I.F.O.A. Day the Second

In which Zesty and Ragdoll enjoy an evening of delightful estrogenic readings.

Thursday Ragdoll attended a night of reading by four authors, namely Madeleine Thein, Claire Messud, Jane Hamilton and Janet Fitch. The evening was hosted by one of my favourite radio personalities, Catherine Belyea.

I have to admit that out of all the I.F.O.A. activities, the readings are the ones that I enjoy the most. I’m always interested in the excerpts the authors choose and their rationale for doing so. Many times, I haven’t read the books being read so I essentially glean their essence from the author’s excerpt choice.

Madeleine Thein was the first reader, choosing an excerpt from her book Certainty. The excerpt introduced the character of Matthew Lim and his reminiscence of being a child in Japanese occupied Malaysia towards the end of WWII. Thein’s novel was one of three in the evening’s readings that had war as a major thematic element. I have to admit that as much as I enjoyed this reading, there was a very structured, almost clinical quality to the writing that left me apathetic. Thein is talented, no doubt, but I didn’t really feel any compunction to care about her characters despite what was happening to them. That being said, I think I will still read this book. It is not usually the type of work I’m attracted to, and I will be interested to see if my initial impression of the novel is maintained.

Claire Messud was up next and read from her book The Emperor’s Children. It takes place in New York City and has “The War on Terror” as a backdrop as it explores the challenges of three main thirty something characters prior to and shortly after September 11, 2001. The first excerpt Ms. Messud read focused on a character by the name of Murray Thwaite. The author described him as “a prominent liberal journalist who if he was real, would be someone you would most certainly have heard of.” It was a brilliant and extremely humourous excerpt in which Murray is preparing to work on his intellectual masterpiece, the secrecy of which he guards with the ferocity of a Rottweiler in a junk yard, only to be interrupted by his daughter Marina who is currently staying with Murray and his wife. Rife with the internal explorations and motivations of the characters, it was a marvelous juxtaposition of what people are really thinking versus what they actually say. The second excerpt was similar in tone and the reading of both was complemented by Ms. Messud’s natural gifts as a performer. A modern day Dickens, another author known for the dramatic quality of his readings, she vividly brought her characters alive to hilarious affect.

The third novel to be featured was When Madeline Was Young by Jane Hamilton. Again employing “The War on Terror” theme, Ms. Hamilton chose an excerpt in which the East coast family of Mac Maciver goes to the down home Christian conservative funeral of his cousin Buddy’s 21 year old son, a soldier recently killed in Iraq. Having not seen his cousin in 30 years, the excerpt was balanced between Mac’s internal observations of the situation and the machinations of his uptight wife and neurotic daughters as they try to navigate their way through the funeral without offending anyone. There was one particularly funny "fish out of water" moment when the family are at the wake contemplating the potential consequences of choosing a cupcake with a cross on it versus one with the American flag. Based on this excerpt alone, I wouldn’t be surprised if the movie rights to this novel have already been snapped up.

The last reader of the night was Janet Fitch, who is most widely known for her debut novel White Oleander. It was chosen by Oprah for her book club and catapulted Fitch to instant star author status. I didn’t read the book, but I did enjoy the movie and I looked forward to this reading. Ms. Fitch read through several excerpts from the beginning of her new novel, Paint It Black, which takes place during the early 1980’s when the punk scene of Los Angeles was in full force. She introduced her central character, Josie Tyrell and the main event that kicks off the book, namely the suicide of Josie's boyfriend Michael and the shadow cast by his larger than life mother. I have to admit that initially I wasn’t drawn in, but by the end of Fitch’s reading I couldn’t wait to read this book. Based on what I know about Fitch’s work, this book focuses on several themes she likes to visit, namely southern California, powerful mother figures and disenfranchised female protagonists. For some reason, I felt very strongly about this novel, so much so that I bought it at the festival and had Ms. Fitch sign it. I noted that my name is spelled with “two l’s” and she laughed, saying that her daughter shares my name and says the same thing about the spelling. She seemed like a really nice down-to-earth person and I’m keeping her book as a talisman of sorts, a lucky charm to keep close by as I pursue my own writing.

Up next: A night with the Grand Dame of Canadian letters, Ms. Margaret Attwood. Don’t you dare call her Madge.

All The Leaves Are Brown

Well I've had a busy weekend Dear Reader and still two more great nights at the IFOA to tell you about.

For some reason, I woke up this blustery fall morning thinking about my maternal grandmother, and I really missed her. I've been trying not to cry all day. Nothing seemed to bring this on [except maybe PMS] but I'm just going to take some time and try to chill.

I'll bring you up date early this week.

Peace out and Be Well.

Readings and Warblings

Well it was another grand night at the IFOA. Will be back with a review shortly, but in the meantime, check out this video offering.

For what is better than singing a duet? Why singing a duet with someone who is totally hammered of course!

I dont' know who Amy Winehouse is, but just when you think she can't get any worse, she does. Major props to Charlotte Church for keeping it together. This kind of infamy is priceless y'all.

I.F.O.A. Day the First - Part Three

In which our heroines Zesty and Ragdoll have their day finished by good chatter.

Ragdoll and I ate our French fries and mulled, over books, life, work and dreams.

Then we were off to our last session of the day, an interview with Sarah Waters, author of The Night Watch [I discussed this book in Part One].

The interview was in the Brigantine Room at York Quay and it was rather nice. It was set up with tables and candles with rows of chairs in the back. My only complaint is that these chairs are made of hard plastic and are one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever had to sit on. We also had to endure these same chairs for the roundtable.

Surely Harbourfront Centre can do better than this crap? Surely.

Her Cuteness, [Ms. Waters] arrived. She and her interviewer, the awesome Susan G. Cole, were introduced by Ibi Kaslik, author of Skinny.

Note to moderators and interviewers everywhere. If you want to do a great job, take a cue from Ms. Cole. She had obviously done her homework and asked some pointed and thought provoking questions. She touched on topics such as the overt sexuality [lesbian and otherwise] in Waters' books, the creative process. Ms. Waters' own "out" status as a lesbian and her fixation with the Victorian period to name just a few. Ms. Water's answers were very interesting and despite the all too tall man who sat in front of me and made rumbling coughing sounds throughout the talk, the session was over before we knew it.

[And by the way, I'm just observing the coughing. I know the poor fellow couldn't help it and I hope he's getting over something as opposed to coming down.]

It was a fabulous end to what was overall, an excellent first outing at the I.F.O.A. The rain had even stopped by the time we were leaving. Go figure.

I.F.O.A. Day the First – Part Two

In which our fearless heroines Ragdoll and Zesty fight the wily and malevolent forces of interminable discussion.

With eight minutes to spare, Ragdoll and I made a frantic dash across the Harbourfront parking lot [in lashing rain of course] from Queen’s Quay to York Quay for our next session, a Roundtable Discussion.

Ragdoll was somewhat disappointed in this state of affairs as she was hankering for some French fries and was starting to come to the uncomfortable conclusion that the decaf latte she had ordered at breakfast was in fact nothing of the kind. Oy. Da jittahs. Da fever Romanship!

If it were not bad enough that she was somewhat unwell and denied the small, albeit sacred pleasure of a good frite, we had to endure a roundtable discussion that has probably succeeded in discouraging me from ever attending another one at the I.F.O.A.

I attended a roundtable last year and having checked realize that I didn’t even bother to blog about it. Nor can I remember the subject matter. Having thought on the subject of roundtables a bit more, I’ve determined that my problems with them are essentially as follows:

If you don’t have a good moderator, i.e. one interested in guiding the structure of a discussion instead of just hearing everyone including themselves talk, it’s essentially the kiss of death.

It’s my personal preference, but I’ve realized that to a great degree I'm not that concerned about what writers think in the sense that listening to a group of them warble on, as opposed to an interview with one of them, just isn't that interesting. I care about what writers write, not necessarily their discussions and opinions on how best to write, or the war in Iraq or the validity of blue paint versus green paint for the walls of a writing room.

The topic(s) for discussion will inevitably be far too broad to be discussed in any real manner within an hour. Nuff said.

Case in point, the roundtable Ragdoll and I attended was with Nicole Krauss [A History of Love], Colson Whitehead [The Collosus of New York], Deborah Eisenberg [Twilight of Superheroes] and was moderated by David Eddie [Housebroken: Confessions of a Stay At Home Dad].

The topic? Fiction versus Non-Fiction.

Sigh.

First of all as Ragdoll points out, didn’t we all cover this issue ad naseum earlier in the year with the whole James Frey debacle? Enough already.

Secondly, I don’t want to hear a bunch of fiction writers’ talk about non-fiction and what defines it. Semantics are interesting to mentally churn, but not an especially interesting topic for an observed discussion.

I felt for the moderator in that he was obviously a bit nervous, but there was no guidance provided for the discussion at all. It was a plodding mess that covered such general topics as 9/11, the nature of inspiration, and “does writing make a difference in the world?” And that was before we got into the questions [some of them ridiculous] from the audience.

At one point a woman asked if the writers ever worried about hurting their readers' feelings. It was all I could do not to stand up, unleash my inner Yazmar and declare that woman "a damn fool" to one and all.

I would say that overall, Nicole Krauss and Colson Whitehead were my favourite panelists. I admired Ms. Krauss because she was asked about how it is to live with another writer, her husband Jonathan Safran Foer and she refused to answer. It’s redundant. Do the male spouses of female writers get asked the same question? I doubt it. Zadie Smith probably has to endure the same nonsense.

I also really liked Colson Whitehead because he was not only very humourous throughout the discussion but when he was asked about the “vast freedom” writers enjoy in this part of the world, he said it was a question he wasn’t sure he could or should address because “As a black writer, would I have even been here 20 years ago?” Right freakin’ on Colson.

I love it when people just call the numbers on the crap metre, know what I mean jellybeans?

The discussion was mercifully over in about an hour at which time Ragdoll and I were able to finally obtain sustenance after discovering that that French fries were not in Queen’s Quay, but were in fact in York Quay where we had just been. We got large orders since we’d burned off so many calories with our double parking lot mambos.

Up Next: Bridge over Untroubled Waters. Susan G. Coles executes a skillful interview with the author of The Night Watch, redeeming my faith somewhat in the concept of hearing writers talk instead of read.

I.F.O.A. Day the First - Part One

Yesterday, Ragdoll and I engaged in the annual delirium that is Toronto's International Festival of Authors. Now in its 27th year, I was introduced to it last year by the aforementioned Ragdoll and it is now an event I eagerly anticipate.

What I do not eagerly anticipate is the rain, which seems without fail to accompany Ragdoll and I to every reading we attend. Shall we break our soggy curse this coming Thursday evening? It remains to be seen Dear Reader.

Yesterday's festivities were started off with a delightful brunch with girlfriends. We've recently reunited with some women of old, handmaidens if you will of Zesty and Ragdoll lore. "Attwood" couldn't make it as she had a cold, but "Alcott" and "Pavlova" were in attendance. We brunched and kevetched whiling away our 2 hours with Remembrances of Meadowvale Past and well brewed coffee.

It was one of those meetings where I had a singular moment. I mentioned in passing that I'd had a nervous breakdown when I turned 35. Granted, it only lasted about 5 minutes but that's besides the point. Alcott asked me why and I warbled on about how I felt I'd had plans, they hadn't worked out, I'm not doing what I'm meant to do, yadda yadda yadda.

Then Alcott said that she thought age was just a state of mind. That she'd gotten through a divorce that at the time seemed overwhelming and that in the end, there is always the possibility of renewal, of a new beginning for everyone.

I'm a total dweeb. Thank you for inspiring me Alcott and giving my mental keister the kick it needed.

At any rate, off to our readings...

I should mention that Ragdoll sported a rather fetching black pea coat and a gorgeous Roots bag. It was fierce y'all. I had green sneakers on and wore ill advised blue eye shadow. But everything essentially matched, and Ragdoll told me that she thought my pilates was doing wonders. My ass is disappearing. That is truly a wonder.

The first author was Bernice Eisenstein who read from her book I Was a Child of Holocaust Survivors. It is both a prosiac and visual novel, and she showed the visuals in the book that accompanied her sections as she read. Ms. Eisenstein delivered two fascinating excerpts that to me were metaphorically brilliant. The first examined the Holocaust as drug like, something she needed continuing hits of in order to define herself. "H" as she called it. The second was envisioning her father as a cowboy liberating Auschwitz. He had loved American Westerns, and she reimagines him, not as a human being who can barely recount his tale, but as an avenging angel of sorts that paces into the camp to defeat his Nazi enemies in one fell swoop, or as she brilliantly put it "It was time to Arbeit and Macht some Frie." It was her laser like wit in relating such horrifying events that I found incredibly moving. The applause for her reading was sustained, and I doubt there was a dry eye in the house.

The next author Ami McKay was honest, and indicated she needed a moment to compose herself as Ms. Eisenstein's reading had been so moving. Ms. McKay's novel The Birth House centers around a female midwife protagonist contending with amongst other things, the explosion in Halifax Harbour in 1917. The explosion occurred when a WWI munitions ship collided with another, and it is the most devasting non-nuclear explosion ever recorded in terms of the carnage that occurred. She read two excerpts, one with her protagonist contending with the spontaneous labour of the city's women that was brought on by the explosion. She then read another excerpt about vibrators.

No I'm not telling you. BUY THE DAMN BOOK.

After a brief break where I picked up my requisite amount of informational brochures with which I shall do nothing, we returned for the two remaining readings.

The third reading was by Rosemary Sullivan who read from her most recent non-fiction work Villa Air-Bel: World War II, Escape and a House in Marseille. It is the true story of a collective of artists who fled Paris as the Nazis advanced. The house was their haven as they awaited rescue. My impression of Ms. Sullivan [and it is just that - I don't know her from a hole in the ground] is that she personifies to a great degree that somewhat sanguine, "aren't we clever" quality that you pick up at events such the festival. But if I'm honest, I'm really just jealous of her more than anything. She is obviously brilliant, a fierce intellectual and the sense of drama and emotion she brings to her non-fiction work is simply exceptional. I would say that despite Ms. Eisenstein's beautiful reading, it was Ms. Sullivan's book I was most interested in reading later. If I am ever any kind of writer, I would want to be one like Rosemary Sullivan, one that has complete command of my work's subject. She interjected her excerpts with observations from instances in her life, compellingly making the point that the approach of all dictatorships seem obvious in retrospect.

The fourth author, and one I keenly anticipated as Ragdoll raved about her book The Night Watch, was Sarah Waters. What can I say? She is British and utterly adorable. You just want to pinch her cheeks and put her on your mantle piece because she's so cute. I know in writing this that I am being absolutely ridiculous, insulting even, but folks the woman is damn cute. Like I'm talkin' Bambi cute here.

Ok now that that's out of the way, on to Ms. Waters' book. It's about several characters in London during the blitz. The compelling aspect of this book is that it starts in 1947 and then goes back in time to 1941 as the book progresses. It is only at the end that the characters' eventual states make sense. She read one excerpt of two lesbians wandering through London's ruins in the black of night, on the cusp of declaring their mutual affection for each other. It was brilliant. The second dealt with another main character, a female ambulance worker named Kay who is called to a bomb site to rescue survivors.

After that, it was off to our next session with eight minutes to spare.

Tune in tomorrow for Part Two: Ragdoll and Zesty enter Redundant Roundtable Hell. Abandon all hope, ye who enter this discussion.

Poetic Interludes

Friends, Romans is proud to present another installment of its continuing series, Poetic Interludes.

Ode to A Wet Sweater in Autumn

Oh wet comely sweater
lying there on the ground,
thou cursed thing,
lost and never found.

Once you were fuzzy,
Once you were warm
Now you lie on the sidewalk
As pedestrians swarm.

You lowly state hurts me,
So much I feel ill.
Would it have been all that much
to drop you off at Goodwill?

But no here you are
amongst those walking and bicycling
I hope that the city,
picks you up for recycling.

Great Moments In Bargain History

Friends, Romans is proud to present another installment of its exclusive series, Great Moments In Bargain History.

It's a double dizzle fer shizzle y'all.

First, I required a replacement Oral B electric toothbrush. I've had one for, oh I dunno, about 15 years that didn't charge up anymore because the battery went HOOYAH! Erring on the more frugal side, I thought that surely I could get a replacement battery and not have to get a whole new toothbrush package.

I was close. No new battery, but a new brush unit. Cost me $30.00 instead of the package cost of $114.00.

Advantage: Zesty.

We have also been in need of a toaster oven. The Marine McGyvered some wires so our old one could keep going. Yah, I know. Not the safest but we've religiously unplugged it when not being used.

Today I saw beautiful Oster Toaster ovens at Sears, and not only that, they were six slice capacity, enough to send the Marine to grilled cheese heaven. I've been researching them extensively and decided to go after work as even with Costco's omnipotence, they could only offer a 4 slice Oster for $69.99.

Said six slice was $89.99 with 15% off.

But wait. There's more.

As I entered Sears, a friendly voice said to ignore the rain outside and start our Christmas shopping. And to help out, the first hundred people would get a certificate worth $10 dollars in Sears Superbucks!

I like saying that. "Sears Superbucks." "Sears Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupaahbucks."










Grand total for the toaster oven, taxes in: $77.06.

HUZAH!

Like Livin In A Powder Keg and Givin Off Sparks

"McGyver", one of the developers I work with has Itunes, so I regularly send him songs. This Messenger conversation all began innnocently enough when I sent him a copy of "Drop It Like It's Hot" by Snoop and Pharrell.

Zesty says:

do you have this already?

McGyver says:

lol yeah i think so

Zesty says:

k

Zesty says:

do you have Total Eclipse of the Heart?

Zesty says:

KIDDING

McGyver says:

lol whats that?

Zesty says:

OMG!

Zesty says:

That classic, CLASSIC video by Bonnie Tyler

Zesty says:

you know, blonde chick

Zesty says:

boy's school

Zesty says:

their eyes are glowing

Zesty says:

I sound like a moron

McGyver says:

lol

McGyver says:

have no idea who that is

Zesty says:

OH> MAH >GUH

Zesty says:

please hold

Zesty says:

rats

Zesty says:

I can't find the video

Zesty says:

you know the song

Zesty says:

"turn around"

Zesty says:

"every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never comin' round"

Zesty says:

"turn around"

Zesty says:

oh forget it

McGyver says:

ohhhh

McGyver says:

yes

McGyver says:

yes

McGyver says:

i know now

Zesty says:

THANK THE LAWD

Zesty says:

lol

Zesty says:

I feel so freakin' old

Zesty says:

thank you

McGyver says:

i can hear her in my head now

McGyver says:

turn around

Zesty says:

oh I'll turn around ok

McGyver says:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tNcPbjw6ZhI

Zesty says:

oh fer chrissakes

McGyver says:

i guess no one really knows the real title for this song

Zesty says:

you're telling me!

Zesty says:

you make me WAIL

McGyver says:

lol

Zesty says:

this is a freakin' classic

McGyver says:

i've never actually seen the video

Zesty says:

oh you should watch

Zesty says:

not to be missed

Zesty says:

a classic of the 80's cheese pantheon

Zesty says:

the glowing eyes will send you over the edge

Zesty says:

but I remember at the time everyone was all like "wow. this is SO amazing."

Zesty says:

brutal

McGyver says:

lol im trying to find it

Zesty says:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tNcPbjw6ZhI

Zesty says:

dude you just sent me it

McGyver says:

oh

McGyver says:

lol

Zesty says:

and the gothic mansion at the beginning, hilarious

McGyver says:

i thought you were talking about another song for some reason

Zesty says:

they just titled it wrong

Zesty says:

this is getting painful

McGyver says:

the words "not to be missed" stood out to me as the title of a song

McGyver says:

lol

McGyver says:

k i must be drinking too much coffee or something

McGyver says:

lol

This Probably Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

Proof positive that sometimes, it's just better to go with the original. Now is truly the time, for you and I to huddle close together.

Speaking of Ralphy

Check this out. Proof postive that there is in fact a God.

Operation Pudge Nudge: Meet Ralph

It's official!

All my Ralph Lauren casual pants and cords, the ones that haven't fit for five years, now fit in spades.

Oh Ralphy. It's good to be back.

Apertures

"If I had a photograph of you or something to remind me,
I wouldn't spend my life just wishing." - A Flock of Seagulls

On Saturday my father and I went to my Granny's apartment to go through family pictures. My Dad's mother is in her early 80's, sharp as a whip and can take more punishment than a Timex. Currently she's contending with a herniated disc. She recently had her eyes operated on, has an ongoing heart condition [post bypass] and recently defeated breast cancer.

Bette Davis was right. Growing old isn't for sissies.

A few weeks ago I went to my Granny's for a lunch. We had a great day, and my Dad and I agreed to come back to go through some family pictures. Apparently, my Granny had been wanting to do this for a couple of years as she's on a merciless clutter busting campaign.

I suppose I also wanted to go because at 35, my Granny is my last surviving grandparent. It's quite something to still have a grandparent at age 35 and I know that the time we have left is short.

After a lunch of delicious sandwiches, [Thank you Starbucks. I'd highly recommend the Turkey Stuffing sandwich by the way.] we started going through boxes of photographs.

I'm one of these people that can look at pictures of anything and anybody. I suppose in what I anticipate will be a well funded retirement, I will take up photography as a hobby. I was fascinated by it in grade school. I loved taking pictures, going in the red lit room and watching an image appear like magic on the photo paper.

I particularly love pictures of people. I wonder what their thoughts, hopes and dreams were when the picture was taken. I wonder if they couldn't wait to leave. I wonder if they thought anything at all. I wonder if the photographer loved their subject.

I don't know much about any of my grandparents and I probably know the least about my paternal grandfather. But there he was, a young twenty something man galavanting around Clydebank with his brothers and mates, a newlywed, a young father, a new middle-aged Canadian immigrant, a grandfather, a very sick man living out his last months.

I find as I get older that I've begun to relate to everyone completely differently. People who came before me are particularly ripe for mental rejigging. The past has been this other worldly realm, inaccessible and distant. Then I look at a picture of my grandfather taken when he was younger than I am now and his humanity becomes more relevant and tangible to me. He was a kid once too, with hopes and dreams and fears. His time here doesn't seem so distant. And it seemed to all go by in a flash.

I see my own life starting to take the same photographic shape. I see a baby rejoicing in being held by her Daddy, I see a cute blonde toddler grumpy with a black eye and waiting for a plane [I'd walked into a shopping cart. Yes. Even then I was setting the standard by which all others would be measured.] I see an elementary kid with glasses, an awkward pre-teen who thought she was gigantic and was nothing of the kind, a teenager who just didn't appreciate how pretty she was.

I saw pictures of my Aunt Jean who died far too young, who I talked to far too little and who on some days, I miss too much.

And then as I looked through more pictures, I imagined my grandmother as a singularly bright young woman who was denied the chance to go to school, who was a young mother during the Nazi blitz of the shipyards, who raised a family, who still marks the birthday of the four month old baby girl she lost to crib death, who is now a great grandmother.

Can photographs ever really impart the joy and pain of a life?

I saw my Grandmother, sitting in her chair, reliving all these photographic memories as they had actually happened and their subsequent emotional residue. At one point, my Granny was looking at a picture and said "God. I'm the only one still alive."

And I decided in that moment, that when I look back on that picture, the one where only I can remember the people in it as they were when they lived and breathed, that I want the memories to be as happy and thoroughly lived through as possible.

Life is truly too short.

Hello

A busy weekend Dear Reader. More to come shortly.

New Ventures

I've started a new blog, and you can check it out here.

Operation Pudge Nudge: Shoppin'

I felt so bad this morning. I slept in and didn't get to work until 9:40 a.m. My boss was all "whatevs" about it. I apologized for being late but he said "Well, you put in a lot of extra hours. It all works out in the end."

I so heart my boss.

With my exploits in sleep slutdom on Monday, I've been a little out of synch. I woke up at 4 a.m. yesterday and just stayed up, worked all day and then went to my friend Dallas' place for a great dinner. She made this amazing shrimp and tortellini dish with sundried tomato pesto. What I love about Dallas is that we don't see each other for months, but when we get together it's like we just spoke on the phone yesterday. Our conversations are always epic, ranging in topics both mundane and monolithic and after we're done, I feel like I've had a day at the spa.

I toddled home at 11:00 p.m. The Marine's now calling me "24 Hour Girl." Heh!

Today I had a minor triumph. Desperate for some new clothes I went out at lunch. It's now official. I'm a full fledge size 16 [down from a 20] and I can now fit into size 14 tops [formerly 1X]. So obviously my pilates is paying off bigtime. It was a really great feeling and well honestly, it was just great to get some new clothes. I still got my standard issue black pants, but I did throw in a nice mandarin cut blouse [black with red/white embroidery] new jeans and new pin stripe pants that are primarily brown.

Then I went to H&M and bought my niece Rosy this to-die-for pink cardigan with flowers on it. It reminded me of a light violet one I had at her age. Oh how I loved that sweater. It had flowers along the collar and I thought it was the pinnacle of style. I really thought I was something else in that sweater. I also got her a teal coloured cordouroy skirt.

God I just realized that my size 16 Ralph Lauren cords may truly fit once again. Will advise Dear Reader. Will advise.

At Last

I have found the website of my dreams.

Crack out some insulin y'all!

Words of Wisdom

Here are some quotes I've come across recently. I like them.

"Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn't know you left open." - John Barrymore

"Luck? I don't know anything about luck. I've never banked on it and I'm afriad of people who do. Luck to me is something else: hard work - and realizing what is opportunity and what isn't." - Lucille Ball

"If people only knew how hard I work to gain my mastery, it wouldn't seem so wonderful at all." - Michalangelo

"Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor." - Truman Capote

"When patterns are broken, new worlds emerge." - Tuli Kupferberg

"Since no one is perfect, it follows that all great deeds have been accomplished out of imperfection. Yet they were accomplished somehow, all the same." - Lois McMaster Bujold

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.......

This morning I woke up feeling really and truly like death. I was absolutely hollowed out, save the congestion that gurgled threateningly in my chest. Last Monday I had gone in at 10 feeling exactly the same way. The result? I essentially kept a chair warm and got a minimum amount of things accomplished.

I think "it's" all catching up with me. Don't you wish your life had an "OFF" switch sometimes?

I emailed in to work that I would not be in, battened down some hatches and went to back to bed at 8 a.m. I woke up at 12:30 p.m. I had this strange dream involving my pilates teacher. We were driving in her car, which was really my Dad's car, to go and get cat food. She said to me that all the stuff I had been eating was like glue in my body, and I had to stop having muffins in the morning, that they weren't doing me any good at all and that I needed to be prepared for my body going through some changes.

Sheesh.

I eventually crawled downstairs, got some toast and tea, watched a Life and Times show on Moses Znaimer, talked to the Duke a little and then went back to bed for another 2 hours because it was all too much.

An extra eight hours sleep should surely be enough to get me back up and running. Surely.

Tomorrow is another day.

Operation Pudge Nudge: Cracklates

Well another four pounds are gone Dear Reader. My progress may be slow, but it is progress all the same.

This week something unusual happened. Despite a week that was very tiring for a myriad of reasons, I couldn't wait to get to my Pilates session this weekend. I'm not dreading exercise anymore and I honestly never thought that would happen.

In fact, I know I'm going to have to do some more sessions on my own this week too, just so I don't lose my marbles.

All this from a once a week pilates class. I've hit session five and now there's no turning back. It's' amazing how powerful baby steps combined with persistence can be.

Well, seeing my ass shrink is a good motivator too.