination of dressing up, costumes, and themes.  

Girls in a graveyard is always a good theme.

Honestly?  The biggest fear I have right now is finishing my costume in time.  

Stephen King's got nothing on that.

The Inherent Tragedy of a Finished Book

Books Bought
Angels and Insects: Two Novellas, by A.S. Byatt
Babel Tower, by A.S. Byatt
Zelda, by Nancy Milford
Wild: from Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, by Cheryl Strayed
The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

Books Read
Voracious: A Hungry Reader Cooks Her Way through Great Books, by Cara Nicoletti
Journey to the Center of the Earth, by Jules Verne (audiobook)
Ready Player One, by Ernest Cline
Here Be Monsters! by Alan Snow
Stuff I've Been Reading, by Nick Hornby
H is for Hawk, by Helen Macdonald (audiobook)
(most of) Angels and Insects, Two Novellas, by A.S. Byatt

It's the beginning of a new month, and I'm already exhausted.  It's been a full week of work (made fuller than usual with two weddings this past weekend and working from home on Monday). I've also been slightly more domestic than usual lately.  I blame the onset of fall.  Cooler weather not only brings out the leggings from my closet but also brings about a stronger desire to cook.  And snuggle under blankets.  There have been very few complaints about this from the peanut gallery.

It's also brought about an uptick in my reading.  I've been a bit more avid about burying myself in a book than in the past few months, and it shows in my accomplishments.  I really don't know where I find the time.  I think I've just given up on sleeping.

With the end of September comes a change in the way I do my reading lists on this blog, thanks to one of this month's books (a perfect gift from the lovely Anne when she came to visit last month).

Stuff I've Been Reading, by Nick Horby, is a wonderful collection of the essays Horby wrote as reflections on his monthly reading list and ruminations on his books bought list vs. his books read list, essays which, I must say, far outshine my past few "reading list" blogs.  So?  I'm going to rip off the format from Hornby... I mean borrow from.  Commandeer, if you will.  Nautical term.

Hey, writers snag ideas and inspiration all the time from other writers, so why can't I?  (Apparently I've decided since last week that I am, in fact, a writer. At least for now.)

Since there are far too many coincidences in my life to be coincidental, I wouldn't dare to say that it's a coincidence that I read Nicoletti's Voracious in the same month that I started cooking more.  I bought it one night after dinner with Mark at Pi, one of our favorite pizza places.  Left Bank Books is just a diagonal jaunt across the street, so it's hard to avoid "just looking."  It was the first of two "books about books" that I read this month.  I adored both, but Voracious, for some reason, thrilled me in a way that was surprising for how simple the book itself was.  I guess it's not that surprising.  It does, after all, combine two of my favorite things: books and the food in books, complete with truly delicious-looking recipes.  And no, I haven't made anything from the book yet, but it's only a matter of time before there's a cherry pie on the table.

Nicoletti's essay/cookbook mash-up is everything it promises to be.  She takes us through her whole lifetime of reading and food, starting with childhood and moving forward.  The essays are short, sweet, and heart-felt.  They are not long, drawn-out, soul-searching works, and that is fine, because they don't need to be epic works to show the deep-rooted love Nicoletti has for great food and great literature.  It's highly possible that I identify a little too strongly with her and am more than a little annoyed that I didn't keep up on my own blog about the food in books.  Such is life.

In the same vein, Stuff I've Been Reading is another book about books.  It's definitely more high-brow and sarcastic, which is fine by me.  I chuckled to myself throughout the whole book, constantly prompting my boyfriend to ask what on earth I was laughing about.  Needless to say, the list of books I want to read has sky-rocketed this month further and further into the unimaginably unachievable range.  But what else is new?

If there is a lesson I learned from both books, however, it is that I never, ever want to read Cormac McCarthy's The Road.  Ever.

Not all books can be winners.  Journey to the Center of the Earth was my least favorite book this month, which is almost unfair considering how excellent most of the books I read were.  Yes, it's a classic, blah blah blah.  But that doesn't mean I have to like it.  This view, I might add, is a more recent revelation to me.  Young, idealistic Ashley was of the firm view that classics were required reading and that if you didn't like them, you were missing something.  Older, lazier Ashley has learned that yes, you can and probably should read the classics, but you don't have to be their staunchest defender.  Some of them are boring and hard to pay attention to (particularly when read in Tim Curry's sonorous voice).  That's not to say they don't have merit.  But it is to say that I don't have to lie and say that I loved a book when I didn't.  So.  I didn't love it.  Moving on.

This brings me to a book I completely loved: Ready Player One.  Loving this book was a bit of a surprise to me.  It wasn't a book that was even on my radar, besides hearing that it was going to be a movie.  It sounded more like a gamer boy book, and I'm not a gamer in any sense of the word.  But I read this article about books "as enchanting" as Harry Potter, and it was listed on there, along with other favorites like The Night Circus and American Gods.  And while wandering around a bookstore with the boyfriend (Yes, we do a lot of that.), I picked up a copy of Ready Player One and mentioned the article I'd read.  Mark, having not-so-secret motives of wanting me to buy the book so he could read it, encouraged me to get it.  And since I never need much encouragement to buy another book, I did.

Cline's fantastic debut novel is one I would never have appreciated as much a few years ago as I did now.  Correction: it is not a book would have appreciated as much without the influence of my boyfriend.  Without him, I wouldn't know half the references I did.  I wouldn't know Oingo Boingo, or The Last Starfighter, or Explorers, or Heathers (to be fair, Alexis helped with that one too).  As someone born in the mid-80s, my 80s pop culture knowledge is middling at best.  It was only a few years ago that I actually saw all the Back to the Future movies all the way through.

Ready Player One is a love song to geeks, gamers, and all things 80s.  That being said, even if I didn't have my new-found 80s education, I still would have enjoyed the book immensely.  The trivia knowledge that you may or may not possess is a cherry on top of the ice cream sundae of a wonderfully-told adventure story, or like an Easter egg you weren't expecting to find.

Following up on the books that became movies theme (also the reason I bought Wild, hopefully to be read next month), I read Here Be Monsters!, which I honestly only picked up because I realized it was the basis for the adorable The Boxtrolls movie (another thing I can blame on the boyfriend: he "made me" watch the movie.  Terrible man.  Truly.)  However, if that's also your motivation for reading the book, I'd caution you to reconsider, or at least to forget that the movie was allegedly based on the book.  Because outside of the existence and inherent nature of boxtrolls and a few characters with the same name and plot lines involving cheese, there's really nothing to connect the two stories.  Once I got over that dismaying fact, I was able to enjoy the book.  It's a quirkily dark young adult novel (there are strange creatures like cabbageheads, rabbit women, and pirate rats that run a nautical laundry, for starters), the first in a series that I probably won't be reading more of because really, I don't have the time.

Helen Macdonald's is a sadly sweet, compelling memoir of Macdonald's struggle to get over her father's death through training a goshawk.  She winds in stories of T.H. White's life and his own book about training a goshawk, aptly titled The Goshawk.  Both authors are tormented souls, grasping at straws and falconry as a means to stay afloat in their grief and pain.  The audiobook is wonderfully read by the author, but I think her aching voice would carry through any text, read aloud or silently.

There is, as Mark put it, an inherent tragedy of a finished book, a strange binding up of satisfaction and dismay.  Though I'm currently in a "read all the books" mode and have been tearing through books as fast as I'm able with limited reading time, I have often felt the internal struggle of I-want-to-finish-this-book-but-don't-want-it-to-end.  After all, a truly wonderful book wraps you up and doesn't let you go when it's finished.  You don't want to pry yourself out and ease into the unfamiliar arms of a new story.  Ready Player One came closest this month to reprising that feeling.  I know Mark, who dropped A Feast for Crows without hesitation to read Ready Player One when I finished, definitely felt it.  I'm not sure he's done much reading at all since.  Of course, A Feast for Crows is a definite swamp of a book, so I can't say I blame him.

We've both become apostles of sorts for Cline, having both recommended Ready Player One to friends and strangers alike, only just stopping short of going door to door passing out stacks of paperbacks.  There are all-too-few books I feel that way about, and I certainly never expected to feel that way about a book I was ready to write off as a gamer boy book.  Great literary fiction?  Yes.  John Irving novels?  Yes.  Books about books?  Yes.

But it's books like Ready Player One that keep me reading, and reading everything.  Correction: it's books like Ready Player One and people like my nerdy boyfriend that keep me reading everything.  I've become far less of a book snob since knowing him, and I'm a better reader (and person) because of it.  Not only does he introduce me to 80s movies and music, but he gets me to read things I never would have on my own.  Without him, I would never have read Terry Pratchett, or the Odd Thomas series, or the Myth Adventure books, or several excellent steampunk novels.  I mentioned the young, earnest reader I used to be earlier?  She still tends to stick around and turn up her nose at things like science fiction, fantasy, and Dean Koontz as a whole.

But I've gotten better at beating her down, as you can see by this month's varied book list.  There are two non-fictions (one even being half a cookbook), a memoir, a YA novel, a classic, and a contemporary fiction.  And the majority of a typical high-brow Byatt novella pairing.  These days, I read just about anything someone gives me (eventually - I do have a very long reading list, after all), but I'm always pleasantly surprised when a book outshines any pretentious expectations I happen to put on it.

I guess that cliche about not judging a book by its cover sometimes holds true after all.

August Book List

August was a much better reading month than July.  I'd recommend everything I read.  I also bought like a million books and have no place to put them, so there's that.

Question: does anyone else ever feel the desire to re-buy a book you already own?  I do, particularly at estate sales or used book stores.  I get excited seeing a book I love and have an immediate urge to buy it again, even though I already have it.  If I acted on this every time, I'd have approximately ten copies of A Prayer for Owen Meany. Probably more.

1. So We Read On: How The Great Gatsby Came to Be and Why It Endures, by Maureen Corrigan

I loved this.  I love books about books.  I always love books about books, because I'm a nerd, but this was one of the best and most interesting books about books I've read in quite a while.

The whole book is about, as the title says, how The Great Gatsby came to be written and why it's still one of the most well-known and well-loved books, in spite of its less-than-thrilling reception.  Corrigan's love for Gatsby spills over into her writing, making reading this book completely delightful and engrossing.  I knew a lot of the history of the Fitzgeralds and Gatsby already, but still had so much to learn and found so many different new ways of looking at such a complicated, layered little book.  I highly recommend this for anyone who loves Gatsby, as well as anyone struggling to figure out what makes Fitzgerald so great after all.

Four stars.

2. The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Of course, after reading about Gatsby, I had to read Gatsby.  Again.  Re-reading it this time, after the benefit of Corrigan's insights and research, was probably my favorite Gatsby experience.  I noticed all the little things that you tend to skim over in regular readings, and loved it even more than the last time I re-read it (before the latest movie came out).  I'm continually amazed by how much is going on in what can barely be called a novel.

If you haven't read The Great Gatsby, I really don't know what you've been doing with your life.  And if you think Gatsby is a great love story, you weren't paying attention.  Like Corrigan, I find something new to take away from each new reading, and continually find new depth and meaning each time I come back to it.  It's even already shown up in my blog about dealing with the past.

Five stars, because Gatsby.

3. Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison

This was a rough read.  Not because it was poorly written, but it was rough subject matter.  Anne and I chose it for our Drunk Girls' Book Club.  It had also been referenced repeatedly in So We Read On, so it seemed an appropriate next choice.  It tells the story of a young black man coming into his own in the 1940s and 50s, dealing with bigotry, race riots, and the consequences of being "invisible."

I can say that, while I'm glad I read it once, I doubt I will ever do so again.

I gave it three stars on Goodreads, but it's really more like three and a half.

4. The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry, by Gabrielle Zevin

I listened to the audiobook of this, and absolutely adored it.  All the books.  All the literary geeking.  John Irving references.  Perfection.  It includes the line, "Whenever I read a book, I want you to be reading it at the same time."  Love.

In short, it's the story of a New England bookseller whose sad life is changed when a child is left at his bookshop.  It's adorable.  It's literary.  It's sweet and touching and funny.  If you like books, read it.

Four stars.  Because I'm easy when it comes to literary nerd books.

5. Toujours Provence, by Peter Mayle

This is the follow up to Mayle's first book about their life as ex-patriots living in Provence, A Year in Provence.  Like his first book, each chapter is a short humorous essay about some experience or observation.  Also like his first book, it is filled with delicious accounts of food and wine and does nothing but make me want to pack everything up and move immediately to France.

These books are nothing complex or awe-inspiring (except for some of the menu recountings), but I always thoroughly enjoy them.

Four stars.

July Book List

In my ongoing quest to read all the books, here are my latest accomplishments for July.

1.  Notes from a Small Island, by Bill Bryson

If you haven't read a Bill Bryson book, you probably should do something about that.  Notes is the humorous recounting of Bryson's semi-farewell trip to Great Britain.  As much as I did enjoy it, I wouldn't recommend it as a first encounter with Bryson.  True, it has its startling laugh-out-loud moments (notably his story about the notoriously dry, self-deprecating humor of Brits), but I felt it somewhat lacked the heart and hilarious soul of some of his other works.  It is certainly more the work of someone coming to terms with the fact that he is leaving what has become his home, for better or for worse.

Personally, I adored The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid (though I could be biased, given my affinity for all things 50s and 60s), and was fascinated and highly entertained by At Home: A Short History of Private Life.  Both had me laughing out loud through their entirety, in spite of the fact that the latter is nothing but a long, glorified history of how houses came to be as we know them today.  Sounds dull.  Isn't.

I gave it three stars.  If Goodreads did half stars, it would have gotten three and a half.

2. How to Be Good, by Nick Hornby

How to Be Good tells the story of a not-so-good wife who suddenly finds her husband has undergone a spiritual conversion and must now "be good."  At first, I thought I would enjoy this book a lot.  As tends to be the case with me and the books I choose to read, it seemed to have often-creepy correlations with my own life.  But, as it spiraled further into the frustrating-though-understandable territory of should-I-stay-or-should-I-go, I kindof... stopped caring.  None of the characters were very likable.  Most were astoundingly stupid.  I know that's a modern fiction trope, but I usually don't care much for it.

While I entirely related to the main character's crisis and indecision and waffling, there was something missing that allowed me to stop caring what happened to any of them.  Possibly I just disliked the fact that she stayed in her unhappy marriage because of guilt and for lack of any better option.  And the general stupidity of most of the characters.

I gave it three stars, due to the fact that I liked the fist portion a lot more than the end.

3. Like Water for Chocolate: A Novel in Monthly Installments, with Recipes, Romances, and Home Remedies, by Laura Esquivel

This tells the story of several sisters and their triumphs and failures in love and food.  The central story is a entirely frustrating love triangle (which turns in to a love square? love rectangle? love parallelogram?)

And?  It's magical realism.

God, I really hate magical realism.  I'm sorry, but I generally find it completely distracting.  A perfectly good story is being told, completely with delicious-sounding recipes, and then suddenly BAM! a character is so consumed by unexpressed desire that she sets the shower on fire, and runs out naked, only to have a soldier (who ran off in the middle of a skirmish because he could sense this red-hot desire), scoop her up on horseback and carry her off into the sunset while making love mid-gallop.

What? What?  No.

To be fair, I don't mind a bit of magical realism.  I don't mind when a character's grief while preparing a meal cause everyone who eats it to cry.  That I can handle.  But I really couldn't handle most of the magical elements of this book, particularly the end.  I don't want to spoil anything, but I have three words: death by orgasm.

Again.  What?

 Obviously, it all went way beyond my suspension of disbelief capabilities.

Which is sad, because I really enjoyed other aspects of it.  I loved how the recipes were incorporated into the story.  I loved the monthly installment aspect.  I hated who Tita chose to be with, in the end. As in, so mad I almost threw the book down.

To continue the trend, I gave this book three stars as well.

On This Date in History: a Digression

First of all, there are a few reasons why I'm behind in blogging.

1.  Work.
2.  More work.
3.  Not nearly enough sleep, due to continued and still-inexplicable sleeping issues (and to things loudly crashing to the ground at 1:30 in the morning).
4.  A renewed obsession with reading.
5.  Making sure that in spite of it all, I still have some fun.

Who wears short shorts? Bellars does.
(Photo credit: Insomniac Studios)

Things I will be blogging about, eventually:

1.  July's reading list and reviews.
2.  Why I both love and hate wedding shows.
3.  Alexis' and my new and ongoing quest for the perfect nacho location.
4.  This epic photo shoot:

For now, though, I'm going to talk about something more personal and relevant to today's date (and, in a way, to the above photo).  

It's August 4th, which means that eight years ago, I got married.  

Seeing as this is officially my first year not being married on my anniversary, it obviously worked out great.  (And yes, I'm sometimes sarcastic and bitter about it.  It's one of my ways of dealing with the experience.)

I'm not going to talk here about the things that happened.  If you want to talk with me about it privately, I do honestly welcome it.  

I'm not even going to talk about how much happier I am post-divorce.  I've talked about it before.  I talk about it with my friends, my boyfriend, and my family, ad nauseum.  We get it.  Move on, Ashley.

Well, I'm trying.

But I'm a person who dwells.  Particularly when significant dates come around.  I may have trouble remembering others' birthdays, but I remember when most big events happened in my life.  I often even remember what I was wearing.  This may make me incredibly self-centered, but so be it.

And getting married, regardless of the outcome, is a big event.  (And I obviously remember what I was wearing.  Easy one there.  See: above)

The question is: do I regret it?

There's not a simple or easy answer.

In many ways, yes.  I regret being too scared to back out at the last minute.  I regret not trusting my gut instinct.  I regret being naive and stubborn.  I regret not listening to my parents and those of my friends who tried to warn me.  I regret not going to grad school instead.  I regret the years spent being unhappy, the time spent drinking too much, the time spent being generally unaware of what was going on.

But. (Isn't there always a 'but'?)

If I hadn't gotten married, I don't know where I would be.  Or who I would be.  Granted, I could be rich and successful, married to a charmingly bookish English professor, and spend my time on tour for my best-selling novel when we're not spending summers at our country house in jolly old England.  This is highly unlikely, I know, and very probably not one of the results of not getting married eight years ago.

The unknown is a scary thing.  You can put all your hopes and dreams on it, or all your worst nightmares.  To reference the book I'm currently reading, you can be Jay Gatsby, reaching blindly for that shining green light, only to be disappointed by all-too-human realities and frailties.  Or you can imagine the worst-case-scenario, and live life in fear of failure.  I don't want to do either.

If I hadn't gotten married, I almost certainly wouldn't be where I am today.  I've had this discussion many times with various people.  And, as I've stated many times, I love where I am today.  It's not ideal, of course.  I'm divorced, in debt to my parents for bailing me out, and nowhere near where I thought I would be at thirty.  (Hell, my former dog unfriended me on Facebook.  How many people does that happen to?)  

But it works, in its own weird, unexpected way.  Getting married and being married for seven years 

for better and for worse made me the person I am.  I wouldn't say I'm a completely different person than I was eight years ago, but I am, I think, much improved from that all-too-young girl.  I've become more comfortable with who I am, more self-confident, less afraid of what other people think.  I've changed my hair color (countless times), my style, and my name (twice).  I've become an adult, or at least something approximating one.  I'm happy more often than not.  And I have better friends than I could ever have asked for, a wonderful boyfriend, a crazy dog, and a job I love.  I don't regret where I'm at or who I am or who my loved ones are.  Ever.

So.  Is Fitzgerald right in saying that, in spite of our struggles, we are "borne back ceaselessly into the past"?  Well, yes, in a way.  After all, we can't escape the past, or fix its so-called mistakes.  We can't entirely forget the past either.  I can't change where past decisions have brought me.  Saying "I shouldn't have" doesn't change the past eight years.  And very possibly, I shouldn't want to change them.  But I also can't be Nick Carraway, obsessed with telling and re-telling the same long-finished story.  Much like re-reading The Great Gatsby: though I may find something different each time, the ending isn't going to change.

Am I there yet?  Obviously not, or you wouldn't be reading this, if you're even reading this.  All I can say is that I'm working on it.  I'm working on not wondering what might have been.  I'm working on not regretting.  I'm working on not dwelling.  I think, though, that doing a little dwelling today is understandable.  I hope you agree.

"So we beat on, boats against the current," and all that jazz.