by Brunonia Barry
Perhaps some of you remember that I set out to read this book a few months back. What can I say? I lost track of time, and I forgot about it. Then, I was preparing for a child abuse trial, which took all of my time. And then I lost the trial on directed verdict, so I had to grieve for a while. And so finally, I picked it up again last week (which is interesting, since I’m again in the full throes of preparing for another child abuse trial).
About the book: all the reviews are right. The worst thing about this book is that I didn’t have time to read it all in one sitting. Now that I know how it ends, I’m anxious to reread it so that I can fully appreciate the author’s pacing and plot development. Speaking of the plot, you are perhaps wondering what a lace reader is. I’m not sure that they actually exist. At any rate, according to the author, lace reading is form of fortune-telling; the readers “read” Ipswich lace, or bobbin lace, and look for pictures or visions about a person’s future. The story is set in Salem, so the city’s history weighs heavily on the plot, but it’s not so overpowering that it becomes the same old witches-in-Salem story that we’ve all heard 100 times.
Towner Whitney, the main character, returns to Salem following her great-aunt’s death, which happened under somewhat suspicious circumstances. What follows is a series of strange events that awaken tragedies and mysteries from decades before. The pacing is perfect. The narrator begins the book by telling us her name, and then immediately tells us that she is a liar. So, from the get-go, we are wondering what is really happening. And, if something isn’t really happening, then is the narrator lying to us, or is there something affecting her perception?
After reading the book, I’m now really fascinated with the process of lace making, and I’m thinking of teaching myself how to do it. We’ll see how that goes. None of you better be rolling your eyes.
13 August 2009
04 August 2009
The Dawn Patrol
by Don Winslow
Another book that I'm reading for a book club. The guy at the bookstore described it as "surfing crime noir." I commented that that was possibly the most specific genre I'd ever heard of. Is there actually more than one book that would fall into this category?
The book was okay. Fairly fast-paced, and definitely an easy, quick read. I bought it on a whim, based entirely on the bookstore guy's recommendation, and the fact that because I'd just been to San Diego the weekend before, and I thought it would be intriguing to read about a place I'd just visited.
My main problem with Mr. Winslow is that he jerks back and forth between plot development and backstory and information-sharing. I appreciate his chapter-long, scientific explanations of how waves work, and his description of this specific section of the 101 highway in California, and the fact that he inserts chapters here and there to explain something that happened years before. All of these things help me understand the characters and the setting. Nothing wrong with including them.
Here's the thing: For some reason, he decided to insert these soliloquys right in the middle of the action. Literally, something big is about to happen, then there's 8 or 10 pages of blah-blah-blah, and then the next chapter starts and that big something happens. Only, I have forgotten by that point that something exciting is about to happen, and I have to go back and read the lead-up again so that I remember. It makes for herky-jerky reading, and it makes for a lot of flipping back and forth, is all I'm saying.
This is probably the crime version of chick-lit. Not challenging to read, doesn't require a lot of thought. A good summertime read; would have been perfect if I'd been lying on the sand instead of contemplating my return to work the next day.
Another book that I'm reading for a book club. The guy at the bookstore described it as "surfing crime noir." I commented that that was possibly the most specific genre I'd ever heard of. Is there actually more than one book that would fall into this category?
The book was okay. Fairly fast-paced, and definitely an easy, quick read. I bought it on a whim, based entirely on the bookstore guy's recommendation, and the fact that because I'd just been to San Diego the weekend before, and I thought it would be intriguing to read about a place I'd just visited.
My main problem with Mr. Winslow is that he jerks back and forth between plot development and backstory and information-sharing. I appreciate his chapter-long, scientific explanations of how waves work, and his description of this specific section of the 101 highway in California, and the fact that he inserts chapters here and there to explain something that happened years before. All of these things help me understand the characters and the setting. Nothing wrong with including them.
Here's the thing: For some reason, he decided to insert these soliloquys right in the middle of the action. Literally, something big is about to happen, then there's 8 or 10 pages of blah-blah-blah, and then the next chapter starts and that big something happens. Only, I have forgotten by that point that something exciting is about to happen, and I have to go back and read the lead-up again so that I remember. It makes for herky-jerky reading, and it makes for a lot of flipping back and forth, is all I'm saying.
This is probably the crime version of chick-lit. Not challenging to read, doesn't require a lot of thought. A good summertime read; would have been perfect if I'd been lying on the sand instead of contemplating my return to work the next day.
13 July 2009
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle
by David Wroblewski
I started this book last Wednesday night, and ever since then, I’ve been telling everyone I can think of – even casual acquaintances – to read it immediately. I finished it yesterday, and already I’m seriously thinking about starting over. I don’t know how to describe it, really, because it doesn’t fit neatly into one specific genre. It’s kind of a “boy and his dog” coming-of-age story, but also part adventure, part mystery, part ghost story.
The title character, Edgar, is a young boy whose family lives on a farm in Wisconsin during the mid-1950s. They breed Sawtelle Dogs, so named because they were rather much invented by Edgar’s grandfather to be perfect companion dogs. Instead of breeding for purity of bloodline, the Sawtelles breed for intelligence, and for some “je ne sais quoi” quality that will make the dogs choice makers, able to understand and respond to training and commands, but also develop a form of free will. Sort of. It’s hard to describe, really. The important part is that the dogs are a huge part of this book. The narrator is third-person omniscient, and usually he (she?) describes the action from Edgar’s point of view. But there are a few chapters that speak from a dog’s perspective, and they are some of the best parts of the book.
Interestingly, just like the dogs he cares for, Edgar is mute; he can hear, but he can’t speak. Very clever, also, then, that Edgar's surname is Sawtelle. Saw. Tell. Get it? ;-)
The plot has been billed as “Hamlet”…with dogs. I’m not sure about that. “Hamlet” was never my favorite Shakespeare tragedy (“Othello” is, in case you’re wondering). Actually, I never liked “Hamlet” much at all, so I tried to pay as little attention to it as possible while still making an A in my Shakespeare class in college. Still, though, perhaps you can rest assured, knowing that there is no moment where Edgar cradles a skull…human or canine.
I will not do you the disservice of telling you the tragic plot turn that happens about a third of the way through the book. Unfortunately, the writers of the book flap are not as kind as I, so if you don’t want to have your reading ruined, throw the flap into the garbage as soon as you buy it. I was disgusted at having read it, actually, because I’m convinced that I would have somehow enjoyed the book even more if I hadn’t known what was coming.
Honestly, I usually hate books that wander too heavily into detail or description. I had to stop reading “Les Miserables” for a while, and then skip 100 pages or so, because I was so tired of hearing about what Victor Hugo thought about the guillotine or the Battle of Waterloo. But, Wroblewski’s best writing shows itself in his descriptions of the dogs’ training, or the family farm, or the town itself and the people who inhabit it. He paints a childhood that is undoubtedly ideal and idyllic (at least in the beginning…not so much at the end), but I can’t even tell you how much I loved reading about it.
I started this book last Wednesday night, and ever since then, I’ve been telling everyone I can think of – even casual acquaintances – to read it immediately. I finished it yesterday, and already I’m seriously thinking about starting over. I don’t know how to describe it, really, because it doesn’t fit neatly into one specific genre. It’s kind of a “boy and his dog” coming-of-age story, but also part adventure, part mystery, part ghost story.
The title character, Edgar, is a young boy whose family lives on a farm in Wisconsin during the mid-1950s. They breed Sawtelle Dogs, so named because they were rather much invented by Edgar’s grandfather to be perfect companion dogs. Instead of breeding for purity of bloodline, the Sawtelles breed for intelligence, and for some “je ne sais quoi” quality that will make the dogs choice makers, able to understand and respond to training and commands, but also develop a form of free will. Sort of. It’s hard to describe, really. The important part is that the dogs are a huge part of this book. The narrator is third-person omniscient, and usually he (she?) describes the action from Edgar’s point of view. But there are a few chapters that speak from a dog’s perspective, and they are some of the best parts of the book.
Interestingly, just like the dogs he cares for, Edgar is mute; he can hear, but he can’t speak. Very clever, also, then, that Edgar's surname is Sawtelle. Saw. Tell. Get it? ;-)
The plot has been billed as “Hamlet”…with dogs. I’m not sure about that. “Hamlet” was never my favorite Shakespeare tragedy (“Othello” is, in case you’re wondering). Actually, I never liked “Hamlet” much at all, so I tried to pay as little attention to it as possible while still making an A in my Shakespeare class in college. Still, though, perhaps you can rest assured, knowing that there is no moment where Edgar cradles a skull…human or canine.
I will not do you the disservice of telling you the tragic plot turn that happens about a third of the way through the book. Unfortunately, the writers of the book flap are not as kind as I, so if you don’t want to have your reading ruined, throw the flap into the garbage as soon as you buy it. I was disgusted at having read it, actually, because I’m convinced that I would have somehow enjoyed the book even more if I hadn’t known what was coming.
Honestly, I usually hate books that wander too heavily into detail or description. I had to stop reading “Les Miserables” for a while, and then skip 100 pages or so, because I was so tired of hearing about what Victor Hugo thought about the guillotine or the Battle of Waterloo. But, Wroblewski’s best writing shows itself in his descriptions of the dogs’ training, or the family farm, or the town itself and the people who inhabit it. He paints a childhood that is undoubtedly ideal and idyllic (at least in the beginning…not so much at the end), but I can’t even tell you how much I loved reading about it.
07 July 2009
Love Stories in This Town
By Amanda Eyre Ward
I don’t normally like short stories, so I will admit to being a little disappointed when, after buying this book, I realized that it was, alas, a book of short stories. I shouldn’t have been. I read the whole thing in one sitting.
Faithful (or even semi-faithful) readers of my blog know my love for Amanda Eyre Ward. If possible, I think I love her more now. My problem with short stories is that just about the time I get to know the character and care what happens to him/her (in Eyre Ward, it’s almost always “her,” by the way), the story is over and I’m left wanting more. This author, though, is very good with endings that are both satisfying in the sense that they don’t feel forced or contrived, and open enough to allow me some leeway in figuring out just how these women spend the rest of their lives.
As you may anticipate, the stories center around the central characters’ love lives, but not in a stereotypical sense. The little towns and big cities where the women live and work, or where they’ve moved or traveled to, are more than backdrops; they influence the mood and the movement of the plot. For instance, the title comes from a quote at the end of one of the stories. A bartender says, “There are no love stories in this town.” In the reader’s guide at the end of the book, Eyre Ward admits that when she wrote that line, she was a sad graduate student, and it was the first of several stories she would eventually write about “Lola.” Initially, it was a statement about how the character had somehow resigned herself to a loveless life, because of where she lived. As the author wrote more stories about her, though, she realized that the actual commentary was that Lola would eventually leave that town, which she does, and find a better life elsewhere.
Needless to say, I enjoyed this book. Inhaled it, practically. I can’t wait for her next one.
I don’t normally like short stories, so I will admit to being a little disappointed when, after buying this book, I realized that it was, alas, a book of short stories. I shouldn’t have been. I read the whole thing in one sitting.
Faithful (or even semi-faithful) readers of my blog know my love for Amanda Eyre Ward. If possible, I think I love her more now. My problem with short stories is that just about the time I get to know the character and care what happens to him/her (in Eyre Ward, it’s almost always “her,” by the way), the story is over and I’m left wanting more. This author, though, is very good with endings that are both satisfying in the sense that they don’t feel forced or contrived, and open enough to allow me some leeway in figuring out just how these women spend the rest of their lives.
As you may anticipate, the stories center around the central characters’ love lives, but not in a stereotypical sense. The little towns and big cities where the women live and work, or where they’ve moved or traveled to, are more than backdrops; they influence the mood and the movement of the plot. For instance, the title comes from a quote at the end of one of the stories. A bartender says, “There are no love stories in this town.” In the reader’s guide at the end of the book, Eyre Ward admits that when she wrote that line, she was a sad graduate student, and it was the first of several stories she would eventually write about “Lola.” Initially, it was a statement about how the character had somehow resigned herself to a loveless life, because of where she lived. As the author wrote more stories about her, though, she realized that the actual commentary was that Lola would eventually leave that town, which she does, and find a better life elsewhere.
Needless to say, I enjoyed this book. Inhaled it, practically. I can’t wait for her next one.
06 July 2009
I love my family...
...they're great for entertainment. In fact, I could base the plotline of an entire sitcom on my Aunt Enone. So, because my family will celebrate her 80th birthday on Sunday, and because I sadly will not be there, I offer the following story as an example of why I miss her as much as I do:
My mama called me a few days back to tell me that Aunt Enone had been having some trouble with her eyes and that I should call and talk to her when I had a few minutes. Obediently, I called the next day to check on her, and she filled me in on the whole story. She had gone to her weekly beauty shop appointment, just as she has every single week ever since I can remember. This trip was notable, though, because when she put her eyeglasses back on as she was getting reay to leave, she noticed hat suddenly, she couldn't see. She called my aunt to come take her home, since obviously, she couldn't drive.
I asked if her vision had improved any, and she said that she thought it had. Well, that was a relief. Here I am, thousands of miles away, thinking that she's had a stroke, or that she's got an aneurysm or something. I was really worried!
Apparently, so was everyone else because everyone said a special prayer at church on Sunday morning that God would heal her eyes. As my Uncle Bob would say, God still answers prayer! And we know this because after church, one of Aunt Enone's friends, who had coincidentally been at the beauty shop at the very same time as Aunt Enone, came to visit her. Also coincidentally, she had been experiencing some vision problems of her own. After hearing the specialprayer request at church, it occurred to her what both their problems might be.
Lo and behold, they swapped glasses and had been wandering around for three days wearing the wrong ones, both of them too blind to realize that they had taken the wrong glasses from the beauty shop. Amen! Both are cured!
My mama called me a few days back to tell me that Aunt Enone had been having some trouble with her eyes and that I should call and talk to her when I had a few minutes. Obediently, I called the next day to check on her, and she filled me in on the whole story. She had gone to her weekly beauty shop appointment, just as she has every single week ever since I can remember. This trip was notable, though, because when she put her eyeglasses back on as she was getting reay to leave, she noticed hat suddenly, she couldn't see. She called my aunt to come take her home, since obviously, she couldn't drive.
I asked if her vision had improved any, and she said that she thought it had. Well, that was a relief. Here I am, thousands of miles away, thinking that she's had a stroke, or that she's got an aneurysm or something. I was really worried!
Apparently, so was everyone else because everyone said a special prayer at church on Sunday morning that God would heal her eyes. As my Uncle Bob would say, God still answers prayer! And we know this because after church, one of Aunt Enone's friends, who had coincidentally been at the beauty shop at the very same time as Aunt Enone, came to visit her. Also coincidentally, she had been experiencing some vision problems of her own. After hearing the specialprayer request at church, it occurred to her what both their problems might be.
Lo and behold, they swapped glasses and had been wandering around for three days wearing the wrong ones, both of them too blind to realize that they had taken the wrong glasses from the beauty shop. Amen! Both are cured!
112
Why is this number important?
Is it the number of days left 'til Christmas? Nope...it's only July!
Is it the number of files in my office that need my immediate attention? No, but it's probably fairly close.
Could it be, you wonder, the number of petals on a chrysanthemum? No.
It is, ladies and gentlemen, the projected temperature - in degrees Fahrenheit - in Phoenix on Friday. Gees.
Is it the number of days left 'til Christmas? Nope...it's only July!
Is it the number of files in my office that need my immediate attention? No, but it's probably fairly close.
Could it be, you wonder, the number of petals on a chrysanthemum? No.
It is, ladies and gentlemen, the projected temperature - in degrees Fahrenheit - in Phoenix on Friday. Gees.
28 June 2009
Michael Jackson
Isn't it funny what a difference just a few years can make?
I've been watching various retrospectives on the life of Michael Jackson this weekend, mostly because I promised myself that I would do nothing more strenuous than sleeping and breathing all weekend (had a bad week; lost a child abuse trial).
Michael unveiled the moonwalk in 1982, the year after I was born. People just a few years older than I am remember the Michael of the Jackson 5, and the Michael of "Billie Jean" and "Thriller." I was only three years old in 1984, when Michael's hair caught on fire while he was filming a Pepsi commercial. It was after this, apparently, when his obsession with plastic surgery began, and when he idiosyncracies started to appear.
What do I remember about Michael Jackson? Of course, I remember the first time I saw the moonwalk. And like everyone else, I was awed by it. But, by the time I was aware enough to choose the music I listened to, and to choose what I watched on television, Michael Jackson was this weirdo who sang that one song from "Free Willy" that everyone knew the words to.
Years went on and he married Lisa Marie Presley, and there was that weird kiss at the VMAs. And then he was accused of child molestation. He caked on more and more makeup, and his nose got smaller and smaller until it seemed it would just fall off (and who knows...maybe it did). Michael became more and more reclusive, the result of which was that he just seemed weirder and weirder. And then he named his third child "Blanket" and hung him over a fourth-floor balcony railing so the paparazzi could see the baby...only not his face, because that was covered with...wait, what? A blanket.
Then, when I was in the middle of law school, he was again accused of child molestation, only this time, I was particularly interested because...well, because I was in law school. We would spend lunch hours watching trial coverage on Court TV. I was devastated when he was found not-guilty. What is it with California juries? I'm sure glad I don't prosecute there. Overwhelming evidence + a camera in the courtroom = acquittal every time.
What do I think about Michael Jackson's death? Well, maybe because I was too young to ever love him, or particularly love his music, I'm not particularly affected. Sure, the guy was talented - spectacularly so. And of course, he broke down barriers and invented new styles of music and dance. But to me, he's a pedophile who was never made to take responsibility for whatever damage he caused. And he was a man who looked increasingly feminine, and then just plain strange. He had too much plastic surgery, too much money, and too much control over the people around him, all of which resulted in too much medication, and likely, his death.
Maybe the purpose for his death is so that the family and friends mourning Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon could do so in peace.
I've been watching various retrospectives on the life of Michael Jackson this weekend, mostly because I promised myself that I would do nothing more strenuous than sleeping and breathing all weekend (had a bad week; lost a child abuse trial).
Michael unveiled the moonwalk in 1982, the year after I was born. People just a few years older than I am remember the Michael of the Jackson 5, and the Michael of "Billie Jean" and "Thriller." I was only three years old in 1984, when Michael's hair caught on fire while he was filming a Pepsi commercial. It was after this, apparently, when his obsession with plastic surgery began, and when he idiosyncracies started to appear.
What do I remember about Michael Jackson? Of course, I remember the first time I saw the moonwalk. And like everyone else, I was awed by it. But, by the time I was aware enough to choose the music I listened to, and to choose what I watched on television, Michael Jackson was this weirdo who sang that one song from "Free Willy" that everyone knew the words to.
Years went on and he married Lisa Marie Presley, and there was that weird kiss at the VMAs. And then he was accused of child molestation. He caked on more and more makeup, and his nose got smaller and smaller until it seemed it would just fall off (and who knows...maybe it did). Michael became more and more reclusive, the result of which was that he just seemed weirder and weirder. And then he named his third child "Blanket" and hung him over a fourth-floor balcony railing so the paparazzi could see the baby...only not his face, because that was covered with...wait, what? A blanket.
Then, when I was in the middle of law school, he was again accused of child molestation, only this time, I was particularly interested because...well, because I was in law school. We would spend lunch hours watching trial coverage on Court TV. I was devastated when he was found not-guilty. What is it with California juries? I'm sure glad I don't prosecute there. Overwhelming evidence + a camera in the courtroom = acquittal every time.
What do I think about Michael Jackson's death? Well, maybe because I was too young to ever love him, or particularly love his music, I'm not particularly affected. Sure, the guy was talented - spectacularly so. And of course, he broke down barriers and invented new styles of music and dance. But to me, he's a pedophile who was never made to take responsibility for whatever damage he caused. And he was a man who looked increasingly feminine, and then just plain strange. He had too much plastic surgery, too much money, and too much control over the people around him, all of which resulted in too much medication, and likely, his death.
Maybe the purpose for his death is so that the family and friends mourning Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon could do so in peace.
28 May 2009
Cake Wrecks
Oh my goodness, visit this blog immediately. I promise: much laughing will ensue!
www.cakewrecks.blogspot.com
www.cakewrecks.blogspot.com
25 May 2009
25 Random Things About Me
I was rereading some posts on Amanda's blog, and I was inspired to create a list of my own:
1. I have seen “Gone With the Wind” more times than I can count. My favorite time was at the Alabama Theatre in Birmingham with Rebecca. I'm not sure if it's my favorite because the theater is so pretty, or because there were people dressed in antebellum clothes, or because Rebecca and I got lost trying to find the place and then got the giggles when she tried to parallel park.
2. I could listen to Nina Simone 24 hours a day and not get tired of hearing her sing “Wild is the Wind.”
3. I visit People Magazine’s website at least ten times a day.
4. I agree whole-heartedly with Sylvia Plath and Amanda: “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.”
5. My favorite perfume is Burberry Classic.
6. My favorite part of a jury trial is closing arguments.
7. Lip gloss takes up most of the room in my makeup bag.
8. I am a graduate of the University of Alabama (not once, but twice), and though I know every word to “Yay, Alabama!” and will sing it at the top of my lungs whenever asked, I am, at heart, an LSU fan.
9. When I think about Alabama, the things I miss most (besides my family, of course) are oak trees, Southern accents, and people who open doors for me.
10. I am learning to crochet (well, re-learning).
11. I want to learn how to quilt…
12. …and speak Italian.
13. My guilty pleasure: Goop.com (Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle website).
14. Even guiltier pleasure: The Real Housewives of New York City. It's like watching a train wreck, and I'm pretty sure it makes me dumber, but it's so ridiculous I can't stop.
15. I really hate it that one must have a subscription to The New York Times in order to receive The New York Times Magazine.
16. I regret that I never learned to make biscuits from my Grandmama.
17. I get nauseated when I smell the Sun-Ripened Raspberry products from Bath & Body Works. I associate that smell with HealthSouth, where Grandmama went for rehab after she had a stroke.
18. It *really* irritates me when people confuse their and there, it’s and its, and you’re and your. If I ever kill someone, this will probably be why.
19. I have a specific writing-instrument preference: blue ink, rollerball, micro tip. Our office manager orders them special for me.
20. I am addicted to philosophy’s Microdelivery Peel. I use it about 3 times a week.
21. I talk to my mom on the phone at least twice a day.
22. As much as I love being a prosecutor, I wish I owned a store. Preferably a gift store that is also a bakery. Although in this economy, it’s probably better that I don’t.
23. I don’t like ice cream all that much, unless I’m eating it at the store in Needham, with a little wooden spoon. Tastes different.
24. When I was little and complained of constant headaches, my parents thought I was lying and just trying to get attention. Turns out I was legally blind. They felt really bad.
25. I can’t wait to buy a house just so I can paint the walls. I’ve been surrounded by off-white walls since I was 16. I would also like a fireplace, although given that I live in the desert, that has more to do with wanting a mantle than with wanting a heat-producing object.
1. I have seen “Gone With the Wind” more times than I can count. My favorite time was at the Alabama Theatre in Birmingham with Rebecca. I'm not sure if it's my favorite because the theater is so pretty, or because there were people dressed in antebellum clothes, or because Rebecca and I got lost trying to find the place and then got the giggles when she tried to parallel park.
2. I could listen to Nina Simone 24 hours a day and not get tired of hearing her sing “Wild is the Wind.”
3. I visit People Magazine’s website at least ten times a day.
4. I agree whole-heartedly with Sylvia Plath and Amanda: “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.”
5. My favorite perfume is Burberry Classic.
6. My favorite part of a jury trial is closing arguments.
7. Lip gloss takes up most of the room in my makeup bag.
8. I am a graduate of the University of Alabama (not once, but twice), and though I know every word to “Yay, Alabama!” and will sing it at the top of my lungs whenever asked, I am, at heart, an LSU fan.
9. When I think about Alabama, the things I miss most (besides my family, of course) are oak trees, Southern accents, and people who open doors for me.
10. I am learning to crochet (well, re-learning).
11. I want to learn how to quilt…
12. …and speak Italian.
13. My guilty pleasure: Goop.com (Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle website).
14. Even guiltier pleasure: The Real Housewives of New York City. It's like watching a train wreck, and I'm pretty sure it makes me dumber, but it's so ridiculous I can't stop.
15. I really hate it that one must have a subscription to The New York Times in order to receive The New York Times Magazine.
16. I regret that I never learned to make biscuits from my Grandmama.
17. I get nauseated when I smell the Sun-Ripened Raspberry products from Bath & Body Works. I associate that smell with HealthSouth, where Grandmama went for rehab after she had a stroke.
18. It *really* irritates me when people confuse their and there, it’s and its, and you’re and your. If I ever kill someone, this will probably be why.
19. I have a specific writing-instrument preference: blue ink, rollerball, micro tip. Our office manager orders them special for me.
20. I am addicted to philosophy’s Microdelivery Peel. I use it about 3 times a week.
21. I talk to my mom on the phone at least twice a day.
22. As much as I love being a prosecutor, I wish I owned a store. Preferably a gift store that is also a bakery. Although in this economy, it’s probably better that I don’t.
23. I don’t like ice cream all that much, unless I’m eating it at the store in Needham, with a little wooden spoon. Tastes different.
24. When I was little and complained of constant headaches, my parents thought I was lying and just trying to get attention. Turns out I was legally blind. They felt really bad.
25. I can’t wait to buy a house just so I can paint the walls. I’ve been surrounded by off-white walls since I was 16. I would also like a fireplace, although given that I live in the desert, that has more to do with wanting a mantle than with wanting a heat-producing object.
21 May 2009
It's raining!
Oh, the excitement! It's been unseasonably hot - like, 106 degrees - so I couldn't be happier to hear the plop, plop, plop of raindrops against my bedroom window. Here's hoping it cools things off and rinses away some pollen!
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