A Confession

Yesterday, when I got out of bed, my legs gave out and I hit the ground so hard, the house shook on its foundations. I was like a human earthquake.

My first thought was: POLIO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My second thought was: Don't be thick, Laura. You've been vaccinated against that, thanks to a nice man named Jonas Salk (you can read more about his mad vaccine-developing skills here). Even if your initial symptoms are exactly the same...No. You're good. But do get that vaccine checked all the same. It might be booster-shot time.

My third thought was: Gee, I hope I didn't just break my pinkie-toe.*

And then I came to the obvious conclusion: I should never get out of bed. But I had to go to work, so my brain gave me one other possibility: My pajamas are cursed.**

*I didn't

**By that, I mean every pair of pajamas bottoms I own, since I didn't actually trip on my pant leg when I fell. I just went down, like a redwood, destroying everything in my path. That Kleenex box will never be the same.

Locks of Love, Long Hair, and Just-My-Luck

My hairdryer exploded.

I should start at the beginning.

Once upon a time, a long long time ago, Aimee got her hair cut.

We were in college at the time. She was still attending MC. One day she had long hair, the next she had medium-length locks.

"I did it for Locks of Love!" She announced. "You should do it!" Aimee tends to speak in exclamations. It's endearing.

"I've never had my hair longer than shoulder-length," I replied.*

"Grow it out!" Aimee insisted.

"But then it will reach the AWKWARD stage," I said. "And if it gets THERE, I will DIE."

"You should grow it, and give it to Locks of Love!" Aimee told me. And somehow...I said yes.

I think maybe it was some kind of chemical fume that did it. I mean, I was in Winger, in The Lounge. That building was OLD, and there was construction! Who knows what kind of chemical whats-it was in the air!

But I'd said yes. So I started growing my hair.

And it was PAINFUL.

I should mention, at the time, I very short hair (I was just starting to grow out of a pixie cut).

But I've made it very far. From here:


To here:


(Yes, I shamelessly Photoshopped this picture to hide a mole. Hey--it's a close-up! What do you expect? And sorry about the first picture, I didn't have any other short-hair pictures on this computer. So you have to look at Reporter Laura and with Ralph Nader and all the other journalists.)

I was told on Monday, when I went in for a trim, that my hair was Officially long enough for me to donate. Now I just have to choose how long I want it to be when it's lopped off. Like, do I want to have a short bob, or do I want it to be shoulder-length, or longer?*

I just had the stylist trim it, because I knew that Christmas would mean seeing relatives I don't see very often, relatives who wouldn't believe that I'd let my hair grow out at all, if they didn't see it for themselves. Plus, I want to see how long it will grow. And I know that in February, I will get sick of my LIFE, and I will want a change. If I save the Great Haircut until then, I will get a major change to make me very happy. Haircuts are for me what Prozac is for others. I go from being miserable with my life and my place in the world to feeling light and happy, ready to take on anything.

The stylist even gave me something to help me battle the constant static that plagues me all year. It's one of the Perils of Knitting.

So I went home, washed my hair to get all the little short bits off my skin, noted that I already had many, many hives from where the liberated ends had touched my skin, debated taking a picture to prove to Jen that I was allergic to my own hair, decided I was too tired, and went to sleep.

Fast forward to this morning.

I woke up and washed my hair. Then I said: It's SO COLD. I must dry it!

My hair takes a long time to dry. With a hairdryer, it takes about a twenty minutes of drying it in order for it to actually BE dry (I'm not kidding. I have very thick hair). I went about the usual routine until...

BAM!!!

My hair dryer jerked violently in my hands, shot sparks, and then clouds of smoke billowed from the front. I turned it off and unplugged it, then rushed it outside and hurled it into the snow. Meanwhile, as I ran, what I'd imagine might have been the little motor rattled around inside the hair dryer's casing like seeds in maracas.

Fortunately for me, I had been holding the dryer away from my hair at the time of the explosion. Otherwise, the sparks would have shot into MY HAIR.

This reinforces a very important lesson I should have learned long ago:

If the universe can do something, anything to thwart my plans, it will. I am never safe; I should never relax. CONSTANT VIGILANCE is necessary in order to ensure my survival from one day to the next.

I also need a new hairdryer. Does anyone know what sort doesn't explode? Because I'm going to Walmart after work, so it would be useful to know. I think my hair looks better when it isn't on fire.

*"Here baby, there mama, everywhere daddy, daddy, HAIR..." Couldn't resist.

ToBeReMo!

ToBeReMo continues, and I grow further and further behind on my reading list as I make cookies, go to Christmas parties, and try to knit faster than my hands can move.


4. A Northern Light is Jennifer Donnelly's first YA novel. After reading Revolution, I was overwhelmed by the desire to read everything she'd ever written. I had the library order Donnelly's two adult novels, The Tea Rose and The Winter Rose, and I grabbed our copy of A Northern Light. Based on the true story that inspired Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy, A Northern Light takes place in upstate New York in the time leading up to and immediately following the murder of 20-year-old Grace Brown by her lover, Chester Gillette. Brown had become pregnant and had expected Gillette to marry her. Gillette delayed until finally agreeing that he and Brown should go away together. Brown believed they would be married on the trip. Instead, Gillette took Brown out on a boating trip and killed her.

Now, I hate Dreiser. I hate everything he ever wrote. I hate his books like a sickness. But I loved A Northern Light.


5. The Bards of Bone Plain, by Patricia A. McKillip arrived this week. I had gone to Barnes and Noble last weekend to procure a copy, only to find that BN HADN'T RECEIVED ANY COPIES OF THE BOOK! Added to what I've been calling "The Hush Incident," this was a bit of a disappointment. Bookstores should have books. If they can have thousands of copies of Twilight, they can have a couple copies of each new release and award winners. Right?
Well, they didn't have The Bards of Bone Plain. I promptly went home and ordered it online.

I have the greatest respect for Patricia McKillip. She amazes me. When I grow up, I want to be just like her. I've never admired an author's work as much as I admire hers. I buy each new release within days of its appearance in stores, I scour every used bookstore I come across, looking for her out-of-print titles*, and still I wait for more**.

The bottom line is, I love Patricia A. McKillip. She is my writing role model, my hero. And you should all read her books, now.

I am now savoring The Bards of Bone Plain, trying to stretch out reading it for as long as possible, because I have no idea how long I'll have to wait for her next book.

Needless to say, I have reading to do. Because December...ends. And so does ToBeReMo!

*Ace Fantasy! Penguin! Listen to me: RE-RELEASE ALL PATRICIA A. MCKILLIP'S BOOKS. I mean it. It's reprint time, and for more than what's been reprinted already. Specifically, I need The House on Parchment Street, The Throme of the Erril of Sherril, The Night Gift, and Stepping from the Shadows. That's just four books! That's hardly anything! You could reprint them in your sleep. Or, if you don't feel like going to all that trouble, you can just rustle up copies and mail them to me. That's easy, too!

**I have been able to get every book and reprint released from 1995 to present. That means I did get my hands on books written way back before I knew she existed. I just have trouble finding the novels that were published before I was born. You can't really blame me for not getting those the second they hit shelves. Right?

December is for BOOKS!

November is for novel-writing, January is for mitten-knitting, and December is for reading! This is good news for me because my giant to-be-read stack is now actually three separate stacks, because it kept toppling over. It has also taken over the Library Bag in the backseat of my car, my Kindle, and I have three novels in my "purse" (which is actually more like a backpack, or satchel).

Yes, it is now To Be Read Month, a time when book addicts from around the world grab the first book from their TBR pile and start reading.

You can set your goal anywhere you like*:

Easy: 1-4 books

Moderate: 5-8 books

Hard: 9-10 books

Insane: 11-13 books
Ludicrous: 13-15 books
Sleep Much?: 15+ books

Naturally, I selected the "Sleep Much?" option. Because I wanted a challenge.

Here is the book list so far:

1. Hush by Eishes Chayil, reviewed here. I knew when I read Kelly's review that I had to read this book. Kelly was right. I was hooked immediately. I also cried more times than I'd like to admit. After finishing, I cried for about an hour, because Hush is such a beautiful, tragic, hopeful novel. Read it!

2. Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins, I waited for this novel after hearing someone say, and I'm paraphrasing, that if John Green and Maureen Johnson's books had a baby, it would be Anna and the French Kiss. Now, I love John Green's books. And I love Maureen Johnson's books. So instantly, Anna found a place on my TBR list. I had to wait, though, since it's release date was still over a month away. Luckily, December 1st arrived, and I stayed up way too late waiting for it to be delivered to my Kindle. Turns out, Kindle deliveries don't happen right at midnight. At least, not in my time zone. But the next morning, December 2nd, Anna had been officially released. My Kindle downloaded it, and I devoured it. It's like chocolate: sweet, addictive, and it leaves you wanting more. Indulge.

3. Revolution by Jennifer Donnelly I am notoriously fickle with books. Usually, the most recent book I read is my favorite.** But I haven't become so captivated by a novel since I read The Historian (Elizabeth Kostova) back in 2005.

To give you an idea: When I read The Historian, I turned on my copy of Sarband's Sacred Women, because it went along well with the blend of cultures and religions found in The Historian, and I sat down and read it from cover to cover. I stopped once to eat, but my head was still so caught up in the story that I couldn't respond to people when they tried to talk to me, and I left after only a few mouthfuls of food so I could get back and finish the last 200 pages or so.

I started Revolution at lunchtime yesterday, and the rest of the day is kind of a blank. I know I drove home from work, and I seem to remember doing some knitting and making tikka masala for my work-lunches, all while reading Revolution. To say I loved it would be a gross understatement. Revolution is a masterpiece.

Now I'm reading The Hobbit (J.R.R. Tolkien) for Battle of the Books while at work (I have to write trivia questions) and my shiny new ARC of Sean Beaudoin's You Killed Wesley Payne in every spare moment I have.***

*Reading ranges set by Book Addicts! Go visit them!

**If it's actually good. Sometimes I read books I hate.
***Let's face it, The Hobbit is now on the back burner. I have a new SEAN BEAUDOIN novel. I mean, have you READ Fade to Blue? I read that book in a state of awe and suspended disbelief. Nothing about Fade to Blue should work--especially not the twenty-some pages of graphic novel Beaudoin breaks into halfway through the book. But it does work. It more than works. People should write essays on Fade to Blue, on the author's involvement in the text, on the variations in viewpoint and gender roles and perception and reality and how the novel relates to the work of Mikhail Bakhtin and--Foucault...FOUCAULT! *faints*

Ways to Make Me Hate You: Holiday Edition

Last week, I volunteered to do a reading for Advent at my church. This week, I got a copy of the reading--a script, if you will--and skimmed it. What I found was clearly meant to be read by a mother or father, remembering the joy and overwhelming sense of God's love they felt when they held their newborn child. I could tell by the way the page had been shellacked with white-out to replace "baby girl" or "baby boy" with "baby brother."

I looked over at my baby brother, who is about two years younger than I am, and told him, "All I felt when I held you for the first time was a sense of bizarre fascination."

"I tend to inspire that feeling," Paul replied.

Really--I remember thinking, "This kid is HUGE!" Infant-Paul was as big as I was at the time. I remember wondering, "When will he do something? He's just lying there, staring!" And I recall concluding, "This is boring. Time for Care Bears!" Then I got out my Care-a-Lot Playset and all my Care Bears and played.

In short, Tiny Laura wondered what the big deal was about having a baby brother. Thankfully, by the time Tiny Paul was mobile, Tiny Laura had realized what having a sibling was all about: Having someone to bring you things when you're too lazy to do it yourself. Younger siblings will also kill bugs for you and make you soup when you're sick, if you're nice to them from time to time*.

Since I would have been lying and talking about God in the same sentence, I had to opt out of doing the Advent reading. After that, I was depressed. Then I wondered how it could be that it isn't even December yet and ALREADY I have no holiday spirit. Suddenly I realized why.

It's YOUR fault.

Well, maybe not you specifically, but it certainly isn't MY fault. I woke up with holiday spirit, people. It was there. Holiday spirit doesn't just vanish for no reason. Other people are the reason. But some of you are innocent, and to ensure that you only accept blame if you deserve it, I have compiled a list of all the things that make me angry, vengeful, or bitter.**

If you are shopping and you spy a relative or friend and choose to stop right there in the store and have a nice chat, then I hate you. Why? It's not because you've decided to discuss the hideous tumors recently removed from your mutual friend Gladys, it's because you're standing there, forcing everyone who walks through the bookstore to walk around you while simultaneously preventing me from grabbing the book I came to buy. Also, I hate you MORE because you've chosen to ignore my polite "excuse me" six or seven times already, because you and your conversation are clearly so much more important than I am.

Another quick way to earn my eternal loathing is by ignoring basic rules of personal space. Say we are standing in line. I expect you to have to reach out your arm slightly in order to push me. If you're using your body to move the line forward like a linebacker, clad in a hand-made holiday sweatshirt and too much Love's Baby Soft, you're too close. Personal space is important. In fact, I can promise you that pressing against me will not make the line go faster. It will make me go slower. I only look for exact change when people like you are breathing on me.

Debit and credit card machines not working? That's too bad. But if you know you can't accept card-based transactions and still choose not to put up a sign, then force me and my fellow customers to wait for over 40 minutes in line before we find out we can't pay you for our Mod Podge and adhesive-backed crystals, I hate you. Yes, that happened to me, on Black Friday at JoAnn's in Kokomo. I outed you, JoAnn's. See? I went in to get basic holiday crafting supplies, was greeted by a volunteer at the door, did my shopping, waited in line for over 40 minutes, and then found out I'd waited for nothing, because JoAnn's wasn't able to process any credit or debit card transactions. Luckily, my mother had cash. Otherwise, I would have squewerd Bitter JoAnn's Lady, who wasn't just without a computer that worked, she had no sense of decency, either.***

If you are my father, and you make a Christmas list filled with items that are Very Expensive or Irish whistles or both, I want to murder you. Yep. That one pretty much explains itself. Dad has more whistles than he needs, and at this point, after all these years, I'm sick of listening to them. As for the Expensive ideas...I just had my gallbladder sucked out of my body via four tiny holes in my stomach. I'm betting that will be pricey, and I'm betting my insurance won't cover it all. So...let's try and keep Christmas ideas affordable, unless you want me to go out into the yard, find pebbles, scrub them, paint them, affix googly eyes to them, and name the rocks things like Gabby Gallstone and her spinster sister, Gerty Gallstone, and their friend, Gabriel Gallstone IV, MP. Then I will make you a paper mache habitat**** for your new friends, wrap them up, and let you open them on Christmas morning.

Refusing to make Christmas plans until the last minute will make me want to slaughter you and roast you on a spit in place of the Christmas ham or turkey. I want to hang out over Christmas! I do! But when you refuse to nail down a day for the plans to take place, I get into trouble. See, I have work and family and friends who also want to see me. As much as I'd like to cancel all my holiday celebrations when you call me at the last minute, it isn't going to happen. I will also want to kill you if you tell me you want to do something on a particular day, then never call me back and/or call me when you're at home.*****

See? Those aren't too hard to avoid, are they? If you do, your holiday season will be filled with a Happy Laura who sings carols as she walks around the department store and knits you a hat when she notices you're getting cold! If you don't, though, you will force my friends to endure Scrooge Laura, who will sit on their respective couches while they wrap presents, scowling at Bing Crosby as he sings about snow.

*I cannot guarantee that all siblings will behave as mine does. Your sibling may hit you repeatedly and steal your clothes, wreck your car, and leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. If this happens, lock your door and practice your right cross.

**Naturally, these are only holiday-related. If I wrote an all-encompassing list of things that make me angry, vengeful, or bitter, I would be writing it for years. I would die working on the list, at the ripe age of 116. Someone would come to check on me and find my fingers curled over the keyboard, the scowl still etched into my face.

***I'm not overreacting, I promise. She was NASTY. She treated me like it was my fault her computer wasn't working. But I don't control crashing computers, even though I wish I could!

****I'm envisioning a flesh-toned rendering of an English country village, except the river would be a lurid green color.

*****This hasn't happened yet, but, before the holiday season is over, it WILL.

What I Do When I Can't Sleep at Night

1. Lie awake and stare at the same spot on my wall I've stared at since I last rearranged my room, ten (or more) years ago.

2. Read!

3. Watch TV shows on my laptop--usually funny ones or stupid ones or addictive ones (tonight it was America's Next Top Model).

4. Think about how sucky my upcoming morning/day will be when I've not had enough sleep to have the energy, or the...consciousness, I need for living it.

5. I do a lot of #4.

6. I think about how I could solve all the problems in my life, if only I just followed certain steps (see step #4).

7. I wonder what I will do over the weekend (see step #4).

8. I consider getting up and making a snack, because it must be time for another meal, right? It's halfway through the night! So...it's like the lunch of nighttime that I should be having now. (And, for the record, the incredibly flawed last sentence, the one before THIS sentence, sounds really funny in my head. Try saying it out loud in various ways, maybe it will to you as well.)

9. I start singing songs from The Sound of Music in my head. Rather, I sing one song, "My Favorite Things," because the rhythm (to me) reminds me of the rocking of a cradle, and is soothing. Usually, it has a lullaby effect and I am able to doze off. This worked all through Europe, when I discovered the travel alarm clock my friend Stacy brought with her worked like a metronome for that particular song. It was magical, like a mini white-noise machine, only less annoying, because in my head it was music.

10. I read blogs I usually overlook, because I have too many blogs on my reading list to keep up with them all, no matter what I do.

My new FAVORITE thing to do on sleepless nights (other than stalking Twitter), is a very fun thing that some of you, those with e-readers, might want to try out.

I go to Amazon, I head into the Kindle store. Once there, I look up an author's name, a book title, or just skim new releases. I request a sample of every book I see, especially YA titles. When I wake up in the morning, I turn on my Kindle's wireless connection and let the samples download. Tonight, I'm trying out work by Margo Lanagan and Diana Peterfreund, as well as How to Ditch Your Fairy by Justine Larbalestier and Dash and Lily's Book of Dares by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan--Oh and just now I requested one for The Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters by Natalie Standiford. (Doesn't this new option really beat #4-7?)

Happy reading!

Dad, meet the Yard. Yard, this is Dad. Forgive him for slamming into you like that.

Here is the situation as it was explained to me.

Dad went with the rest of the Men's Prayer Breakfast crowd to go put a roof on someone's house. Things proceeded normally until our friend Jeff started wobbling as if he was about to fall.

Dad, ever the hero, tried to "save" Jeff (who I'm sure didn't need saving, as he is a professional Home Builder Guy and owns his own power tools).

In his heroic attempt, Dad stood on some loose sheeting and proceeded to--it was described to me as "surf" BACKWARDS down the slope of the roof and off the edge.

He landed, certainly breaking his wrist. He may or may not need surgery to repair his wrist--he used it to "catch" himself, but good luck catching yourself when you shoot off a roof like The Silver Surfer. They are doing x-rays of his lower back to make sure he didn't throw his back out too.

When asked about what exactly was going through his head, Dad said, "I thought Laura was getting too much attention, so..."

(I think he meant it as a joke.)