August 2009
Book Report and Joy of Reading Award
Jamie over at the excellent food blog, Life’s a Feast, bestowed upon me the Joy of Reading Award.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never been rewarded for reading other than good grades for English skills.
It’s a good day to be me.
Two books, in particular, served as the gateway drug provoking my addiction. The first was Francina Morey’s The Bears of Log Cabin Village which nobody other than me has ever heard of. The other was Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy which is still being read by younguns.
Morey’s book is about several families of bears living in a community of log cabins. For years I thought the book was lost and mourned its absence. I prowled used book stores looking for it only to have it appear in my mother’s attic a few years ago.
I’m delighted to have it, but have resisted re-reading. I’m afraid it might not be as wonderful as my memory and the memory is a cherished one.
I can’t remember exactly when I first read The Bears of Log Cabin Village, but it spurred the addiction. My mother used to go to the Honolulu Goodwill and buy me grocery bags of books to feed my habit. I was never without a book. When packing for anything, the first thing selected was a book. I read in the car. I read in bed. I read during math class. I read at doctor’s offices and church, on the bus and in the bathtub.
I had a thyroid disorder when I was very young which made me hyperactive. I’d read while rolling around the living room floor. The disorder was rare in a child my age and severe enough that the doctors were amazed that I could concentrate long enough to do anything at all much less track the plot of a book. I think this is one of the reasons Harriet the Spy rocked my world. The book was published in 1964 and I probably got my hands on it in 1968 or ’69.
Harriet was roughly my age and different from her peers. In the course of the story, her difference lands her in trouble and in a doctor’s office. While it’s stretching things to represent my problems as a young girl as parallel to Harriet’s, the over-riding theme of Fitzhugh’s book is that it’s okay to be different, but don’t let your difference make you unkind. It’s interesting that Harriet the Spy landed on banned book lists primarily because it, supposedly, encouraged children to question authority and the status quo. It’s even more interesting to note that the author, Louise Fitzhugh, was a lesbian.
Anyway.
The Joy of Reading Award comes with rules.
I’m supposed to:
1. Collect the book that you have most handy
2. Turn to page 161
3. Find the 5th complete sentence
4. Cite the sentence on your blog
5. Pass it on to 5 other bloggers
It is with some trepidation that I grab the first book that it is most handy.
I’m currently reading Li Yu’s The Carnal Prayer Mat. This book is a classic piece of Chinese erotica published in the mid-1600s. I’m not far enough into it yet to know if it’s a read I’d recommend.
On page 161, the fifth complete sentence is:
At first they made out they knew nothing, but at length, under the pressure of his questioning, they took pity on him as an honest man about to die at the hands of an adulterous wife and felt obliged to respond.
[Whew! Dodged a bullet there – no mention of genitalia or descriptions of orgasm.]
The other book (sitting under Li Yu’s) is The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. This book is hailed as a masterpiece and I agree. The author began writing it in 1928 in Moscow. While not as powerful as Murakami’s Wind Up Bird Chronicles, it shares some similarities. The required sentence is even more boring than Li Yu’s, so I won’t bother to type it out.
To round things out, my hardback version of Harriet the Spy (sentences 3 through 6) reads:
Harriet rolled round and round the room. It wasn’t bad at all this being an onion. She bumped into her father, who started to laugh. She couldn’t keep her face screwed up and laughed at him.
Though the thyroid disorder re-appeared a decade or so ago(this time in the guise of an underactive one), I no longer need to roll around the floor when I read. Pity that. As a child, reading was a complete experience uniting body and mind.
Not having ever been much of one for rules (and we have Harriet to thank for that), I am not naming 5 other bloggers to pass this award to. If you want it, grab it. I’m always interested in what other people are reading and what books provoked their love of reading. There are several bloggers I read (and who read me) that I’m particularly interested in knowing their reading habits. If they can be troubled to get their noses out of a book and accept the award, I’d be tickled.
Happy Hour
Re-Entry
Re-entry into the land of paid labor is proving difficult. I just cannot get my transmission in gear. Given that I have a 70 hour work-week, this is proving to be problematic.
At Job #1 we have an employee perk that is not mentioned in the employee manual, but which is generally accepted as standard practice. Vacation Head is that state of being wherein one returns from vacation not worth a shit. This state is not questioned. In fact, said perk allows the employee either 3 or 7 days of merely showing up and only dealing with those matters that are on fire. The four day discrepancy is explained by the fact that in the Executive Director’s absence, we took a vote and agreed on 7 days. I believe we’re operating on a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. As long as we look like we’re doing something, 7 days is usual and customary.
At Job #1, I have shown up. I have showed off birthday presents and photos. I’ve told stories. I’ve gone through email, dealt with a couple server emergencies and orchestrated a solution to a web page boondoggle. Other than that, I’ve spent my time re-adjusting to being in the office 8 hours a day,
Job #2, on the surface, is neither physically nor mentally taxing. However, 30 hours tacked on top of 40 is both physically and mentally brutal. And it’s even more so in Vacation Head state.
I had a brilliant vacation. Vacation Head is especially bad this go around. I ate roughly every 12 minutes (and exceptionally good food). I slept whenever I wanted to for as long as I wanted to. I engaged in carnal relations. I read 3 novels. And I was the grateful recipient of several spa treatments (massage, sugar scrub, aromatherapy bath, and a wonderful thing called a swim spa). I drank champagne, ate decadent chocolate, and enjoyed spectacular views.
Even more pleasurable was the company of good friends and family members for the birthday house party.
It’s been a week since the carriage turned back into a pumpkin and real life asserted itself.
I am still not worth a shit to my employers.
I think I’m angry that vacation can’t go on and on and on.
Today, I have forced myself to deal with some housekeeping. In doing so, I found the tiara that (long story) my mother wore during my surprise birthday party. There it sits on my scarred and cluttered kitchen table. I fondled the glittery headpiece with a sense of deep envy.
If I were, in fact, a figure-head queen, I would never have Vacation Head because I would always be on vacation. It’s true that I am genetically predisposed to be one of the idle rich. Something has gone very wrong.
I am girding my loins for the next 8-hour shift. My head hurts thinking about it. The scab from the trip-over-the-computer-cord-banging-head-on-sewing-machine-and-splattering-blood-and-hot-coffee-all-over-me-and-the-wall is not helping matters. My hair is embedded in the scab resulting in a pulling sensation occasionally punctuated by sharp pains. The headache behind my left eye has been around so long now that I’m tempted to name it. Right now, Horace is leading over Hector and Hermione.
I’m tempted to wear the tiara to work, but the scab makes that impossible. There’s a Great Truth buried in that, but the headache is too fierce for me to puzzle it out.
Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to work I work go. On the way, I’m buying aspirin and a lottery ticket.
[Apologies for the photo quality. I get madder and madder at that lowlife who stole my camera.]










