I have been doing a fairly good job of reading books that have some degree of literary merit. It’s funny though, because I don’t find myself discussing them with anyone. The only gauge I have about whether what I’m reading has left an impact is that I find myself mentioning aspects of the books to the MoH. He’s just a sounding board, though, because he doesn’t read. Well, he reads numbers. Mmmm….numbers.

I can’t imagine not reading. Not being interested in reading. Not wanting to read. Being able to live one’s life each day without knowing that when it’s late, and it’s time for bed, there’s a book just waiting to be opened. If anything can take my mind off of my own pettiness and worth in this world, it’s a book.

The biggest difference between the books I read that I describe as having literary merit, is that I might be able to actually discuss them. You know, while standing in the line at the grocery store, or with the guy who comes around to check on the landscaping in the complex. “So, how do you feel about the dry wit of the storyteller in Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress and its juxtapositioning with the “re-education of the “young intellectuals” in China by Chairman Mao?” I could ask of one of those innocent victims.

If I actually did bring up something I’ve read (and no, not at the grocery store), the mention would only go so far as to sound as if I’m in the know with regard to said book. The next person would launch into her query,” Yes, but have you read…,” or perhaps, “I’m reading….” and there wouldn’t really be a discussion about any of the books mentioned. Or should I say titles mentioned. The idea of starting a bookgroup has come up, but that’s all. We do a lot of that.

So reading is yet another semi-private part of who I am. Who I am, not what I do. When I read books of a finer quality, it is the writing that fascinates me more than the story. I don’t know that the story would intrigue me without the writing. It seems ridiculous to separate the two, because how could one exist without the other? A good example would be to consider a less than literary book — one that is packed full or intrigue, or tear-jerking drama. Evocative desires and feckless females. Men with big pectorals. When I read books like this, it is the steamy sex and diabolical schemes of the evil antagonist story that keeps my attention, and I race through them. Although many are enjoyable — especially when I just don’t feel like doing the laundry, weeding the planters on the patio, or cooking dinner reading about the pain of all human suffering — I have difficulty remembering most of them for any length of time after I’m finished with them. And it’s not because my memory is going to crap. They all blend together. I remember the author’s name most of the time, but rarely the title. Yes, some of the writers are better than others with the best being those whose dialogue, or characters don’t interfere with racing through to the finish. But many aren’t. It must not matter, because they certainly can sell books. And they probably make quite a bit more money than most of those who publish “literature.”

Lately, I’ve been pressing ahead with choosing books for their writers first, and the story second. This has slowed my reading down quite a bit, but it has also kept me engrossed in the craft of writing. That has been very worthwhile.

For example:

“When they write my obituary. Tomorrow. Or the next day. It will say, LEO GURSKY IS SURVIVED BY AN APARTMENT FULL OF SHIT.”

 — From The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

How could I not want to read this book? The character and everything that I came to know about him is completely wrapped up in that very first passage. The voice chosen. The phrasing. The language. How does Krauss switch from Leo’s perspective, to that of fourteen-year-old Alma, the daughter of a woman who writes translations of books, and who is lonely after the death of her husband. Alma’s “chapters” not only sound different than those of Leo, they look very different.

25. MY BROTHER, THE MESSIAH

That night while I was reading, Bird came into my room and climbed into bed with me. At eleven and a half, he was small for his age. He pressed his little cold feet into my leg. “Tell me something about Dad, ” he whispered. “You forgot to cut your toenails,” I said. He kneaded the balls of his feet into my calf. “Please?” he begged. I tried to think, and because I couldn’t remember anything I hadn’t already told him a hundred times, I made up something.”

This is a book that I will pick up, turn to a page and reread a passage just for the way it sounds. The writing makes the story, a remarkable one, unlike anything I’ve read. The History of Love will not be a book that is forgotten, and I want to read more of Krauss.

I’ve been on an interesting train of reading translations or about translators. It hasn’t been by design, but it certainly adds to the thinking I do about what I read. A few months ago, I finally read the Carol Brown Janeway translation of Bernhard Schlink’s The Reader. I’ve had the book for at least five years, successfully moving past it on my shelf each time I searched for something new to read. No wonder. I wouldn’t have been able to contain my emotions had I read it earlier. I had trouble as it was.

Sometimes when the beauty of a phrase or the uniqueness of an idea expressed stands out, I turn down the page. I know. You hate that. They’re my books, I paid for them, and they’re trade paperbacks, not hardbacks, and certainly not first editions. Someday they’ll end up in a used bookstore, someone else will notice the creases in the lower corners and wonder what it was about that page that caught another reader’s eye. So yes, I turn down the page. Or in this case, turn up the corner. It would be a bit strange if i whipped out my yellow highlighter, don’t you think?

Fourteen of the 218 pages are turned down in The Reader. Going back to read some of the passages overwhelms me and I want to read each one again, and more. How does a translator capture the essence of a writer’s words, his characters, their thoughts? It makes me want to be able to read in another language to see for myself instead of wondering about it.

“But there was so much energy in me, such belief that one day I’d be handsome and clever and superior and admired, such anticipation when I met new people and new situations. Is that what makes me sad? The eagerness and belief that filled me then and exacted a pledge from life that life could never fulfill? Sometimes I see the same eagerness and belief in the faces of children and teenagers and the sight brings back the same sadness I fell in remembering myself. Is this what sadness is all about? Is it what comes over us when beautiful memories shatter in hindsight because the remembered happiness fed not just on actual circumstances but on a promise that was not kept?”

 — Michael of The Reader by Bernhard Schlink

And where do authors get their ideas? I know I have captured an interesting few myself over the years, but they’re just sitting in a notebook. Waiting. In The Ice Queen, by Alice Hoffman, the book I’m currently reading, a woman is stuck by lightning, causing her life to take a different course than one might expect it to after such an event.

“You’re always so negative,” my grandmother said.

“You got all the positive genes.” Amazing, considering her condition, considering the condition of the world.

Toward the end of her illness, even my grandmother had to face sorow. She cried in her sleep. I couldn’t stand to hear her suffering. I left the cat I’d adopted to keep watch over her, curled up on the hospital bed I’d rented, and I went to stand outside, where I could breathe in the brackish air. It was spring and there was pine pollen everywhere; things had turned a sulfury yellow. That night I wished that my whole life had been different and that i could start all over again, in Paris, or London, in Italy, even across the river in New York City, where I’d gone to school. I was still young. I wished I could shed my skin, walk away, never look back. But starting a new life was not my expertise. Death was my talent; before I could stop myself, I wished my grandmother’s pain would end. I wished that this world would no longer have a hold on her.

She died that night while I was sleeping on the couch.”

The woman has a knack for her wishes coming true, and it is with a sense of being no one, and having no life, that she tells her story. What makes a writer think of telling a story about someone being struck by lightning? Of telling a story that puts the reader so perfectly inside the head of a seemingly dreary woman, but doesn’t give her a name. Does she not have a name because of her existence? I’ve looked back through the pages I’ve read, and I still can’t find her name. It’s strange, but intriguing, and I need to know what will happen to her. To find out what sense she’ll make of herself and others in her life — several of whom have also been struck by lightning. Hoffman’s writing is almost stream of consciousness at times. Raw and private, evoking surprising emotion as I read. And hope.

In another day or so, I’ll start A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, a novel by Marina Lewycka. Of course, the title caught my attention, but so did the summary. It’s about two sisters who put aside their differences to save their father from a “voluptuous gold digger from the Ukraine.” It sounds hilarious, and better be, as I’ll be needing a break from the seriousness of what I’ve been reading.

Okay, so I did read Goodbye, Jimmy Choo before The Ice Queen, but I can’t just read earth-shatteringly serious books one after the other. They make my head and heart heavy. But now that I think of it, Goodbye, Jimmy Choos — was built around the idea of taking things for granted and how seriously lives can change after an unexpected event occurs. Sometimes, covers can be deceiving.

I did break down and buy a Nora Roberts novel at Target a couple of days ago, though. It seems ages since I’ve languished in one of her books, but it’s only been less than a year. Ahhh…it has bathtub and wine or staying up half the night with the light on while the MoH is trying to sleep written all over it. I can’t wait. I’ve read about 20 or 25 of her G.P. Putnam and Jove titles and am amazed at how she just churns them out. Think what you want. Look down your nose, say that what she writes is “easier” or takes less thought than someone who is recognized with the Pulitzer, the Booker, or the National Book Award. What it takes is discipline — something I seem to lack these days.

But I have to wait to read my new Nora Roberts. I have to read Fat Girl first. It’s a true story (something I rarely read) by Judith Moore, who struggled with food issues her entire life. And I say “have” because it’s sort of like taking 3200 mg. of calcium each day.

It’ll make my bones stronger.

Because I have something to write about that could be “brilliant and angry and unsettling,” too.

I just don’t know how to begin.

(And just in case you’ve been paying attention, all but two of the books I’ve mentioned are new books, purchased AFTER I said I had to read all of the books I own before I purchase another…So many books, so little time…)

Over the past few months since I’ve developed an interest in blogging, I’ve begun to notice other’s reactions to the idea of blogging in general. Several weeks ago, someone mentioned to me that “blog” is one of the “most annoying words” connected with the Internet. I get it. The word is annoying, hence, bloggers are annoying. I’ve encountered a person here or there who will inquire at a get together,”What exactly is a ‘blog?’” hesitantly, trying to feign interest after they’ve learned that “blogging” is what I have been doing since leaving my job. The conversation goes like this…

“Hey, how have you been?

“Great, thanks. Good to see you,” I reply.

“How is work going? What school are you at again?”

“I don’t work any longer. I quit a few months ago.”

“Is everything okay? What are you doing instead?” the person inquires because no one sane would give up their job for no reason.

“I write quite a bit each day.”

“Really. What do you write?”

“Personal essays and other pieces. I’m just getting back into the habit of it after several years of not being able to find time the time. I’m really enjoying it.”

“Oh,” blink, blink…

Another person approaches us. “She has a blog. You know. On the Internet.”

“Oh,” the first person repeats, and looks uncomfortable, like I might grab my wallet and throw a photo accordion of my 13 children at her. I’m tempted, but I wouldn’t do that to my kids even if I had 13.

She and others are most likely thinking, how sad that she has come to this, wasting her time on the Internet all day. Doing nothing. One individual reacted to my writing, struggling to read what I’d written, and succumbed to muttering the words aloud as one might tackle a treatise on an Analysis of Glucose Cycles in Mammals Indigenous to the North American Piedmont and uttered in confusion, “What kind of writing….is…this? Exactly…?” I completely understoond her reaction and was sure it must be the very stylized syntax of sentences. like. this. Or, btw — wtf, yanno? Perhaps a Bwahahahahaha or a snort. Or two. Huh? = )

Ahh…the frustration of one’s writing being in the hands of an audience it wasn’t intended for. Not exactly a novel dilemma, is it? I say this knowing that writers have always struggled with how their work is received. Anything that requires another’s interpretation is subject to the same risk. I do believe, however, that a person should have an idea about a piece of writing well before getting involved with it. But maybe that’s just me. I’ve lost the source, but I remember reading a particular author who believed his readers “write his books.” Said differently, any reader brings a massive amount of information, experience, and of course, at times, ignorance to a particular reading. With that, a book is understood in an infinite number of unique ways. That perspective either allows the reader to enjoy the book, or to question why it was even considered as something which might be enjoyed. Not everyone will appreciate every type of writing. I certainly don’t.

I believe it is important to note that those of us who choose to write in this very public way, do so for a variety of reasons. I also believe that as much as it is enjoyable to have others read what I write, not everyone will appreciate all of it. Some may not like any of it. Is audience appreciation always the reason for our writing?

I write because I want to. Because I need to. Because I can. Although my mother has kept personal journals for more than 25 years, to my knowledge, no one else in my family has been interested in writing. Just more proof that I must have fallen off the turnip truck. I can’t say that a teacher in my past had anything to do with motivating me to write because very few of them assigned writing — let alone taught the craft of writing. No, I was never even forced to write the venerable Five Paragraph Essay. Ahem. And we know how many of those are published annually.

Most likely, reading has influenced my need to write, as well as a well-developed ability to observe and remember nearly everything I see. Each author has a new perspective, a different voice, a way of allowing me to see through their thoughts. With that information, words and stories of my own evolve. As much as I enjoy writing my thoughts and observations, that is all they are. The way I choose to write them is exactly that: a choice. One that I value.

Yesterday while I was perusing others’ blogs, I came across one that featured a book review. The point of the review was clear: People like myself are amateurs. The business of writing is not something we are good at. In fact, people like myself are to blame for destroying the foundations of society, and card-carrying readers of “drivel” who will hardly be lining up “to read Shakespeare.” It was stated quite plainly that writers such as myself are only about “monkey business” and that all those who count themselves as “professionals” should work to find solutions allowing “those with talent to flourish.” I do have a suggestion: Write something others would enjoy reading. Fairly basic. Writing a few sentences about writer’s block doesn’t quite cut it, though.

So let me get this straight. I’m a professional if I write about education because I was employed as an educator. But if I choose to write about my life, my observations, my opinions, my ideas — which all belong to me, are connected to me, and referenced with that which is relevant to said life, observations, opinions, and ideas — I’m an amateur? And I need to stop this “monkey business?” So the “professionals” can get a word in edgewise? Interesting.

I have to confess that reading the post, some of the comments, and comments made at amazon got the best of me. I haven’t been that worked up about anything for months. Embarrassing, actually when I consider all of the very important issues I should be worked up about. But I recognized what was causing my irritation. It all seemed so like the junior high students I had worked with for many years. Smug, egocentric, cliqueish. Very much a case of, “Hello? I’ve done the seat time required for the label I’m applying to myself, and while I’m at it, I’m going to pass judgment on you, on your admirers, and hell, our quickly disintegrating society in general because:

1. Bloggers exist.
2. Bloggers attract attention.
3. The attention is distracting others from noticing those who are more deserving.
4. Like me (The Professional).
5. Society is falling apart because no one reads Shakespeare.
6. Or gets in line to buy Shakespeare.
7. Because they’re bloggers.
8. Or readers of blogs.
9. Bottom dwellers.
10. Destroyers of the English Language.

William Faulkner said,

“Read, read, read. Read everything — trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the masters. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write.”

Well said, Bill, even though I never really enjoyed reading your writing when I was in college. Mind you, I know you’re called one of our best writers, and that you were A Professional, but I just didn’t “get” your style. Maybe I was too young to truly understand considering the experience I approached your writing with — or lack thereof. Did you actually write Sanctuary for college sophomores?  You’re in good company, because Will Shakespeare isn’t my cuppa tea either. Was he A Professional? If I remember correctly, he had some issues with written English. But who am I to bring that to anyone’s attention. I’m only an amateur.

One who is contributing to the downfall of society one post at a time.

What will become of us all? Will we drown in technobabble? I doubt it. We’ve continued to survive legalese and eduspeak. We are engaged in trying to survive Dub-Yah.

But Monkey Business still abounds. Damn technology.

About that pile of books I’m supposed to be reading…

Some time ago while I was reading through others’ blogs, I spied the cover of a book in a sidebar. If I remember correctly, there was somewhat of a tease in the caption encouraging me to receive the book free if I was willing to review it. You do know that I am completely aware of the promise I made to read all the books I have at home before I purchase another, don’t you? I chide myself each and every time I see something I’d love to read that isn’t in my stack of books. I’ve been so trustworthy. So diligent. Well, perhaps not quite tenacious enough when one considers the amount of time I’ve taken to read through a couple of the first books on my list.

Just a refresher: the whole point of reading everything in my house has been my cost saving measure: a sort of contribution to the family’s coffers since I’m sans income. Besides, I did take the time to choose and purchase these ah… tomes at one point in the past, mulling over the authors, considering the reviews, and projecting the mood each would lull me into as I read.

So when I saw How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved my Life in the lamentably forgotten blogger’s sidebar (I am so very sorry!) with “free” nestled beneath the cover shot, I thought that it wouldn’t be cheating if I accepted the offer. Sure, I’ll read a book and write a review. Technically, I wouldn’t be spending money for the book. It would be just fine if I sneaked this one in to relieve myself of the recent horrendous reads I’d suffered through. So I clicked. A free book!

The book was delivered, and read. I read it in two days. Not a month like Mapping the Edge. Not weeks and weeks and weeks, like Dog Days. Two days. Now, that’s more like it. Nothing like being back in the saddle again. Greasing up the ol’ reading machine. I’m back. Besides, it’s summertime, and what can be more perfect than a book that travels easily to the beach and back? A book that’s about antiques, New England, a little romance, an obscure biography by Virginia Woolf called Flush, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s thunder mug. Ahem… Excuse me?

Let me back up a bit before I truly begin.

Quite some time ago, I was in Cambridge, MA, working on a project at the Harvard Graduate School of Ed and happened upon Mail. The cover was an eye-catching yellow, and I was drawn to the author’s name — unusual. The setting was Cambridge — how coincidental; the protagonist a writer — and I wanted so much to be a writer. So it seemed perfect for a summertime read to ease my mind from the less than glamorous work I was involved in: curriculum writing. I no longer have the book, most likely loaned to a friend who neglected to return it, but I remember enjoying the woman in the story and her quirky personality. I remember her mailman, too…It’s been a while since I’ve read something by Mameve Medwed — nearly ten years.

I’m so sorry, Mameve. I know you’ve published other books in that time, so it’s odd that I’ve not come across one while traipsing through bookstores, or surfing Amazon’s cyberstacks. And I know that had I found one of those books, it wouldn’t be hidden in that dusty stack I currently find myself having to read. I would speak to my marketers, if I were you, because I enjoyed your first book quite a bit and would have read the others had I known…

Memories of Medwed’s writing came quickly back as I began this latest of her novels. Abby Randolph is an easy to get to know woman who sells antiques. Her store isn’t one known for grossly ornate 18th century European credenzas, or priceless Baccarat crystal candlesticks. In fact, her “store” is a booth that sits alongside that of others who have a passion for, and know much about old things that just might be worth more than we think they are worth. Like the porcelain chamber pot that sits in Abby’s booth. The one her colleague encourages her to lug to the Antiques Roadshow soon coming to town. The chamber pot once owned by her mother who was recently and tragically killed. Her lovely mother who, after years of chin-up tolerance with her role as one of “the Cambridge ladies” poet E.E. Cummings writes of, runs off to seek a new life: a life with the woman next door. Yes, woman. Her best friend’s mother. The mother of the boy next door she fell in love with so many years ago.

Medwed’s ability to sell Abby and her self-deprecating existence, her seemingly new found promise of wealth, and love, are what make this book. Otherwise, liking Abby could become a challenge. She seems not able to hold herself up or deal with her life. She lets people walk all over her. She just accepts things. But she knows it. And when she acknowledges her shortcomings over and over again, you find that you are on her side, cheering her on, wanting her to step up and push back against the pathetic people she has chosen to tolerate throughout her life: the pseudo best friend who is really only out for herself; her ex-business partner and lover, gone after taking what he could from Abby’s life as a Cambridge professor’s daughter and has moved on to a more profitable lifestyle; or the reporter who surfaces to get the inside story on the chamber pot, now authenticated and valued at a staggering amount of money.

Don’t most people fare well after they’ve received news of a windfall? Shouldn’t everything turn around in their lives, making their dull existence more bright? Can it erase the sadness one feels for the tragic loss of a mother, and a young man always thought of as someone who would be part of her future?

Maybe it can. Abby Randolph has to confront her demons in much the way that you and I would, failing over and over again, before she is able to arrive at what matters. Without Medwed’s clever sarcasm and tight narrative, without her insider knowledge as a Cambridge resident, How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life could be just another book in a growing list of what is now referred to as Chick Lit. Without Medwed’s dry humor and ability to capture the odd characteristics humans have, Abby could be just another female whose pathetic lack of self-awareness makes her unnoticeable. Instead, we are left smiling as Abby grows into herself and her life.

Mameve Medwed has saved me from the depths of yet another completely dreary read. Thank goodness. Now I can go back and read her novels I’ve missed in the past ten years. But not until I finish that stack. Promise. Well, maybe the public library has them. That’s free, too. Right?

I’m left wondering on whose site I originally found the offer to review this novel and will continue to do some investigating. My quest has dropped me into the world of publishing houses and their quest to step up their on-line marketing. It has taken me to Booksquare and a very interesting look at opinions on the publishing industry. It has also taken me to & Review Tomorrow's Books Today" target="_blank">First Look at Harper Collins — a very intriguing opportunity for someone like me, trying to avoid those books I already own, wanting instead to wallow in the possibility of buying more, always more.

Oh, that heaven is a bookstore when I get there…

If I ever needed a group of people to discuss a book I’ve read, it would be now. I’ve finally finished reading Sarah Dunant’s Mapping the Edge, and don’t quite know what to think. Whenever it takes me this long (two weeks at night in bed for about 20 or 30 minutes if I’m lucky) to read a book that size (a mere 301 pages), well, something’s wrong. For days, I have had the book on my mind like some strange puzzle and have found myself talking to the MoH about it — which is just wrong. He doesn’t read. Well, he reads, but would rather not. Numbers. He loves numbers, remember? Mmmm…numbers. Plus, he just finished David Sedaris’ Naked, so his brain is permanently fried now and he probably won’t be able to read ever again without twitching and burping colorful expletives from time to time.

Like a complete loser, I looked around different sites for what other people thought about Mapping the Edge, and found myself commiserating with those who had the Huh? factor going on. I know, pathetic. Misery loves company — the kind of company Amazon dot com provides in the review section where you can commune with others who need a refresher Reading Comprehension 101 course, or a simple smack upside the head. (more…)

It’s chilly here today, making getting out of bed a bit more challenging in the feeble light coming through the windows above the blinds. But I can hear the RT in his bathroom, and after a quick glance at the clock, know that if I don’t get up, I will miss seeing him off for school. As he passes by our bedroom door, I notice that although he is sporting a different green tee than he did yesterday, he is wearing the same brown cargo shorts, and has yet to don socks.  I know, with very little analysis, that he will recycle the socks he wore yesterday,  slung over his shoes where he left them yesterday .

I make it downstairs on this non-carpool day, and am rewarded by the RT’s Mom smile — a warm and honest gesture that is often accompanied by a hug. Nice. Ten more minutes before he goes out for his ride into this grey and wet day. I know before opening the patio door that Doggo is not going to want to pee on a wet patio, and I’m probably going to have to venture out in front of the neighbors so she can pee on the wet grass instead. Dog logic? Doggo surprises me by pushing through the partially opened door and gingerly prissing across the flagstones and around the corner to take care of her duty.

I call up to the RT who has gone to get in a few minutes on the Internet even though I’ve graced him with my presence, “You’re gonna hafta wear your sweatshirt today,” knowing that he wears it most days because it’s soft and comfy, and probably makes it easier for him not to pay attention to The Geometry Teacher. One of our cats is trying to rush for the door about now, paranoid that I’ll close it on his tail like I did last week, and makes it through only to realize that it’s wet outside. He backs up, sits near my feet and looks at me as if to say, “What the hell is this all about?” and consigns himself to the view from the back of a chair. Today he’ll have to settle for looking through the window at the birds in the jasmine and stalk their movements with flattened ears and that low “cacking” sound he reserves for moving targets on his radar.

The RT is out the door about now, 50lb. back pack hoisted over one shoulder, and the notebook I’ve asked him twice to organize in the past two days, tucked under an arm, still sporting the signs of complete disaster from its edges. I tell him to have a good day, hoping it will be better than yesterday. The two of us decided then that a 50% on The Geometry Teacher’s test was better than what we thought it would be, but getting an F on a test never feels great. I’ll have to put “Giving Geometry Another Chance” on my mental NUTs list. NUTs, you say?

Nagging Unfinished Tasks, according to Michael F. Roizen, M.D., are things that we could fix, but don’t, thereby causing you and I “aging stress,” which is far more harmful than breaking a bone, because we learn to deal with that. He says those kinds of events are “important, but manageable.” Okay, so let me get this straight. In other words, I’ll just adapt to the circumstances of hmmm…. I know — having a humongous cast on my leg that sticks straight out, forcing me to be in a wheel chair; I’ll be able to get in my compact car, drive myself to work, well Hell, actually go to work, go to the grocery store, carry my crying toddler around while trying to get dinner on the stove. Bathe. Go to the bathroom. Oh sure. Absolutely no stress there. My malleable demeanor will simply adjust. Instead, what will really get to me while the cast is on my leg is the stuff on my NUTs list — the stuff that I don’t take care of that is silently driving me crazy, creating unhealthy levels of adrenaline, cortisone, and other hormones in my system, and leaving me susceptible to myocardial ischemia, and at greater risk of a heart attack. What might those more pressing, driving me, well, nuts, NUTs be if my leg was in a cast? Shaving my legs? Reaching that dust ball under the wall unit? Painting the chipped polish on the big toe protruding from my cast? GET REAL BUDDY! There is no way.

But back to reality here, and my current state of pantwadiness. In an attempt to ingest by osmosis the concept of Roizen’s NUTs — Uh, ahem — I mean understand what NUTs really are…ALL RIGHT! Identify my own NUTs — bah-hahahaha — and add “Relearning Geometry” to the list, I can combine my smarts with those of the RT, and thereby assist him in improving his understanding of Geometry. Bear in mind that because the RT is almost 15, and should be learning to employ skills which will last a lifetime, I actually believe he would be better served taking advantage of the student-run tutoring center at La-Tee-Dah High School. However, I also believe I can’t take him there and make him do it. He has to want to do it himself. But that’s because I’m a Relentless, Hard Ass, Suck-it-up-and-Get-it-Done, and Wipe your Own Nose Erstwhile Educator. That’s a whole different topic, though.

My NUTs: 1) Get a job; 2) Complete filing papers; 3) Call the local charity to get rid of stuff in the garage so my husband can park in it, too; 4) Complete half-assed upholster job on two bedroom chairs; 5) Complete stain and seal of outside furniture; 6) Paint unfinished patch over downstairs bathroom door; 7) Truly clean refrigerator; Shave my legs.

What are your NUTs?