Solitary

I’m a solitary person. I crave alone time and silence, and sometimes I’m much happier than I probably should be to indulge in as many hours as I can get. I’ll let the cat into my space, but only because he’s mostly silent and only seems to care about positioning himself on a comfortable lap. Plus, he keeps my legs warm while I read. Continue reading “Solitary”

50 Things

I smoked for 25 years before I quit this year.  My sister is to blame.  For the smoking, not the quitting.

I lived in the South for 13 years before coming back home to Illinois at the end of 2014.  I should’ve come back MUCH SOONER.

I believe the biggest lie ever told by any human ever is “people are nicer in the South.”  No, people just don’t tell you to your face in the South.  You can bet your ass Continue reading “50 Things”

I’ll just be over here hiding under my blanket, reading.

I’ve said it before:  in the past seven months, it’s been impossible for me to watch the news.  I have about a 60 second window before my limit is reached, and then I just start screaming profanity at the television.  (Doubtless, this makes me even more of a delight to live with than usual.) Because I can’t handle any mention of Trump (or of the institutionalized racism, misogyny, and overwhelming Continue reading “I’ll just be over here hiding under my blanket, reading.”

Kindle catastrophes

A year or so ago, after Amazon had already come out with both the Voyage and the Oasis, I bought a Paperwhite.  I already had one, but Hubby needed one that had some miles on it to take to work.  I hopped online and bought a new one for myself, in white this time.  She’s very pretty and she seems to play a little nicer with Calibre, a program I use to manage the hundreds of ebooks and converted fanfiction files I’ve amassed Continue reading “Kindle catastrophes”

The spice of life

My grandma used to say “variety is the spice of life.” She said it often and with a twinkle in her eye, but I can’t for the life of me remember the context. She and I were never particularly daring as a duo, though we liked people to think we were. Maybe the words were just her trying to amuse her 50-years-younger grandkid on a Friday night. Probably. But I love the memory of the smile that accompanied them, regardless.

I think, in general, that my grandma had a fairly unhappy life. When she told me stories, they were often traumatic or sad or both. She was once hungry enough to literally eat dirt. She was kidnapped. She was shot. She had cancer. She had bad relationships with her father and her second husband, and her feelings about both of them remained unresolved even years after their deaths.

When she said “variety is the spice of life,” I’m fairly certain that the traumas she experienced and the awful things she felt (and said) were not what she was referencing.  In fact, I actually have no idea what she meant.  I remember loving everything she cooked, but there was never anything surprising or spicy there — not until her first husband moved in (after fifty-some years during which she thought he was dead) and started doing his own cooking, and I was long grown by then.  She never went anywhere except to visit her oldest daughter in Pennsylvania and maybe her sister in Florida once or twice.  Her music was always the same; she never even got rid of the solid oak console television in the living room, because she needed it to listen to her Andy Williams records.  She went to the same church for as long as I can remember.  She parked in the same place, sat on the same side, and said hello to the same two or three people every week for 30 years. She drank a fair bit, but it was always the same thing:  7 & 7.  When the first ex moved back in, she switched to wine.  Aside from one brother, one sister, and a friend she’d had since grade school (but only occasionally liked), she had no friends and no standing social engagements.  She had her hair done once a week by the same stylist from the time I was born til she moved away in her 80s.  Aside from some flower and vegetable gardening in the summer, I have no idea what she did with her time; she hadn’t had a job outside of the house since her kids were little. In retrospect, she always seemed to know more about cleaning and stain removal than anyone should.

Where was the variety?  Where was the spice?

I think sometimes that she must’ve had a very active fantasy life.  In her youth, she was movie star beautiful, and people commented on how stunning she was well into her old age.  Maybe in her dreams all that beauty took her somewhere.  Certainly, she had the material on which to base her imaginings. She had learned to read early, and she often told stories of walking to the library in all kinds of weather.  Her living room bookshelves were the inspiration for my own, and I spent many hours of my childhood inspecting each and every title they held.  I know she read, but I don’t really know when or what.  In later years, I saw her do it only occasionally and never more than 30 minutes at a stretch.  She spent more time with our small town’s morning paper than with any book.  She painted a few things.  She meditated nearly every morning, from the time I was a kid until she moved away.  What did she fantasize about?  I never saw her do anything daring, and I don’t think I ever saw her truly having a good time (though I’ve seen pictures and old videos that make me think there must’ve been some happy times before and soon after my birth).  The only family lore on the subject says that back in the day (the 1960s and 1970s), the brothers and sisters could throw down with the best of them.  At the time, my grandma would’ve been in her 40s and 50s, the oldest of all her siblings.  They sat around in one another’s backyards and basements, drinking and smoking, laughing into the wee hours of morning.

I wonder if she felt like her life was on a downhill slope once she hit 60, if it even took that long. She never seemed particularly happy to be married to the man I called “grandpa,” though they’d known one another for many, many years and even my mom considered him family.  She quit smoking after forty years though it always seemed to be something that brought her joy.  (I wonder if she still measures her life in seven minute segments.)  She didn’t go out.  She played solitaire for hours.  When the first husband came back, she switched to gin rummy.

Where was the variety and spice in her life?  I can only think that it was gone before I ever arrived, although I think we loved one another an awful lot for most of my existence.

I worry, occasionally, about my own life, about what I’ll do with it when I reach whatever age seems deadly and past hope to me.  Maybe — hopefully — I’ll never land where (I think) she is, but people used to always comment on how similar we were.  I worry.   I wonder if I’ll think I did all that I was supposed to do, or if I’ll spend my remaining time daydreaming, wondering like I did when I was 10 if my life had been somehow switched with someone else’s, someone more fortunate or valuable.

But I like to think that for all the books I read, for all the time I spend writing or watching television or playing old computer games….I like to think that my life is spicy and various enough.  I like to think that there are people in my life who make it bigger than just me, people who I love and who love me in return who will remember with me all the ridiculous and wonderful things we did back when we could still hold our liquor.  I like to think I won’t ever be sorry for any of it, and that no one will ever look at me in my old age and think that’s all there is or ever was.  I like to think they’ll know — without a doubt — that I was happy in my life.  There was singing and silliness and joy and love…and all the spice I could’ve ever wanted.

And no matter how boring or unhappy it might have looked to anyone else, I’d like to believe that Gran’s life was happy enough, too. I wish I could go back twenty years, sit with her at her kitchen table, and ask her, nonchalantly, over coffee.
I’d like to imagine that she’d clear her throat, close her hands around the mug, look me in the eye, and be honest.

*Inspired by The Daily Post prompt Spicy

Non-practicing

I have bookshelves overflowing with Heschel, Wiesel, and countless named and unnamed rabbis who wrote before, during, and after the Holocaust.  I have books on trauma theory and on bearing witness to history as well as on scapegoats, missed experiences, and wounds that connect us to one another.  I have siddurim and Torah commentaries and even woo-woo books on Jewish mysticism that describe how to find joy in traditions that have long been thought past their usefulness.  My Tanakh is in Hebrew and English, because once upon a time, I could read both.  There is wisdom in these books, and although I did not write them or in any way inscribe them with my own experiences, they are marked somehow.  Or are they are a marker.  Maybe it’s this:  they bore witness, and I find that difficult to bear.

IMG_2752

When I was 36, I wore a white kippah on my head when I was called to Torah to read (for the very first time) on Yom Kippur.  I was terrified and self-conscious, and I thought I would never be as good or as confident as the rabbi who stood to my right, checking my pronunciation.  Until that moment, I’m fairly certain she thought the same thing.  But I was good.

I was converted to Judaism by a panel of three Renewal rabbis in Denver, Colorado a few months later.  Mainly, I flew out there to see the rabbi ordained; my own conversion was secondary to that, except in the eyes of my beit din.  Despite a year of extensive reading and introspection, despite learning (and then teaching) Hebrew and co-leading weekly services, these people were not at all convinced that I was prepared to convert.  I possessed virtually zero knowledge about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, and I had no opinion on the subject.  This was not okay with them and in retrospect, it shouldn’t have been okay with me, either.  I also didn’t have a solid opinion about God.  The latter, it turns out, was much less of a problem than the former; Jews often don’t know what to think about God.  The beit din was reluctant to approve my conversion.  In fact, I’m almost certain they only did so because of the insistence of my rabbi (who was not yet officially ordained).  I think their refusal of her wishes (given her knowledge of me and their lack thereof) would have been unacceptable.

So yes, once I was a practicing Jew.  And I didn’t understand at all why the majority of born Jews weren’t.  I made my Jewishness as official as it could be.  I went joyfully and mindfully into the mikveh the next morning, I said the magic words, and when I came out, I knew I’d never be anything but Jewish ever again.  You should know this:  when I practiced, I was good.  I knew all the songs.  I read all the books.  I gave of my time and talent and money.  I was both teacher and perpetual student.  I wore the Shoah on my sleeve and I railed against present-day injustices that bore too striking a resemblance.  This you should also know:  nowadays, I’m still Jewish because I can’t ever again officially be anything else.  Once a Jew, always a Jew; my name has been writ.  But the closest I’ll ever come to practicing again is lighting the Sabbath candles, drinking wine, and sleeping with my husband.  (Rumor has it, that last thing is a double mitzvah if done on the Sabbath.)

The rabbi had previously been my teacher.  I was an undergrad in a Judaic studies class when I first met her.  I don’t know how she tells the story now, but it used to go “I knew you were one of us the first time I saw you.”  In actuality, I don’t know what she saw, but certainly, she found a sucker in me.  I take some comfort from the fact that I am in good company.  She targets the emotionally vulnerable, the smart, and the talented, and at least at the beginning, we all mistake her for one of us.  But she is predator, not prey, and she just keeps feeding.

IMG_2749

I have bookshelves full of Heschel and Wiesel, and the accounts of the Holocaust that I have both read and heard steal my breath to this day.  I am a Jew, and I became one even though to do so meant enduring the worst time of my life.  I don’t think it’s good for anyone to take history too personally, but during the years I spent studying the Shoah, I could find no other way to take it.  The horror of the event is unfathomable.  The descriptions of even the smallest atrocities become the stuff of nightmares.  It hurts to look and yet you can’t stop looking.  No matter what — for years — I couldn’t exile it from my thoughts.  It became nearly impossible to do my schoolwork, which had long since passed onto new topics.  I had been a writer, but writing with any semblance of my previous joy or humor became inconceivable.  How could there be joy in a world that could allow something like this?

If my rabbi had been anything but a self-interested narcissist, she would have seen where I was and tried to turn me away from it.  (According to her, she had been similarly consumed by her own studies of the subject years before.)  Instead, her only notice of how I was faring came when she realized that I was finding friends in our congregation, both personally and in my capacity as Hebrew school teacher, board member, and lay cantor.  People began to ask when I was singing again, and they sat with me at oneg after services.  We all enjoyed one another, and sitting with me did not mean that everything had to revolve around me.  The same could not be said about sitting with the rabbi, and I have no doubt that my teacher, rabbi, and supposed friend began to experience some jealousy.

I was thrown under the bus for no longer needing her and for making a path to friendship and happiness within a group of people she had considered hers beyond a shadow of a doubt.  A friend of mine (and former best friend of hers) who remained in the congregation after I left called me a year or so ago, days after her own departure:  “I had to go, Angie.  It finally hit me that I just couldn’t take another year.  I couldn’t stand there while she made yet another annual sacrifice.”  My breath caught in my throat, and when I went to tell her that I understood her decision (and so identified with her choice of words), I had to clear my throat to speak.

IMG_2746

I have books on my shelf that I walk by every day.  They are written by wise men and women — great teachers and thinkers and rabbis.  Some of them talk about traumatic events (Freud and Feldman), about missed experiences (Freud, Lacan, Barthes), and about the holes in our very being that connect us to one another (Bataille).  And then…there are also those that stare back quite pointedly from my shelves, and whisper-scream about scapegoats, and about how someone must be made to pay the price if the community is to go on (Rene Girard, and even Shirley Jackson).

Of course, the Jewish population of 20th century Europe was itself scapegoated by the communities in which they made their homes and raised their families.  Other Europeans (particularly Germans) became convinced that they could not survive or be successful while Jews (German Jews) were in their midst; their success and integration could not be permitted to go any further than it already had.  In the end, of course, the Jews were sacrificed by the very communities of which they were a part, by people whose daily lives were almost identical to their own.  The resemblance had become too great.

I studied the Holocaust as well as the events that led up to it.  I read the books that should have taught me all I needed to know about what was happening in my own personal life, and about what had happened to many, many people before me.  And we’re not even going to talk about how my mom was yelling at me from 650 miles away, trying desperately to warn me that A TRAIN WAS COMING.

The train hit, and when it did, my long-awaited adult bat mitzvah was only two days in the rear-view mirror.  (It was a rousing success.)  I was in the middle of a semester of grad school, and I considered my relationship with the rabbi one of the closest in my life.  So I was utterly flabbergasted and totally devastated by the betrayal and abandonment that came.  One minute we’re talking, the next minute we’re not.  One minute I’m a teacher at the Hebrew school, a board member, a student in her department, and a friend, and in the next I’m not even worth a conversation, and the remaining members of the board are convening by phone to remove me from the temple so the rabbi never has to see or talk to me again.  (For the next six months, a repeating chain of questions cycled through my head, totally cutting off all other avenues of thought:  Can she really do this to people?  Of course she can — I’ve helped her do it two or three times before myself.  Why didn’t I realize that this wasn’t okay, that other churches and clergy don’t do this?  Why didn’t I recognize that I’d been manipulated into helping her?  Why didn’t the board full of people who knew me realize it?)  In the five years that I had known the rabbi, the pieces of my world that didn’t include her had become very small indeed.  I had changed my area of study, my religion, my friends, even the music that I listened to.  Without realizing it, I had made the differences between us negligible at best, and — as Girard could have told me — one of us had to go.

I went.

Less than two years later, I moved back to Illinois.  A year and a half after that, I was married to my husband and thanking my lucky stars that I wasn’t still stuck 650 miles from home, living a life that only looked good from the outside but really was never supposed to be mine.  In retrospect, I’m so glad she showed me who she was.  I got away late, but at least I got away.

When I left, all that was left for me to finish grad school and get my master’s was sitting for my comprehensive exams, and frankly, I was never worried about whether I’d be successful.  I was a writer and a thinker, and I have no doubt that I could’ve done it with one eye closed and one hand behind my back.  But my questions — the ideas I would’ve chosen to be “tested” on — reside entirely between the covers of those books that I once loved and now can hardly bear to look at.  I couldn’t have reread them if my life depended on it.  In the end, my life depended on me leaving them alone, and I haven’t opened them since.

But I do look at them often in the course of standing and admiring my bookshelves (as we book freaks are wont to do).  I don’t suppose I’ll ever stop loving them, and they’ll always be an integral part of who I was and even who I am now.  Occasionally, I manage to forget for a while the pain they caused in me or witnessed from me, and I catch myself quoting their ideas before I even know what I’m doing.  I also frequently recommend them to others, though I am careful to keep certain volumes out of the hands of the younger ones.  I know better than most what these books can do, how sometimes the tales of other people’s destruction can so closely mirror our own as to become indistinguishable.  Our feet follow our thoughts more often than one might think.  And I also believe there’s something of the truth in this eerie description of traumatic resonance from Toni Morrison’s Beloved:

Where I was before I came here, that place is real.  It’s never going away.  Even if the whole farm–every tree and grass blade of it dies.  The picture is still there and what’s more, if you go there–you who never was there–if you go there and stand in the place where it was, it will happen again; it will be there for you, waiting for you.

I read this and I think simultaneously of my former rabbi and my over-exposure to Holocaust history, testimony, and literature.  And yet…I am Jewish and I always will be.  Though I am usually deceptively silent on the subject(s)– though there are books I will not open for the sake of my own joy and sanity — I am not broken or crazy or even as forgetful as some might like.  I remember who I was, what I did, what I felt, and why.  And nowadays there’s nothing I can do but honor that memory and keep my distance.

[Note:  This blog reflects only my thoughts, feelings and opinions.  None of the statements herein should be construed as objective fact.  Feelings are not facts.]

You can’t go home again.

Boredom is a rarity for me.  There are too many books and blogs to read, too much television to watch, too much Amazon browsing to be done to ever allow it.  This afternoon though…I just finished a book (Hillbilly Elegy), and before I can really get into another one, I need some silence and a steady lack of company.  Neither are happening.  Step-son is having technology issues that I must periodically attend to, step-daughter is trying not to throw her phone in frustration with one of her friends (who seems to think that sending a screenshot of her phone will show evidence of her broken screen).  Husband is trying to sleep for a little while before he returns to work tonight for another 12 hours.  The cat is high from the catnip spray we bought last night, and the neighbors are mowing their grass in the 95 degree heat of the day.  The trains roll through repeatedly, too many to count and way too loud.

So I’m not bored, not really.  But the book was good and a little thought-provoking and my mind is certainly wandering.

Today, I’ve been thinking about people I originally encountered on the internet, met face-to-face, and now haven’t seen or heard from in more than a decade.  Thinking of them led me to a sort of homesickness for OpenDiary, a community I joined in 1999 and stayed with off and on for the five or six years following, even though I was also self-hosted during most of that time.  (OD, of course, closed permanently in 2014, but even looking at the Wayback screenshots of its standard crappy page design makes me more than a little sad for those days long gone.)  It’s funny the things that stick with us and that become synonymous with “home” in our heads.  Place–I guess even virtual place–becomes something so much more once feeling is attached to it.  On OpenDiary, I met Leah, whose last name I no longer remember, whose emails were lost to the ether when my old standby email address was shut down due to inaction.  She made me soap, sent me a book on powerful historical women, and hugged me in the Charlotte townhouse of a friend of hers.  She was a first-year teacher with a lot of frustration…not at all a new thing for that school district, even then.  Then there was Essdee (Shawn Dana), whose last name I never knew, whose face I never saw, but whose comments on the every day minutiae of my life made everything so much easier.  And, of course, Dominica, who accompanied me and my then-partner to a Star Trek Voyager convention in Cleveland (where we all patently refused to sit in on Jennifer Lien’s section, even though she hadn’t yet become a psycho with a record), who was so very kind, who loved us both, who was a brilliant web designer, and who herself had more psychiatric problems than any of our circle of friends could have possibly imagined.

Where do these people go?  How do we all drift so quickly in and out of one another’s lives, especially if what we have seems to be good for all involved?  I like to think that I am a person interested in people, that the people I love and have around me are more important than any thing I might accomplish or any money I might make in my time on this planet.  I would rather excel in friendship than in the accumulation of possessions, and I hope that the people who are (or have been) in my life know without a doubt that this is where I stand.

I am Jewish for a reason:  I believe that this life is all we get, that our only company for the journey is one another.  That we have to take care of our fellow humans even in their weakness and sadness and madness and baddity.  (I don’t care if “baddity” isn’t a word, I’ve still been using it for more than a decade and it works.)  I was young once, so of course I didn’t always feel this way.  As young people, we rarely value the right things, and I’m sure I threw away many people I should’ve kept, and vice versa.  It’s just so hard sometimes to remember (even now) that it’s not just me in the world.  People don’t do the things they do because of how those things will affect me; rather, like me, they mostly only consider how they themselves will be affected.  I have to remind myself on a daily basis that I am not the end all and be all, that the teenager neglecting to pick up her mess cannot be taken as a personal affront anymore than the weather can.  It’s a freakin’ struggle, but I’m guessing it’s one with which we’re all fairly familiar.

I’ve digressed a little.  My point is that I’m missing all those long-gone folks today, and I’m taking their gone-ness (and OD’s gone-ness) more personally than I should.  Conventional wisdom tells me that I can’t go home again, but today….today that’s just making me really, really sad.

An impossible-to-describe, once-in-a-lifetime (if you’re lucky) kind of love.

Mama is pretty sure she’s won the son-in-law lottery.  She outright says so all the time, but last night, she called needing help with one of her poems-in-progress and asked me to list the qualities that make me describe my husband as the best person I know.  I’m not very good at the lists (and let me assure you, this is not the first such request that I’ve received from her over the years), and so I did a lot of hem-ing and haw-ing and stammering around the edges of the subject with no idea in what direction I should go first.

Why is my new husband the best person I know?  Basically, she was asking what I loved about him, and anyone who’s ever been asked that question knows that it’s not so easy to answer, particularly without sounding like you’re running for reelection as the mayor of Shmaltztown.  Obviously, that’s never been me.  I’m also not the girl who oohs and aahs over romantic dinners or flowers on special occasions: In other words, it takes a different kind of man–and a different kind of relationship–to get my attention in the first place, let alone keep it.

IMG_0848

I have to admit that it helps that I’ve known the man since he wasn’t a man at all.  When I met him, he was a too-tall 12-year-old with Tim Curry lips, an unfailing respect for his mother, and a kindness that is truly unheard of in a kid.  Despite a first marriage that began before his teenage years ended, three kids in six years, a given up dream for a job in the medical field, a medical discharge from his second dream job in the Air Force, and disappointment of every sort at every turn, by the time I saw him again in 2013, he was still the person I remembered–how does anyone manage to stay so decent after all that shit?  We smiled at one another constantly, and I felt totally at ease with him in a way that I never had with any other person to whom I was attracted.  Almost from the start, I wondered how we’d managed to get and stay so far away from one another for almost all of our adult lives.

Our absence from one another’s lives seems particularly farfetched when you consider the following:  His sister is my best friend to such a degree that I stopped calling her my friend and started calling her my sister years ago.  When I moved back to Illinois from North Carolina at the end of 2014, I moved into his mom and sister’s house.  All of this ready-made closeness to his family (even independent of my relationship to him) made us getting together a total no-brainer, especially for me; I had just come from a 14 year relationship wherein I was kept as far outside the family circle of the person I was with as it’s possible to be.  In his/our family, I couldn’t possibly feel any more included and loved than I do.  Admittedly, he got a little something from the deal as well:  he had a ready-made family in need of a mother figure, and I was a mother who had only ever wanted a family to care for.  He got someone to take care of him and to help him hold his life together in a real, consistent, and sustainable way, and I got someone who looks at me as though he can’t wait to keep looking at me until (and after) the wrinkles on my face will comfortably hold a ten day rain.

We are quiet together.  We read many of the same books and enjoy most of the same music and television shows.  We are accomplished car singers with widely varied repertoires.  We both detest the president (and liars in general) and want more than anything to run off to a secluded cabin in the woods where we will have so few visitors that whoever finally discovers our bodies will likely only find the bones.  We take pointless day trips in the car just so we can share space only with one another.  (Sometimes, he takes me cruising through the really bad parts of St. Louis so he can show me how good our life together really is…ha!)  He dyes my hair every month without fail, and there’s never so much a hint of griping about it.  He amuses me.  I mean really.  Most of the days we spend together end with me lying in bed massaging the area around my cheekbones, knowing that I’ve once again over-exercised my facial muscles, and I’m going to have to think real hard before I smile the next day, assess whether or not it’s worth the pain.

Mostly, I just can’t believe my luck.  How does a person who has made the mistakes I have end up with a man like this?  He works hard.  He loves consistently and well, without any games or pretense.  He is generous and kind, smart and funny, and he’s secure enough to let me be all of the great (and not-so-great) things I am, too.  He might be younger than me, but there is sometimes an emotional maturity about him that humbles me right down to the soles of my spoiled rotten feet.

In short, I have no idea how I got him (or really what the heck he sees in me), but I’m keeping him as long as I possibly can.

But I didn’t say nearly all of that to Mom because a) it would’ve made me cry, and b) her poem is for little kids and definitely not that long.

Read me, Seymour. Read me all night long.

I have five books going at the moment.  The majority of them are decent enough, and yet whenever I park my ass on the couch, I don’t end up reading a single one of them.  My excuses are varied and only occasionally acceptable even to me:

  1. I have a cat on my lap who won’t stop nosing the Kindle.
  2. I have this pretty new Chromebook and I need to download ALL THE APPS and create ALL THE BOOKMARKS because I’ve never had one of these machines before and OHMYGOD I love it so much.
  3. I’m writing on the internet again and sweetbabyjesus, I have to write on the internet again right now.
  4. I have rolls and rolls and ROLLS of yarn pressed against my left leg and a 10-ton half-finished scrap afghan draped across my lap that I must work on RIGHT NOW because otherwise it’s just going to sit there forever and eventually suffocate me (and the cat).
  5. Truly, I have to watch the next episode of The West Wing, otherwise I’ll never finish, and I’d like to start over again with the pilot (for the twelfth time) by next week at the latest.
  6. The teenager(s) won’t stop talking to me long enough for me to read two sentences in a row.  (Actually, I wouldn’t mind so much if he was talking.  He’s laughing neurotically and making me watch stupid YouTube videos…what is it with these kids and their ridiculous videos?)
  7. I have to start supper/laundry/cleaning the bathroom. (Doesn’t that one sound responsible?  I like that one.)
  8. If I read, I’ll just want to drink tea and eat way too many Sixlets, and I’m really trying to stop being a fat ass by Christmas.
  9. I can’t figure out what I’m in the mood for.  What the hell do I want?  Should I reread Harry Potter or The World According to Garp for the tenth time, or should I finish Hillbilly Elegy or the third Diana Gabaldon (which you can go ahead and shame me for because I’m already ashamed anyway)?

There are too many damned options and too many damned distractions and I’m overwhelmed by my way-too-lofty Goodreads reading goal for the year.

I think I’m just going to go to bed.