Bibliomama

I know I'm late to the party with this one. I have a terrible habit of hearing about stuff like this , going all incandescent with rage, then immediately getting so tired that I can barely lift my fingers to type, and thinking that nothing I say will make a difference anyway. It very well may not. But there was a story in this book about an older man who was protesting something, and somebody told him his protest wouldn't change anything, and he laughed and said something like "I'm not protesting to change the town, I'm protesting so the town won't change me". So I won't be eating at Chick-Fil-A. Some people have said it's not accurate to call the owner a 'hater' just because he says he believes in the traditional definition of marriage. And if we're talking a matter of degree, well then I guess I'd have to say people that merely say "I believe in the traditional definition of marriage" are preferable to people who go ou

I don't usually go for the 'beach read' in the summer; I generally follow my typical reading pattern of ... okay, what the hell is my reading pattern? Hmmmm.... a little fiction, a little non-fiction, I always try to be reading something 'good for me', and I mix in YA reads and short stories whenever I feel myself getting jaded or overwhelmed with too much choice. And zombies. But this summer I have actually been feeling a little distracted and unfocused in the reading department. Between all the driving and houseguests and baseball and dead air conditioners and medication withdrawal drama, I've let any sort of rigour fall by the wayside. I took Anthony Trollope's The Warden out of the library because I've been meaning to read him for years, partly because the character in this mystery series did his thesis on him (if I remember correctly) and partly because of this book , where Jane Juska's personal ad reads  " Before I turn 67—next March—I

-The sari is a really good look for travelling. I should try it. Maybe not. -Blow your nose. For Christ's sake, blow your nose, that's disgusting, didn't your mother teach you anything? -She's really got that whole casual-hiker thing down. Hair pulled up, vest over shirt, slouchy socks and running shoes, shorts... wow, she must be almost fifty and her legs are really great. Except - wow, her legs are really hairy. Like really, really hairy. It doesn't even grow straight, it's like big clouds of curly hair around her legs. It's like her legs have beards. I thought I was okay with women not shaving their legs but this is really quite disturbing. Look away. Look away. Look away. I can't look away! Oh thank god, she's leaving. -Wow. Her hair looks like a shiny wave of chocolate fountain. Her shirt is the colour of paprika. Her pants are the colour of cinnamon. And those shoes really shouldn't work, but they totally do. What colour green is that

I'm tired. I'm really freaking tired. I'm really freaking tired about whining about being really freaking tired. I guess it's not surprising, since it's been reliably established that I probably haven't had a good night's sleep for about thirty years. The boys went to Oakville for a week-end baseball tournament. They got to play about an inning and a half and the rest got rained out. But they went to see a Blue Jays game AND stayed in a hotel AND took the Go-Train into Toronto for the game, and friends, I can't even tell which of those was tops in Angus's book, but it's safe to say his week-end was not ruined by the lack of actual baseball playing. Eve and I went to see Brave with a couple of her friends, which I thought was awesome; Eve agreed, though predictably she leads every conversation about it with 'all the naked butts'. Then we watched Charlie St. Cloud which I'd gotten from the library since she'd been asking to s

I always know intellectually that intense experiences are followed by inevitable let-down, and yet I'm always unprepared for the reality. I loved being in New York and I was also happy that it was at the end of our crazy busy travelling/houseguests/nonstop plans stretch and once I got home the rest of August was a wide-open expanse of Summer Fun. So naturally I've been a mopey whiny mess all week. Every morning I would spread out my suitcase and the laundry baskets on the bed and fold a few things and lay out a few things, and then leave it all there until Matt wanted to go to bed, whereupon he would pile it all on the floor at the foot of the bed again, and the next morning I would start all over again. I bought groceries I've mostly been too tired and headachey to cook. I've given up on trying to pull back on my antidepressant until September. The days I don't take it are so unutterably wretched I can hardly stand it, and it's not fair to the kids. I'l

People were blogging about BlogHer yesterday. People were blogging about BlogHer AT BLOGHER! If I went with my instincts, I would be blogging about BlogHer a week from next Thursday at the earliest. I am WIPED. I keep waking up at 4 a.m. and wondering where the hell I am. I nearly started sobbing in the grocery store today when I couldn't find the plantains. I beam loonily at everyone I see and wonder why they don't seem to find me delightful like everyone in New York did. There are a lot of reasons to go to BlogHer. Improving or Tightening-the-focus-of or Monetizing or Branding your blog are certainly among them, but they weren't among mine. I bought my ticket on a whim last summer when Marilyn said I didn't have to be 'more serious' about blogging to go to BlogHer, I could just go and hang out in New York with some girlfriends (and that she would room with me), and I consulted my husband and he was for it. After buying the ticket and booking the flight, I