Magical.

from here.

I’m not judging…but that’s completely ridiculous.

Other people dislike Valentine’s Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving…you get the idea. I like to cultivate a moderate level of apathy for most of these holidays, so I can focus on the important ones like Boxing Day and Australia Day (the unsung heroes of the holiday calendar, to my mind). But I hate, hate, HATE New Year’s Eve. I am the Scrooge of New Year’s Eve. It’s shocking – since it seems to be the one day everyone is encouraged to roll around in glitter – but there it is. Take Groundhog’s Day and push it back a month or so and you have my own personal 9th circle.

In spite of this overwhelming hatred, I do sometimes participate in the resolutions. (Don’t read anything into it; I’ve been known to indulge in Lent, too.) Some of you will remember that I posted a list of goals for 2020. That’s similar to a list of resolutions, I suppose, except I’m going to go ahead and call them action points, because I don’t want New Year’s to get any funny ideas and think we’re becoming intimate. At any rate, one of those action points was to read 101 novels in the next ten years.

I picked that as an action point for a couple of reasons:

1. It was mentioned in a BBC adaptation of Emma. Emma set herself the goal because she was being petty and competitive. That seemed reasonable/noble at the time and I’m impressionable. (Sadly, this is the primary reason. Don’t judge me.)

2. Most civilians assume that anyone getting her Ph.D. in English has read ALL OF THE BOOKS. All of them. That’s a pretty tall order. I’m not a vampire, you guys, and therefore I don’t have that kind of time. Also I’m an early modernist. Professionally, I only care about Renaissance literature. Personally…I pretty much only care about Renaissance literature. (That’s not actually true, but just so we’re clear there is no possible world in which I am interested in the Lake Poets. It’s just not happening. I’m glad that other people are interested, though.)

3. Ironically, I spend most of my life feeling as though I’ve read approximately four books. Total.

So, 101 novels seemed like a nice workable goal. I mention my reasons for setting myself the challenge because it’s important to realise that there’s some sort of underlying desire to become a better person with all this reading. That leads me to the question of standards, because reading 101 gas station novels obviously isn’t going to do me any good.

Anyway, I’ve been keeping track (kind of, sort of, I think) of the books I’ve read since 2010, and in the grand tradition of English students in January I’ll offer said list up now (Bolded titles for the ones I particularly enjoyed/would recommend, but bear in mind only vaguely depressing books seem to fall into that category):

2010:

The Sea – Banville. Amsterdam – McEwan. On Beauty – Zadie Smith. Lolita - Nabokov. Enduring Love - McEwan. The Blind Assassin - Atwood. The God of Small Things - Roy. Emma - Austen. Mr.Pip - Jones. Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit - Wodehouse. A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian - Lewycka. The Book Thief - Zusak.

So, 12 books that I feel fairly comfortable counting towards my 101. Although even some of these feel like cheating. I feel like I must have read more than these, but I can’t remember and the only other books I can recall are The Amber Spyglass (Pullman; children’s book) and The Tipping Point (Gladwell; not a novel) and I’m pretty confident that I shouldn’t count these.

Here’s 2011:

1984 – Orwell. On Chesil Beach - McEwan. The English Patient - Ondaatje. Wolf Hall – Mantel. The Shipping News - Proulx. Never Let Me Go - Ishiguro. Middlesex - Eugenides. Oryx and Crake - Atwood. The Edible Woman - Atwood. The Year of the Flood - Atwood. The Clothes on Their Backs – Grant. The Penelopiad - Atwood. Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim - Sedaris. A Thousand Splendid Suns - Hosseini. The Secret History – Tartt. I Capture the Castle - Dodie Smith. The Comfort of Strangers - McEwan. Lucky Jim - Amis. That’s 18, before you count my questionables: One Day (Nicholls; is this just a trashy romance novel with a brain?); Blink (Gladwell; not a novel, also the type of book one buys in an airport); The Hunger Games (all three of them; Collins; strictly speaking a YA series but I LOVED the first one in particular); Good Omens (Pratchett and Gaiman); The Help (Stockett; enjoyed it, would especially recommend it to older female family members; not really sure why I feel like I can’t count it). All in all, 2011 was a far more successful year, in terms of reading. Well, presuming enjoying the books is a measure of success.

Here’s my issue. Why am I stressing so much about which books count? It’s not a question of enjoyment, because if that were the case then The Hunger Games would slide right in and I’d never admit to anyone that I’d ever picked up The Sea (not to be reductive or anything, but that book was stupid.) The ‘action point’ was 101 novels, and a friend and colleague of mine quite accurately pointed out recently that figuring out what ‘counts’ should be fairly simple. A novel is a novel is a novel (though I am certain that someone somewhere would happily start an argument with me on that point). I don’t have any problem admitting that I read books that are below my fighting weight (I’ve read all of the Twilight books, and when I was interrailing I read some of the trashiest trash anyone has ever encountered). So I’m not worrying about this because I’m trying to be a huge poseur. I think the concern is more that, having set myself the challenge, I don’t want to  wimp out; I want to challenge myself. So team: any ideas for what ‘counts’? What should the criteria be?

(Sidenote: for the life of me, I cannot find a youtube video for Jim Gaffigan’s “Recycling,” but I HIGHLY recommend you all look into it.)

But anyway, this new recycling thing. One problem with being friends with someone from Bellingham (hiiiiiiii Amanda!) is that all people from Bellingham are dirty hippies. And dirty hippies will openly mock you for owning umbrellas/drying your hair/using deodorant or Pantene Pro-V. But when it comes to recycling, it’s apparently GAME TIME. There’s no mocking so much as open hostility. On Saturday I got in trouble because Amanda found a diet coke can in the WARDENNIAL OFFICE trash can, since I am occasionally IN the wardennial office, it had to be my fault. (It was, for the record, EZRA’S coke can.)

So it came to pass that my overwhelming laziness was in direct conflict with my desire for a quiet life. And it turns out that my desire for a quiet life is stronger than my laziness. I agreed to start recycling, IF Amanda could come up with a recycling system that’s cute enough to be appealing.

So since I’ve finally caved on this, the foundation of hippiedom, I thought I should explore other hippie pastimes (ones that still allow me to shower and wear preppy headbands). In that spirit, I bought some ground flaxseed today. I’m not entirely sure WHY I did this, unless you count my freakish obedience (I read in Good Food magazine that it’s super good for you). But I have concluded, since it’s a ground seed, is brown, and looks suspiciously healthy while at the same time being generally flavourless, that it must be at least a vaguely crunchy purchase. And let me tell you, I was feeling pretty smug about the purchase until it dawned on me that I might be allergic to it. I don’t typically have a problem with seeds, but then BRAZIL NUTS are allegedly seeds, and a brazil nut is a surefire way for me to get an epi-pen straight to the facepiece. As a result, I am eating approximately four grains at a time, until I either a) determine for sure that I’m not allergic to the flax or b) build up an immunity to it (similar to Wesley’s immunity to iocane powder in The Princess Bride). The only minor difference is that a flaxseed immunity will be of very little use, should I ever find myself in a battle of wits with a Sicilian. Pity.

Nevertheless, I am for sure going to start demanding that people call me “The Dread Pirate Roberts of Flaxseed”.

Today let’s talk about being useful in a desert-island situation. I recently got a call out of the blue from Amanda. It went something like this:

Tovia: Hello?

Amanda: Hello, whorebag. (Editor’s note: Ah, pet names. Aren’t they adorable? Enjoy this insight into a functional, supportive friendship.) I’ve been talking to Dustin, and we just wanted to call and let you know that if we’re ever stranded on a desert island, you’re going to be eaten first.

Tovia: Um, pardon? Also, rude. Why?

Amanda: Well, it’s simple. Both Dustin and I have discernible survival skills, whereas you do nothing useful whatsoever. In fact, you’d probably be a liability because your neon/sparkletown wardrobe would scare off any potential prey.

That was essentially the end of the conversation, except of course for a few indignant noises on my part.

I would really love to say that that was the end of it, but my uselessness on our fictitious desert island home KEEPS COMING UP. Examples:

1. I sent Amanda a picture of this skirt to see if I should buy it (still haven’t decided, by the way):

What did Amanda say?

“Does it come in hot pink? Either way, you should probably buy it, since that’s basically what I picture you wearing on the island. Plus it will make you easier to find, when it’s time to kill and eat you.”

You can understand why I’ve yet to commit to purchasing the skirt.

2. We built a fort in Dustin’s flat. AND IT IS AWESOME. And when I say “we” built a fort, I mean Dustin and Amanda are entirely responsible for its structural integrity. I strung lights all over it and made foil stars to hang from the lights (which was GENIUS, if you ask me). However, according to Amanda, my interior decorating skills won’t save me on this stupid island, since TECHNICALLY electricity-dependent decor won’t contribute to our survival and/or rescue. Apparently Amanda fails to recognise the positive contribution ambient lighting makes to overall quality of life.

It boils down to this:

I’ll probably never get on a plane or a boat with Amanda and Dustin, just in case.

And for those of you who don’t have access to my facebook account, here is a picture of my AWESOME fort decorating:

Just in case you were wondering, the stickers on the sunglasses at Target have a will of their own and will aggressively poke you in the eyeball if you don’t pay attention. And now I have a corneal abrasion.

I’m not sure which is worse: the fact that I’m wearing an EYE PATCH right now (and it’s not even bedazzled, in manner of Lily Charles in Pushing Daisies) or the fact that I now have to admit that bad things happen at Target. My mum is out at the 24 hour pharmacy buying some sort of eye wash. (See Rebecca, at this particular moment I am stoked about the American obsession with convenience. I’m just going to pretend the entire country is catering to my overwhelming clumsiness:).) I briefly considered asking Mum to get me bedazzling materials, but she’s the practical sort. I didn’t think she’d feel inclined to indulge that particular whim.

Do you think the eye patch would make me a more intimidating Assistant Warden? I’m hoping I’ll only have to wear it for a few days, but maybe I’ll bring it back with me and use it when breaking up particularly rowdy parties.

1. I have started to learn the choreography (a little late on the uptake here) and SURPRISE! It turns out I am super white and have only 2 percent rhythm.

2. It requires going to Gasworks tomorrow and then TACOMA (shudder) the day after. That requires a lot of wallowing in traffic.

3. Ok that’s it, I’m just being a pansy. But it IS kind of eating away at my weekend. But, some concerns re: my laziness: the flash mob thing IS on my list. Also, it’s unlikely that I’m going to suddenly acquire MORE rhythm in the next ten years. Also, what if the flash mob fad wears off (probable)? What if this is my big chance to cross it off the list?

But of course…what if it sucks?

So, what do you guys think? At the moment, I’m thinking I’ll stop being a huge baby and at least going to the rehearsal tomorrow. And then if it sucks, I’ll just bail?

Today we went into Ballard and Fremont (neighborhoods in Seattle), for the markets. I am obsessed with the Pacific Northwest, you guys. I’m obsessed with the dude making balloon animals on STILTS. I’m obsessed with the little man selling lavender from Sequim. I’m obsessed with the guys selling blown-glass bongs. And I’m obsessed with the weird little stores that sell tobacco scented perfume and THIS BUTTON that I bought for you, Cole, for obvious reasons:

That’s right. That’s That One Pigeon You Hate, stalking you ON A SKATEBOARD. Okay and maybe it’s weird, but it’s also weird being stalked by a pigeon.

Except, I’m not a boy. Also I don’t REALLY think of driving a manual transmission as something that makes you a woman. (As a total aside vaguely relating to…gender?, I went to see Eat, Pray, Love with my mum tonight, and there was a [not particularly convincing] transvestite sitting right in front of me. One thing that distracting when you’re watching a rom-com is an overwhelming desire to pull off someone’s grody wig. THAT was an exercise in restraint, my friends.) Whatever, anyway, I’m excited to be learning a stick shift.

I SAW LAUREN AND HILLARY!!!! And it was amazing. The only bad part was that we didn’t take any pictures and now I’m sad about it.

I got my eyes examined, which would normally be uneventful, except they dilated my eyeballs. You know what’s hard to do when you’re mostly blind? Shop. I mostly just wandered around the store touching things like a weirdo. It turns out that you cannot discover a) prices or b) the size of shoes you want to try on by groping merchandise. That’s a little piece of knowledge from me to you, my friends.

What else? FOOD! I discovered a cookie that is vaguely similar to a Samoa (that’s a girl scout cookie, for my UK readers). And I’ve been enjoying all of the tastes of home. Home, where legitimate peanut butter flows like…water? Okay fine, that doesn’t work. Also Jojo (since I know you’re reading and wondering), you will be pleased to know that I have not yet had…a slurpee.

So anyway, here’s my thought for the day. As you all know, I’ve been spending a lot of time with people who are, shall we say…in their golden years? One thing I’ve heard a lot this summer (from various sources) is:

“I’m not doing that! I’m [insert formidable number here] years of age!”

And you know what? I flipping love that. I love the idea that at some point, you just acquire the right to behave exactly as you’d like. It sounds positively liberating. Except, why wait until you’re 80? I’m not saying that we should go around being buttheads. I’m not saying we should go around doing unreasonable things just because we feel like it. But I guess I am saying that we should be allowed to point it out when other people are being unreasonable.

Ok, it’s not my most eloquent musing, but still…are you picking up what I’m puttin’ down?