The Telling by Jo Baker (Book Review)

The TellingThe Telling by Jo Baker

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Bookshelves: abandoned, brit-lit, chick-lit, ghost-story, historical-fiction, i-am-an-anglophile, victorian-england

I loved Longbourn, and I noted in my review that it took about half the book for things to really start. I’m 51% in to The Telling and nothing has happened beyond a few packed-up boxes and a lot of whining in the modern story, matched with a lot of laundry and a little forbidden reading in the Victorian timeline. Baker writes beautifully, but I don’t need to read any more about the baby’s sweaty curls against her soft cheek, or the scent of grass on the breeze through the parlor window. It is pages and pages of lovely descriptive passages but nothing much going on.

Maybe it’s me, being unable to enjoy something that moves at a more leisurely pace. But I’m trying to read this during my metro commute and I’m afraid I’ll zonk out and not startle awake until Eastlake, miles after my stop, lost and late for work. I have learned a bit about the Chartist Movement, mainly because Googling that on my phone was more stimulating than reading the actual book, and by extension I learned the origin of “read the riot act.” So, that’s cool.

Perhaps I’ll try this book again when I’m in a more leisurely place in life.

Desert Surprise

Carrot Ranch July 20 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write about a surprise from a desert.


Jane struggles, breathing the damp. She’s been here three years but it’s still not home. It’s beautiful, sure. Snowy peaks backing endless trees and sparkling water. It’s almost trite.

She misses low scrub-covered hills, rocky ground studded with thorns, even scorpions. The springtime hills gradually shading, palest green to mauve, smudged blue at sundown. Clean smell of sage. Night sky like a celestial jewel box. The city has no stars.

People thought her desert monotonous, without beauty. They didn’t know how to look.

If she can save a dollar a day, she’ll have a bus ticket in four months.

Author note:I guess the surprise is in missing it! This prompt hit close to my heart. It’s beautiful here in the PNW, but the desert will always be home to me. Dream Girl and I are traveling home to visit Monster and the rest of the family for a week in August. Life is good.

The Final 6: 2016 Reading Challenge

I put what I suspected was an unrealistic 18 titles on my 2016 Reading Challenge, back in December. I’ve torn through them rather quickly, wouldn’t you say? I’ve broken the reviews down into 3 posts, the first two of which can be found here and here.

Here’s the wrap:

1. A funny book.

The Princess Bride The Princess Bride by William Goldman

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I have always believed that the phrase “It’s not you, it’s me,” means “It’s you.” But when it comes to this book, I think it must really be me.

I fully expected The Princess Bride to become my new favorite comfort book. I mean, it has everything. Fencing. Torture. Giants. True love. Beautifulest ladies. Villains. Pirates. Heroes. Pirate heroes. Etc., etc. It has satire and humor and cerebrality and the story-within-a-story-within-a-story schtick that I usually love.

The movie was one of my son’s absolute favorites when he was little, along with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, both of which we wore out more than once in VHS format. I found the movie to be decent, so I expected to love love love the book because the book is always better than the movie, but – not this time.

Reading other reviews, I see that in the 30th anniversary edition I got some extra material, including an abridgement of Buttercup’s Baby and Stephen King as a character, which is particularly cool as lately I’ve been on a kick where I’m rereading books I loved clear back in high school, and I’m not sure if my literary life flashing before my eyes means I’m going to die soon or what, but it’s all good, gotta go sometime and it might as well be with a good book, and so I recently reread Carrie and was reminded why Stephen King is the King of Storytelling, and I’m sure he gets tired of that joke, but then again maybe not. Anyway, I did not love the Buttercup’s Baby material, and I see other reviewers felt it spoiled the original story. I can’t unread it, so I’ll never know if that was the problem.

What was the problem?

The drama club of my daughter’s erstwhile high school in Fallon, Nevada, put on a stage production of The Princess Bride that was stellar, and that’s what I was expecting to find in the book, I think. Perhaps it was those particular kids bringing the parts to life, dare I say it, even better than the professional actors did in the movie (with the exception of Inigo Montoya – Mandy Patinkin owned Inigo Montoya). It was a very talented bunch of kids. That play will always be the pinnacle of The Princess Bride for me, and it’s too bad, because you can’t rewind or reread a stage production. Once the run is over, it’s only memory. Perhaps that’s what’s going on, that I loved the play the most because of its transitory nature – things are always better in retrospect. Or perhaps it was the potential that exists on the written page, waiting to be brought to life by actual people. I’m picturing another Cary Elwes vehicle, Robin Hood: Men in Tights, that would have been “meh” to read but was an absolute scream as a movie.

Anyway, whatever the issue is, three stars. That’s not bad, according to my rating system. I only give 5 stars to a book I love so much that I will buy a copy and read it again and again (I’m cheap and I love libraries), so I hand out very few 5-star ratings. Four stars means I did love it, just not enough to buy. Three stars means it was competently written and it entertained me and I liked it just fine. I was considering a fourth star for the “it’s not you, it’s me” factor, but I always hated it when erstwhile paramours tried that crap on me and I’m not trying to put anything over on anybody. So, three stars.

10. A book by an author under the age of 30.

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter  The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

It looks like she may have done all of her best writing before 30, because after 30 she was preoccupied with horrible marriages and alcoholism and various degrees of suicide and having strokes. I’m not trying to be flippant. Tortured writers often produce the best stuff, and this title has been on my TBR list for a long time.

There’s this:

“Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.”

I imagine that at the time this book was published, it was avant-garde and a rather in-your-face study of society’s ailments, particularly coming from a writer only 23 years old. There is some beautiful and evocative prose:

“Wonderful music like this was the worst hurt there could be. The whole world was this symphony, and there was not enough of her to listen.”

The problem I had was that nothing much seems to happen. The characterization is marvelous, but the interaction between the characters is minimal and the movement in the story is almost entirely internal. It’s like contemplating one exquisitely painted still life after another, each isolated and crying out silently, but not going anywhere. You just look at them in their aloneness and sorrow. The writing is graceful and evocative, but what it tells of is bleak and depressing and I had a hard time pushing myself through it. I feel rather let down.

12. A book set in the future.

Snow CrashSnow Crash by Neal Stephenson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This Snow Crash thing — is it a virus, a drug, or a religion?”

Juanita shrugs. “What’s the difference?”

The Matrix meets  The DaVinci Code! It’s important to note that (1) this book came first, (2) the Sumerian mythology also came first, and is also way cooler, and (3) Neal Stephenson writes way better than Dan Brown. This future world is bleak indeed, dominated by televangelist-style religion and a Mafia that doesn’t even try to hide anymore. Not like that’s practically the way things are now or anything.

Enter sword-fighting hacker extraordinaire Hiro Protagonist, and a prickly, street-smart thrasher known as Y.T. (Yours Truly), whom I just wanted to bring home so I could feed her cookies and milk.

It is not the book’s fault I didn’t get out of it as much as I should have. I was snatching a page here, a quick chapter there, during a very hectic time, when my husband’s health problems had him back in the hospital, I was trying to find a place to live, we had Mother’s Day and birthdays to wrangle, a couple other minor crises, one of those times when everything happens at once. Naturally, that’s when my name finally made it to the top of the wait list for Snow Crash. I will read it again when things are calmer and I can immerse myself properly. It’s still easy to see this is cyberpunk at its best.

13. A book with a love triangle.

City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1)City of Bones by Cassandra Clare

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

For my 2016 reading challenge, it was hard finding a list of love-triangle books that aren’t 100% romance (I loathe the romance genre) without also being YA/paranormal. Not that I have anything against YA or paranormal as separate genres, but I can do without the whole teeny-bop vampire/werewolf thing. Like an NA member admits to having used, I admit to having read the Twilight series — but not where anyone could see me doing it, and only now that I’m rehabbed and clean. And it’s like former users have told me: you know you’re being stupid for trying it the first time, but you just have to see what all the fuss is about, and after that it’s not your fault because while it has no redeeming qualities whatsoever and is horribly bad for you, it’s still just that addicting. Twilight is about as much YA/paranormal as I can take.

But this YA/paranormal stuff is all I could find!

Fine. I went with City of Bones just for the wild disparity in the ratings. Reviewers either love love love it or hate hate hate it. I’m intrigued by a book that can stir that much feeling, either way.

On to the review:

“…hair that stuck up around his head like the tentacles of a startled octopus.”

Right there, on page 2, I knew I was in Silly Simile Land. When I googled around to find a picture of a startled octopus, I also found several quotes of this line but with “tendrils” of a startled octopus. My library print copy says “tentacles.”If the ebook has “tendrils,” that’s even worse. And, I’m not the only one who thought it was dumb.

“[She] hails from New Jersey. ”
“I’m from Brooklyn!” Clary was outraged.

Clary is constantly outraged. All of the dialogue is over-the-top and soap-opera-ish. I liked the arch humor in Simon’s character, but when all the other characters do it too, it’s just overdone sarcasm. There’s this whole I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I flavor to every exchange the characters have.

And let’s see…Clary’s father died before she was even born, and Jace’s parents are dead, and somehow he felt this attunement with her at the same time she could see these Shadowhunters when mundanes can’t, so I’m going to go out on a limb here and say they share a father. (Peeks ahead.) No spoilers.

Googling around, I also see a lot of complaints about the author’s plagiarism of her own work. It’s certainly possible to do that in academia, where papers for classes are expected to be original for each class, and at the very least you’d better cite yourself. This is hardly academia, however, and I don’t know why she can’t rework her own stuff if she wants to. What’s she going to do, sue herself? And with the plethora of YA/urban fantasy stuff out there, after so many, many years of fantasy and science fiction from other authors, it’s also difficult to come up with anything that’s truly original. I only watched a couple episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (not a big TV person) but I see the similarities easily, along with the Luke-and-Leia bit from Star Wars, and the ‘net tells me this stuff started out as Harry Potter fanfiction. Still, I’m not sure what’s the big deal about “plagiarizing” her own work. E.L. James turned her Twilight fanfic into Fifty Shades of Grey, and I don’t see anybody crying foul beyond the quality of the writing itself – I did not read and have no intention of reading Fifty Shades, so I’ll never know.

As noted, it’s difficult to come up with anything that’s truly original anymore, but City of Bones has so many stereotypes. Jace is the classic wounded-bad-boy hero. Clary is the Mary Sue who has no idea how she beautiful she is and doesn’t understand why every guy in the world wants to do her, and can kill a monster like anyone else would slap a mosquito, and just blindly accepts that mermaids and werewolves and vampires and warlocks and faeries and demons really do exist like oh, okay, if you say so, I’ll believe you, even if I only met you two hours ago, because you’re just so cute. I’m guessing Simon-Clary-Jace is the love triangle, which was the whole point of me reading this book, and Simon seems to be a cross between Gale from The Hunger Games and Duckie from Pretty in Pink. He’s the only character I like, and I’m afraid he’s just not going to be enough to carry me through. I was able to apply my 100-page rule but now I’m abandoning after seven chapters.

14. A book set somewhere you’ve always wanted to visit.


I was recently very disappointed by The Lost Sisterhood. If The Song of Achilles hadn’t turned out to be everything I wanted in a novel of ancient Greece, I was going to be so pissed.

The Song of AchillesThe Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It was as Odysseus had said; he had light enough to make heroes of them all.

Thank you, thank you, Madeline Miller, for my new favorite retelling of The Iliad.

The fresh take is twofold: the narration by Patroclus, and the oft-debated premise that he and Achilles were lovers. Those uncomfortable with same-sex romance may want to give this a pass, but to do so would be to miss an elegantly told love story. Oh, to have any of my romances written of so lyrically.

Miller stays true to Homer while giving new breath to lesser-known cast members, including Chiron, Thetis, Peleus, Deidameia, and Briseis. This old story is so evocatively written as to transport us back to the Bronze Age and the Trojan shores, caught up events that seem utterly new.

Beautiful book. The ending made this crusty old broad cry.

New words:

Yare: Of a ship, easy to maneuver.

15. A book you own but have never read.

Border MusicBorder Music by Robert James Waller

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I remember absolutely loving Bridges of Madison County (yes, I dislike the romance genre, but I enjoy a well-told love story; big difference), so much that I bought two more of Waller’s books. I also enjoyed Puerto Vallarta Squeeze, and I have finally gotten around to reading Border Music.

I didn’t like this one quite as well. The basics of the writing are as beautiful as I remember: “Dawn, and the moon sat full and fat on I-10, looking as if you could go right through it in a mile or two.” Like that. Lovely. But the dialogue in this one seemed very scripted, long, drawn-out aw-shucks-ma’am speeches rather than people actually making conversation. But then, maybe people talk that way in West Texas. I’ve never been there.

This story kept me turning the pages, but the events are almost more internal than external. It was decent and Jack Carmine and Linda Lobo are likeable enough and the story kept me entertained, but I preferred the first two Waller books I read.

Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins (Book Review)

Still Life with WoodpeckerStill Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Bookshelves: abandoned, cult classic, dnf, literary fiction, satire, too highbrow for my peabrain, ugh

I just got done moving house and I’m still unpacking, and came across my copy of Still Life With Woodpecker, which I would have thought I’d ditched ages ago. But here it is, cluttering up my book boxes.

I adored Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. Cowgirls is one of my lucky 13 stranded-on-a-desert-island novels. It’s definitely a bizarre book, though, and I remember feeling a bit apprehensive when I bought Woodpecker, thinking, “Is it possible for me to get lucky twice with a writer as off-the-wall as Tom Robbins?” And don’t get me wrong; I generally think off-the-wall is a good thing. The book then sat around, being shuffled from one TBR pile to another, and then when my daughter made me watch 50 First Dates with her, and I saw that Woodpecker is the book Drew Barrymore’s character is reading in her endless Groundhog-Day loop, it occurred to me I might not like the book because I can’t stand Adam Sandler, because that’s how the whole guilt-by-association thing works.

Apparently so. I tried to read it and to like it, but it was just too out there for me. Random and screwball, kind of like pinballs whizzing around a pinball game except those follow the laws of physics, whereas this book didn’t seem to follow anything remotely resembling any laws of plotting. I didn’t finish it. I’d like to blame it on Adam Sandler, but I can’t.

Now that I’m aware I still have it, it’s in a small pile of other books I still have for some reason, and they will all be donated to a battered women’s shelter along with a couple of cell phones I’m still hauling around.

Courage and Compassion: You Don’t Have to Do it All at Once #1000Speak

It was a hell of a Monday.

For context, let me mention that I moved to Seattle to work for a woman who turned out to be the Boss from Hell, she whom I fondly refer to as the Horrendous Homunculus. As far as I’m concerned she is evil, possibly a narcissist and definitely an abuser, who, as abusers pick faults to focus on, picked my lack of knowledge about Microsoft Word to bash me over the head with (among other things). I left that job needing thousands of dollars in counseling and with a deep and abiding hatred for both the Homunculus (I have written about abuse in the workplace here and here with rather less cohesion here) and for Microsoft Word (which is less apt to be a trigger and you can read about here).

Fast forward three years and 100 therapy sessions, give or take. On this particular day the summer college quarter starts, and with it the class I am taking in Word, because “face your demons, ” “knowledge is power, ” “the best defense is a good offense, ” and all that happy stuff. Yes, I know three years is a long time. Did you know that exposure to what we’re scared of before we’re ready doesn’t accomplish anything and may well make things worse?  It’s true. Don’t try force exposure onto people with debilitating fears, please and thank you.

Let’s be clear. It took more courage than you can imagine for me to sign up for this Word class. Stupid as it may sound, I have awakened from nightmares in which Word is doing its evil self-aware Hal thing,  the word processing equivalent of refusing to open the pod bay doors, and I screwed up one indentation by one space and that bitch is shouting at me like I have literally just killed the whole world, and that really happened, by the way, and I never get back to sleep because of the panic attack that has surged from my overprotective amygdala. Hey, I won’t laugh at your unreasonable fears if you won’t laugh at mine, and that’s all we really need to be friends.

Anyway. Monday. Midmorning, I step out of my office and head to the lobby to check the mail. I glance into the parking lot and there she is, my nightmare, walking straight toward the glass doors and me, right on the other side of them. But no, this is not a nightmare. This is a storm freshened. I’m wide awake, at work, about to step down onto the landing of the stairs, walking straight toward someone I’d just as soon never see again. She’s there, for real. Her husband is with her.

Oh, God. This is a big city. Of all the (gin joints in all the towns in all the — no, wait, totally wrong) places to conduct any kind of business in this million-plus-population metropolitan area, what the hell is this bitch doing that requires she has to walk right into my territory?

My therapist told me later that my reaction to seeing the Horrific Homunculus was perfectly valid: “Run away! Run away! ” (It’s entirely possible I’ve been watching too much Monty Python lately.) Yes, I could have coolly said “Hello” as I walked on past like I didn’t even remember her, but I didn’t trust myself. I’d spent the previous weekend moving house, had just barely unearthed my underwear  in time to dress for Monday, and was feeling thrown-together and generally mussed. As these things always go, she was dressed to the nines and had every hair in place. My two-dollar stare would have failed me and deer-in-the-headlights would have taken over. I most likely would have tripped over an air pocket or something – those air pockets always show up when I really need to be graceful – and then probably would have ripped my pants as I fell.

So I went with a perfectly valid alternative – I retreated. I high-tailed it back up the stairs, face turned away so she couldn’t recognize me, back to my office, behind the safety of the door, praying she wasn’t on her way to consult building management about renting space in my building.  (She wasn’t.)

Cityside 189/CC Share-Alike 4.0 License

I was faced with a test, and I bolted. And I’m fine with that.

Courage takes time, sometimes. Sometimes you can plug your nose and jump off the high rock into the cold water and have faith in your ability to swim and in those who are waiting to help you into the boat. (I did that once to face my fear of heights. I’m still terrified of heights, but it was hella fun, jumping off that rock.) Other times you need room for consideration and research and self-care and reassurance and prayer. Lots of time. I’m all about hiding behind the door when it comes to some things, but I’m all about empowerment, in my own good time, when it comes to other things. Whatever timetable is the one that suits you is the one you should use.

Besides, even without lingering fear and resentment, she was simply a disagreeable woman with a character flaw I despise. I have no desire to exchange pleasantries, or unpleasantries, with her. Maybe someday, if our paths cross again. Or not.

I still consider it a victory. A twofold victory. First, with the insults of Microsoft Word and the Horrid Homunculus showing back up in my life on the same day, and who believes that is a coincidence, certainly not I, the fact that I had managed to find my way out of a new neighborhood in a new city to arrive at work, on time, via new Metro routes, took on that much more personal significance. Second, I saw her before she saw me! The gods were smiling on me. Third – I guess it’s a threefold victory – halfway through the Word class, which I’m taking mainly to prove that I wasn’t the problem, even with assignments that get bolluxed up because Word is buggy as hell, which is the main reason I hate it, and Horrifying Homunculus never did explain to me why, if Word is so simple and everybody else in the world is smart enough to use it flawlessly so it’s obvious that I’m just an idiot, the template she gave me to work with was completely fucked up, in spite of that, I have a 4.0 right now. I don’t think I’m the problem.

Sit on that and spin, Homunculus. I’m winning this.

Read other posts on courage and compassion at the #1000Speak link-up here.

Longbourn by Jo Baker (Book Review)

LongbournLongbourn by Jo Baker

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Bookshelves: brit lit, chick lit, i am an anglophile, love story not a romance, historical fiction, merry olde england

This is the Downton Abbey treatment of Pride and Prejudice, moving downstairs and focusing on the lives of housekeepers and footmen and maids, keeping Austen’s dramatis personae as supporting cast only. I found it slow to start, but it was still pleasant reading. About halfway in the juicy stuff started in earnest and I was turning pages at a good clip.

Move over, Mr. Darcy. Longbourn had more than one hero. Baker has painted Wickham with a much more despicable brush while providing the perfect belowstairs counterpoint to a favorite classic.

Slow Burn (Jane Doe Flash Fiction)

Carrot Ranch July 13 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write about anger.

Scott Kellum/Creative Commons

Jane hovers over the “submit” button as she checks what she’s written. God, she hates online applications. Under “May we contact your present employer?” she’s put, No. Doesn’t know I’m interviewing.

It makes her quake, thinking about being caught. She boils at being put in this position, saying she still works where she doesn’t.

But it’s an accepted truth these days: Employers don’t want you unless you already have a job. Long-term unemployed need not apply.

The unspoken advice: Lie.

Whatever it takes. You try to screw me, I’ll screw you first.

She takes a shaky breath, clicks “submit.”


Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (Book Review)

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil: A Savannah StoryMidnight in the Garden of Good and Evil: A Savannah Story by John Berendt

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Bookshelves: americana, funny, narrative history, non-fiction, true crime

I was only on page 32 when I wanted to stop reading, travel to Savannah, find a bench in the Bonaventure Cemetery, and continue reading there.

There is a man who walks flies like other people walk dogs, on lengths of thread, and has a bottle of poison sufficient to kill Savannah’s entire population. Another who makes money giving tours of the mansions he squats in, complete with his antique furniture, piano, and party entourage. A bodacious drag queen named Chablis, who drafts chauffeurs off the street and crashes debutante balls. A voodoo queen who has “thrown graveyard dirt on some of the best homes in Savannah.” A man who shoots the hood ornaments off his party guests’ cars if they’re late. A real-life Maude (although without her teenage Harold), deciding on which birthday things can go on no longer and she will die.

What there isn’t, is very much murder. To be fair, the title does say “A Savannah Story,” not “A Crime Story,“ but the book is widely billed as true crime and that’s what I was expecting. I would estimate ⅞ of the book is devoted to the personalities of several Savannahians and of Savannah itself. Perhaps ⅛ is about Danny Hansford (known hustler and “walking streak of sex”) and Jim Williams, who was tried four times for Hansford’s murder.

Still, I felt like I was living right there with humid, flower-scented breezes, mansions lining avenues of live oaks draped with Spanish moss, gracious manners, gossip like Sandburg’s cat-feet fog, flowing gin. The writing is smooth and seductive and the sense of place is extraordinary. I deducted a star for less police procedural and courtroom drama than I’d wanted, and am giving it back for my new favorite motto: “Two tears in a bucket. Motherfuck it.”

New words:

Bourse: stock market in a non-English speaking country, particularly France (in context, a clearinghouse)

Plebiscite: direct vote of all members of an electorate on an important issue

Gaff: similar to a g-string, used by drag queens to keep their junk invisible under dresses. The conversation in which I might use this word will probably be a lively one.

Rising Rents, Pending Degrees, and Drop Cords

I miss my maple tree.

The U-Haul cometh, and the U-Haul goeth away. We are moved. Not settled in, but moved, at that stage where we’ve found our underwear and the coffee maker but are still squeezing past boxes stacked in the hallway.

Our old apartment had maple trees outside, one that shaded the deck and another that filled my window and my eyes as I studied, researched, drafted, finalized, read, moped, and ranted. It greeted me every morning when I woke. I followed the seasons as I watched the tiny changes in its cloak of leaves from day to day. I miss it.

This is my view now when I wake up and see out the window. It’s already taking on its own aspects of comfort. But I’ll probably not stop missing my maple tree.

New View

Although I like this place better than our old one, we did not make this move by choice. Gone are the days when I could fit everything I owned, including my cat, in my VW Bug. Moving is a flat-out pain in the ass, and every time I do it, all I can think is that nobody needs this much crap. But rents have been steadily rising in the Seattle area just in the three years since we arrived. So we left Seattle, since things aren’t quite as ridiculous in Tacoma. The cost and duration of my commute increased, but it’s a net improvement. (I prefer the atmosphere in Tacoma as well, but that’s another post. )

There are a couple of things I miss about the old place. My maple tree, certainly. The shorter, cheaper commute. The garbage disposal. Electrical outlets on every wall.

But I don’t miss Mr. and Mrs. Warthog. They moved in below us a couple of months ago, perfectly epitomizing the loud, crass neighbor who doesn’t give a rat’s fanny about anyone near them. The drunken screaming matches, the drunken “guitar playing” and “singing” (I use both terms loosely), the top-of-the-lungs blapping on the phone outside, right under my window, so I could hear every distasteful word from two floors up. Nope. Don’t miss that.

I don’t miss the insufficient trash dumpsters, that were consequently always overfull, and the constant cawing and screeching of the crows and seagulls they attracted. I don’t miss the trash strewn everywhere.

I don’t miss the parking woes. If we arrived home after 8 p.m. we were SOL for a parking place, and there was no street parking, either. Our new place has its own off-street parking. Sweet.

I especially don’t miss all the neighbors who didn’t clean up after their pets, and the resultant crap everywhere. I love having our own small yard that’s always clean because nobody else’s dog can get in it. Lilly the FatDog loves the yard too. She sits outside and surveys her domain and barks happily at those who pass by. Life is easier for her since she can see everybody she hears. Doesn’t it just figure that my dog would have an anxiety disorder to match mine.

But crouching inside my appreciation for our awesome new-old house is the awareness that this game of musical houses may be far from over. Written into our lease is an automatic rent increase of 5% per year, which means that in about 4 years we’ll be right back in the situation that led to this move: looking for a place we can afford. This is a thing.  It’s a trend, all across the country. Not just the homeless – and that situation is just so wrong, in one of the richest countries in the world – but the just-barely-homed.

Financial professionals recommend spending no more than 33% of disposable income on rent or mortgage, including utilities. That becomes a joke when you can’t rent even a hovel for less than $1400 per month, not including utilities.  Less than that and you’re next door to a meth lab, rooming with rats. Literally. Before we moved the Tominator and I were paying more than 50% of our monthly nut on a roof over our heads – before water, electricity, garbage, and so forth. It’s cheaper where we are now, but with this automatic rent increase, in a few years we’ll be right back where we just were – struggling to pay the rent, scratching together to come up with move-in costs for another, cheaper place — if such a thing even exists by then. And I make more than minimum wage. What about those in even direr straits than ours? They go without, that’s what. Without insurance, without medications, without dental care (which has become a sign of financial status as surely as designer jeans and SUV’s), without food in either quality or quantity. And I’m not even going to the land of family vacations and fancy technology so many take for granted.

What really frosts my cookies is the simple greed behind it all. How awesome for Mr. Landlord Person, that he can build an annual “cost of living” increase into his leases, and I’m sure he’ll get it from someone else if not from us. Bully for him. But I’m not stupid. The landlord’s mortgage isn’t going up. The cost of living that’s going up here is mine. Back when I owned my own rental properties, I found it far preferable to keep the rent reasonable so my dependable, quiet, clean tenants would stay. It gave me a steady, reliable income with minimum headaches.  But then, I’m not just out for every dollar I can get. Maybe it’s just me.

I am really not trying to sound bitter. But I do get tired of seeing other people’s new technology, hearing about the family vacations, passing by doggie day care establishments and wondering who on earth has money to blow on that shit. Seriously. The Tominator and I make do, and for the most part we’re all right with that and we’re grateful to have what we have. He who dies with the most toys may win, but he also leaves more crap for those left behind to deal with.

Still. Things always change. Like most people, I do better with change I actively want, and these last few years I’ve felt far from in control. It’s been much more reacting than acting, negative  circumstances outside my control skewing my life with decisions made to survive, rather than strategic moves made to thrive. But I’m close to a college degree I’ve been working hard for,  and possibly a new career. This could be exciting. Who knows where I’ll be in a few years?

Right now I am in the middle of the funnest part.  I absolutely love figuring out where things go, this picture here, those books there, my laughing Buddha on this shelf, getting the flow of walls and objects and space to flow so it is home. I am not so good at clearing out of the old place. I have gotten to where I consider a “cleaning deposit” to be a nonfundable sum toward what I don’t want to undo, and I’m especially fortunate that the Tominator likes the cleaning up part best. He clears out, I settle in. We’re a complementary set.

I plan to make the most of it, to enjoy this wonderfully quirky old house, with its creaks and cracks and single power outlet per room. For as long as it lasts, drop cords are my new decor.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (Book Review)

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into ValuesZen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values by Robert M. Pirsig

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Bookshelves: abandoned, americana, cult classic, everybody loved it but me, new age, spirituality, travel, ugh

Unpacking following my recent move, I’ve come across a few books that are only partially read and will probably remain that way and I really have no clue why I hauled them from the other end of Puget Sound, let alone all the way from Nevada. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is one of them.

The problem I had with it gelled when I saw another reviewer compare it to The Celestine Prophecy. ~snap~ That’s it! I did read that one all the way through many years ago, but only because a guy I was newly dating raved about it and gave me a pristine new copy and I tend to get a little mushy when men give me books, and I was looking forward to deep discussions about all the spiritual-awakening-law-of-universal-truth stuff I was going to find. What a slog that book was, pushing my way through forests (or was it jungles? Peru, maybe?) and shootings and electrified fences and climbing to the tops of trees to get away from robot bears…no wait, I’m confusing it with Stephen King’s The Dark Tower for some reason, no doubt partly because my inconsiderate neighbors have had me awake since goddamn midnight-something. Another Monday with only a couple hours’ sleep because people are assholes.

Anyway. The Celestine Prophecy turned out to be poorly constructed and poorly written mush, as much a waste of my time as the man who gave it to me, one of those chickenshits who doesn’t tell you anything is wrong with the relationship, then dodges you for two weeks before finally breaking things off by email. Schmuck. That book I remember donating to a thrift store in Nevada, along with The Tenth Insight that I never even cracked the spine on.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was much the same, slightly better written but still monotonous. It’s been a while since I tried to read it, but it had to have been sometime since 2009, because inside its pages I found a lovey-dovey note from my husband that I was using as a bookmark. All I remember is get on the bikes, ride for a while, stop for coffee and breakfast, explain something about Life, the Universe, and Everything to the kid, ride some more, look at scenery, pull over, fix a sprocket or whatever, find a place to camp. Lather, rinse, repeat. This is a classic from some time ago and it has a lot of devotees, many of whom are people I consider spiritually wise, but I found the book dull as dishwater. I put it down one day and never picked it back up, but I’m happy to have rescued the love note.