The Book Lady

To the average reader, it would seem as if I have been neglecting my bloggerly duties. After all, I haven't posted in, oh, a while. And what more is there to blogging than posting?

The average reader would, however, be deeply incorrect. In addition to beginning an astonishing number of posts that went nowhere and arranging a special surprise for next weekend, I have been wandering around, lost and blindfolded, in the land of web design. Turns out when you value quality control (or, okay, are an anal perfectionist) like me, web design becomes an obsession, creating hollow-eyed zombies out of (fairly) normal people. Even now I find myself fighting the urge to tweak one more line of code on my shiny new homepage, add a tenth widget to my brand new blog, or install yet another show-offy plugin on my radically improved photoblog. I could also change the fonts. Or perhaps the link colors. Or the wording on the welcome page.

See? I am now a crazy person. CSS did that to me. Robin and Pam do share part of the blame, though, since I was forced to watch longingly from the shadows while both of them obtained pretty new websites. In the meantime, I languished here in the land of free hosting. And so, yes, when I obtained the freedom that came with setting up my own webbly home I went a little nuts. On the blog alone there will be footnotes! And polls! And cool subscription options! And many other unnecessary frills to astound and delight! I'd like to think it's worth it. And if the universe is willing (please make it so!) this will be my last big move ever. Yeehaw.

And now, without further segue, the boring, practical stuff...

Feeds:
If you already subscribe to this blog using an RSS feed, you may or may not have to change your subscription. If you use the Feedburner feed, no modifications are necessary. I can take the feed with me, so for a few days it will still show information for my old blog. When I have a new post up, I'll switch it over to start displaying info for the new blog. (Feedburner is cool like that. If you don't use it for your own blog, I recommend it.) And, of course, if you subscribed using my regular feed address then click here to change to the Feedburner subscription. Or you could just get email updates. Your choice.

Links:
New website: http://www.caryncaldwell.com
New blog home: http://www.caryncaldwell.com/blog
New photoblog: http://www.caryncaldwell.com/photos

Note:
If you have blogrolled this page, I thank you from the depths of my soul. In a while I'll put up a redirection from this blog to my new one. However, if you're feeling kind, changing the links would be great.

Hope to see you over at my new home on the internet!

Five evenings in a row I have waded through our yard in bare feet, stopped before one of our two overburdened fruit trees, and plucked plumped-up plums or peaches from the branches. I eat as if standing over a sink, bent at the waist and legs spread, letting the sun-warmed juice pour out of the wounds I make in the fruit's flesh and drip into the summer-thick grass. A peach stain on a T-shirt can mark it for life, but in this desert the grass is greedy for moisture.

While the plum tree has been in business since long before we bought our house, the peach is a new addition, tucked into the ground just three years ago. The woman at the garden center instructed us to nip off all infant fruits for several years so the tree could settle. I would not have obeyed, but the decision was made for us. Until this summer it withheld its treasures from us, choosing instead to grow and spread. And this year, like a gift, it is heavy with peaches, small and sweet and beautiful.

We have more, though, than our twin trees, all flourishing in turn, overlapping their seasons so we always have something fresh and delicious from last frost to first snow. The sugar snaps this spring grew fat on their vines as the tomato plants rooted and flowered. And when the peas withered and died in the summer heat, the tomatoes took over, the plants filling with engorged red orbs.

In July the tiny green globes on our neighbor's apricot tree, which graciously spans into our backyard, swelled into sweet orange fruits, just waiting for my hands to pluck and eat, one after the other. And eat I did, pulling the fruits from the sun-dappled branches overhead, closing my eyes as the flavor burst on my tongue.

The apricots have long since ceased production and the last of the peaches went to my parents last night. Soon our plum tree will be free of fruit, the bounty shared with friends and family and neighbors, but the first of our cucumbers is now begging to be picked. This evening we will have salads in celebration.

Some people own stoic mansions hidden behind sweeping gates; swimming pools brimming with cool, blue water; low, shiny sports cars that hug the curves in the road at any speed. But a garden and fruit trees are, to me, the greatest of luxuries.

So I'm strolling down the hotel hall* in my new black flipflops, and as I round a corner it occurs to me that I’m humming “It’s a Hard Knock Life” from the musical Annie (which, by the way, I haven’t seen since elementary school). Suddenly I’m searching the area for a crowbar, a jackhammer, a radio – anything that will pry, pound, or flush the bubbly tune from my cranium. Nothing. I’m stuck. Only hurrying with my ice refill, slapping back down the hall, and throwing myself at my exhausted iPod or the hotel room's tiny clock radio will do the trick. Until I find out my husband has Phil Collins’ “One More Night” in his head. Goodbye, show tune. Hello sweet, sappy '80s ballad.

Most of the time it seems like my life is accompanied by a soundtrack not of my own choosing. In college, I once underwent three months in Mexico singing either “Celito Lindo” or the original version of “Macarena” in my off hours. A couple years ago, I spent a weekend rafting on the San Juan River doing everything in time with the decidedly uncatchy “Amie” by Pure Prairie League. Infectious melodies regularly add to my insomniac misery as I sigh through hours of wakefulness with songs ranging from Jack Johnson’s “Good People” to Beck’s “Hell Yes” running an endless loop in the background. And I can never think of the musical West Side Story without suffering a deluge of show tunes, most especially “America”. It’s amazing how often that Romeo and Juliet adaptation comes to mind simply because I try to resist all thoughts of it.

My brother recently proved to me that the best way to lodge a song in someone’s head is to sing only part of it, stopping midway through – preferably in the middle of a word. This way the person’s brain is forced to continue the melody, starting over and over, until it finds a satisfactory ending. Like Sisyphus and the rock, a satisfying climax never occurs. No wonder it's death to my peaceful mind when I switch stations partway through “The Milkshake Song”. I assure you, however, that I haven’t listened to “It’s a Hard Knock Life”, either in whole or in part, since a friend last subjected me to her cheerful off-key rendition months ago. So what brought it up?

I’m sick of my usual “ear worms” as they’ve come to be called, and am hereby suggesting a trade. I tell you what I have in my head, and you tell me what you’re singing. (Chances are, it’s now one of the songs I’ve mentioned above. I’m so sorry. Truly.) Or are you one of those lucky people who isn’t subjected to fourteen straight hours of “It’s a Small World After All” just because a coworker finishes a story of running into an old classmate in the deli section of her grocery store with a cheerful, “It really is a small world, isn’t it?” If so, not only are you part of the lucky 2%, but you’re really missing out. I mean, you actually have to turn on a radio to hear a little music. Really, I feel so much pity for you.

*Yes, we're already on vacation, and have been for a while, which is why I haven't been haunting the blogosphere as much as usual. Expect more of the same over the next several weeks. Not that blogging's been totally off my mind, of course. Hubs and I already stayed several nights with the delightful, talented Robin, and I'll meet up with a few others at the RWA conference next week. If you're going, too, maybe I'll see you there! (In the meantime, though, be sure to check out Pam's posts on preparing for Nationals.) So, really, you are far from forgotten, even when I myself am far from a good network connection.

I live in a tourist town, which means that in certain seasons we are overrun by camera-toting sightseers intent on packing in as much adventure as their credit cards and cranky kids will allow. From early spring to late fall work hours increase as many businesses close later, grocery stores morph into scary places filled with clots of vacationers and their cockeyed carts, and our favorite restaurants are inundated by sun-stunned visitors escaping the heat. Shortly thereafter I begin to have nightmares in which our house is taken over by unwelcome tourists who feel that we are unreasonable for not letting them wash their Hummers in our backyard.

Whenever possible during these crazy months, hubs and I escape our personal half-acre of paradise to take pictures of other wonders and spend time with someone else's tourists for a while. Although the scenery's different, many of the tourists look exactly the same, as we've discovered by traveling widely. This year it will be California. Last year it was South Carolina. In August. In record heat.

After growing up in a Midwestern city that attracted many businesses and college students but nary a tourist, living in a place like this has been an experience. When your daily life is someone else's vacation, you learn a lot. For example, I've learned when to visit the grocery store, which streets and restaurants to avoid and, most importantly, how to dress like a local. The last skill has netted me requests for directions in several neighboring states, Philadelphia, Boston, and Madrid. It may not be handy if you don't know your way around the town you're visiting, but it can help you avoid getting scammed by people who take advantage of clueless travelers, and it can net you better service in restaurants, bars, and grocery stores.

Giving the appearance that you're at home isn't that difficult. The number one rule is: Avoid wearing fanny packs. Locals and attentive tourists alike have beheld the horrors of such adornments in large concentrations, and so they do not use them. This is not to say that fanny packs don't have their perks; if your butt is too flat, for example, they provide the illusion of bulk. Since I'll never have that problem, I eschew them altogether. Rule number two: Be nice to wait staff. Also, drive like you have at least a passing familiarity with traffic laws. Walk with confidence, even if you don't know where you're going, and learn to look but not gawk. And finally, for the love of God, do not take video footage of buildings, mountains, trees, or other unmoving objects.

See? It's not too tough. For bonus points, don't use a local's garden hose to wash your car without their permission. They don't like that sort of thing.

Ever get lost in your calendar and become convinced it's another day? Several weeks ago I spent an entire Thursday sure it was only Tuesday. Every time I remembered, it was like this little bonus. Today, however, it didn't work out so well, as it was Friday in my mind while everyone else was slogging through another Wednesday. Every hour or two something would happen to remind me that I was the one who was confused. The frequent jolts back to the Land of Reality were unpleasant at best.

If anything, this evening's activities made the condition worse. Nothing says the weekend has arrived like an evening get-together on a friend's back porch, complete with margaritas and snacks. I'm now at risk of not going in to work at all tomorrow morning, and have instructed one of my coworkers to call me if I don't show up. I almost hope she doesn't; I could use the sleep.

Please understand -- I really like my job, and I love most of the people I work with. But, Lord help me, I do despise my alarm clock. And so I yearn for the weekend with every fiber of my being, just so that I can wake at dawn out of habit instead of obligation. Which probably explains my confusion about the days -- it is my body's way of telling me I need a Saturday, no matter what the calendar says.

The chronological confusion has only worsened since our evening margarita consumption, not because of the alcohol but because of an incident that occurred shortly afterward. Now I'm not even certain what year it is. 1989? 1991?

Here's why, and this one's really embarrassing, so be gentle. Turns out there's a New Kids on the Block, version 2.0, complete with a group blog wherein each member signs his name with an exclamation point. (Yes! You, too, can read blog entries from Danny!, Jonathan!, Donnie!, and Joey Mac!! Isn't it exciting!) They even have new music, which is where my chagrin kicks in, because to my everlasting shame I found myself almost sort of kinda tempted to tap my foot to "Summertime" when it played on the radio a few minutes ago. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to go buy the cassette tape and listen to it forty-eight times in a row like, uh, some people I know. (Hey, I never claimed to be proud of my middle school years.) But it was kind of catchy. It also whisked my right back to the late eighties, a time I try not to visit all too often.

Before being reintroduced to NKOTB this evening I knew what year it was, even if I couldn't always pinpoint the day with 100% accuracy. Now I can't even be certain of that much. At least I have music and margaritas to console me. Sing along with me, will you?

 

 

There are three things you should know about my day:

1) It's Friday.

2) I got to go into work late.

3) While at work, I had to assemble a piece of furniture.

The first is universal, the second is lucky, and the third is capable of canceling out the pleasure of the other two. Oh, the project started out just fine, as all bad ideas do. I sliced open the box, pulled everything out, and got cozy on the floor with all the necessary ingredients: a rubber mallet, a screwdriver, and the recently unboxed parts -- including the deceptively labeled 'Assembly Instructions'. Which is where the project hit the skids. Because as it turns out a job illustrating for this particular company does not require an actual working knowledge of basic drawing skills. My friend Christa has freshman art students who can draw better diagrams than these. Let's take the 'cord management system', for example. Despite the fancy name, which must have required at least mild ingenuity on the part of the writers, the illustrators did not deem it necessary to actually label it on the assembly diagram, which is just not fair. This left me to guess, and guessing + me + hardware = trouble. Which is why it took me over an hour and assistance from a friend with an engineering degree to finally get the thing fully built. Even he was bemused by a few of the directives, so I finally ended up skipping several of the more confusing ones. So far the cart is still standing and the world has crashed to a halt, so I think I'm safe.

Okay, I know I've been known to hyperbolize on occasion and I sense that you think I'm doing so now, but I assure you I'm not. And so, for your viewing pleasure, I've scanned step one. There are seven more where that came from, but I think this one gets the point across nicely. Just click on the photo if you'd like a larger version. It still won't make sense, but at least you can say you tried. You can even attempt to find where the elusive 'cord management system' is if you're feeling ambitious.

The good news is that sharing this with you has cheered me up considerably. Indeed, now that I've begun to move past the irritation-at-self-and-others stage of this trauma and the cart is fully assembled, I have started to develop a little affection for these instructions -- even if the illustrators did cheat. I can even appreciate the fact that no one was injured during the cart-building process.

This will never be my favorite company communique, however, despite its total lack of sense. No, that honor is reserved for the single sheet my husband pulled from a box before assembling the simple wooden magazine rack contained within. The page has resided on our refrigerator ever since:

Dear driver of the Honda Accord from Ohio:

The orange barrels are lovely to behold, that is true. They glisten in the sunlight as they line either side of the lane down which you meander. Our town is known for its natural beauty, but nothing can compare with the delight of two straight rows of fluorescence leading you toward your destination.

This is what I must assume you are thinking, since you are driving seven-and-a-half miles per hour down said lane.

Or perhaps you find construction fun, and are slowing down to relive the Tonka trucks of your youth.

My husband has suggested that drivers like you are daunted by the road work — by the cones and the barrels and the orange signs — and while I believe that that is generally true, I know that in your case this cannot be the holdup. You see, I grew up in your fine state, and I know for a fact that Ohio, too, undergoes construction projects. Big ones. Extraordinarily massive ones brought on by weighty snow, speeding semis, and ice-cracked asphalt.

So here is what I would like to know: How much moolah would it take to get you to pick it up a little? Just to, say, ten miles per hour instead of seven and a half? Because I wish to see my cats and my house and my husband again before the turn of the century, and I'm not sure ninety-two years is enough time.

Thank you.

Sincerely,
The driver in the car behind you