This past week has kind of blown my mind. I met two charming men, both authors, nothing alike, but each fabulous in his own way.

On Tuesday, I met Marc Acito at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop where he was signing his new book, Attack of the Theater People. I got a big kick out of his first book, How I Paid for College, so I wanted to be sure to get his new book and meet him when I had the chance. His writing is so damn funny, so it was great to find out that he’s just as funny in person. Plus, he’s friendly, adorable, charming and immensely easy to talk to. I floated back to work on huge happy clouds of delight after meeting him.

On Friday, I met Dinaw Mengestu, the author of The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears, which was the Seattle Reads book this year (and one of the books I reviewed in an article I wrote for Seattle Woman magazine last summer). Was Mr. Mengestu charming? Oh my, yes. And articulate, thoughtful, funny, humble and so damn smart. The talk he gave at The Seattle Public Library last night was probably the best author event I’ve ever attended, and as you can imagine, I’ve attended quite a few. Meeting him before that event was an honor (and a great deal of fun, too — thanks, Linda!). My friend Misha wrote about Mr. Mengestu over at the Book Group Buzz blog. Check out her excellent post and, yes, the fine, fine photo.

Thanks, guys, for being such wonderful writers and such charming men. You helped make it a wonderful week.

Or as I told my snarky sister-in-law recently when she saw I brought my own margarita mix, tequila and limes to a Mexican-themed party instead of partaking in her sticky-sweet pre-mixed strawberry margarita mix (I like a classic on-the-rocks, okay?) and called me a food snob (not for the first time—that was when she asked for ketchup for a heavily laden goat-cheese and prosciutto brunch dish I made and said I probably considered her request gauche, which I adamantly did not deny, and thank God for Joe’s smooth negotiating tactics or the brunch may have deteriorated into fisticuffs) ”I’m just generally a snob about everything.”  I wonder if she caught the “when it has anything to do with you” in my salt-rimmed smile?

 

Joe and I are Foodies, we don’t deny it.  Some might call it being a food snob, but a Foodie sounds so much cuter, and less harsh; rounder, you might say.  We enjoy eating at what might be considered  trendy restaurants, always buy fresh, good quality ingredients, (no matter what the price; if it’s what I want and/or need I’ll get it) and I have a bit of a reputation for not holding back when I cook. We belong to a dinner club,  I subscribe to three different cooking magazines, own around a hundred cook books, and love, love, love my shiny red food processor and matching standing mixer that glow with pride on the kitchen countertop right next to the glossy red knife-holder-man stabbed by my professional chef’s knives. Feeding friends and family food that makes their eyes roll back and a little happy drool slide out of the corner of their mouths makes me beam. It’s my passion and one way I can really let them know I love them.

 

The other day though, we may have gone too far.  A couple years ago we went to Germany for Christmas and took a little unplanned side-trip into Switzerland where we ended up dragging our frozen, tired bodies into the warmest, friendliest Italian-Swiss hotel.  We ended up having the best meal of our two-week vacation there that night, quite possibly the best meal of our entire year, served by dreamy looking Italians. They made their own balsamic vinegar at the restaurant—a viscous, almost raisin-like, yet not-too-sweet concoction that didn’t even compare to even the nicest bottle we’d ever had back home.  After dinner we saw they sold bottles of this magical elixir, so we splurged (the equivalent of maybe $25) and bought one.  We made it last almost a year and a half, and have since been trying to find something similar here. We even tried contacting the hotel  via email to buy more, but never received a response.   Every time I come across a balsamic I haven’t seen before I’ll slowly tip the bottle to see or feel its viscosity, only to be woefully disappointed every time.  Then Saturday we discovered an Oil & Vinegar store.

 

After waddling (being a Foodie has sadly taken its toll) our way around dipping little croutons in sample dishes of herbed vinegars, and flavored olive oils, Joe found himself sampling a 12-year old balsamic.  Tasty, but not quite there.  One of the (many) helpful sales people noticed our interest and lured us into trying a 30-year aged bottle.  She carefully doled it out like cough-syrup into tiny plastic spoons and watched our eyelids flutter as little dollar signs lit up her own eyes.  Yes!  Our quest was over!  Naturally we had to buy the little guy (3.86 ounces) and take him home to live in the highly revered vinegar and oil cupboard.  The attendant went into the back and brought out a bottle and told us the price. We’ve never even bought an expensive bottle of wine that costs this much!  But after a little far-flung justification (it’s my Mother’s Day gift… we’re Foodies, by God!…can you just imagine snarky sister-in-law’s face?—which is what really pushed me over), we proudly plunked down our debit card and claimed ownership of our Il Balsamico, while the entire store cheered and raised their little sample cups; Salud!

 

The only regret we have is that continuing our shopping expedition everything that would have seemed expensive before was suddenly quite reasonably priced.  Joe, this hand-tooled red leather purse is only a little more than a bottle of vinegar!  Go ahead and buy that cool shirt, it’s not even half the price of a bottle of vinegar!  Call us food snobs if you will, but we enjoy life and know how to laugh at ourselves.

is DIET. I hate to use that word. It’s such a stupid word, full of shame and resignation. But, when I try to use other words for it, I just sound like an idiot. I’m not on a diet, I’m eating less. I’m exercising more. I’m watching what I eat. I’m making better choices. See, they all sound like lame euphemisms for the sad fact that I’m trying to become less fat.

So, I’ve been following the very simple approach of eating less and exercising more, without following any specific diet plans or rules or guidelines and it’s actually working, which means I can fit into some older clothes now that I haven’t worn in a while. I’ve lost just a little bit of weight, but it already feels like a huge improvement and is motivating me to stick to my goal of losing ten pounds.

It’s not hard, but it’s not easy, either. My life is so damn full that it takes a ridiculous amount of effort just to find time to exercise each day. I’m not great about taking my lunch to work, so buying healthy food near work is challenging. There’s a Chocolati coffee cart on the floor of the building where I work, for Christ’s sake!

The four letter word will go out the window on our vacation, of course, because going to Paris and avoiding almond croissants would be insane, right?! Until then, pastries are safe around me. Finally.

I know there are a gajillion blog posts out there in the world about how busy everyone is, too busy to post, too busy to write, too busy to think, and I’m sorry to add to that total, but I guess there are now a gajillion and one. I don’t mean to whine or complain about being stupid crazy busy, but it’s just a fact of life at the moment.

Many of the things that are occupying my time are good things, like the amazing Swell Season concert at the Moore the other night (thank you, Lori!) and many school-related events for Lily (at both her current and future schools), but I’m spread a little too thin at the moment. The biggest time suck at the moment is also another cool thing — preparing for our upcoming vacation — but there are just not enough hours in the day to get everything done. I have stacks and stacks of mail to read, books and gifts to distribute to friends, and now a ton of forms to fill out for Lily’s new school.

And, to top it off, the extremely lame and sucky insurance company that has a stranglehold on our prescription medication benefits has let me down yet again. I know I’ll spend my entire lunch hour tomorrow trying to sort out their latest screw-up and will still not have the medicine I need for my sinuses. LOSERS!

Oh look. I’m whining and complaining after all! Okay, I’ll stop now and try to get a bit of sleep before I head off to work. See, I could have said something whiny about work, but I didn’t. I’m getting better already!

Joe and I recently discovered an independently owned barbecue-joint quite conveniently located, not just at the bottom of the hill from our house, but very close to where Joe’s bus lets him off after work–Casper’s.  When I’m too tired to rustle up some dinner on a weeknight and/or just too lazy to peel the sweats off and put some real pants on and get out of the house searching for sustenance, (or it’s Joe’s turn to cook),  this little southern-inspired supper shack is the ticket!  The dinners are slow-smoked and flavorful, the sides a worthy complement, (sweet potato fries-my lord!), and the banana puddin’ (we have yet to hear the ‘g’ spoken there) inspires poetry! Or at least a haiku:

Bubba’s Banana Puddin’

ooey gooey sin

Nilla Wafers sweetly drown

 

or  (alternate ending)

bite for bite my sweet downfall

 

Can ya’ll say yum?

Here’s a song that conjures up a couple of very different, yet equally surreal, memories for me.  The Wall, the album, came out my first year in college, so my first experiences with this particular song are more general, fuzzy, involving candle-lit dorm rooms, glistening-eyed students lounging around playing Pink Floyd at extremely high volume (as it should always be played) somehow managing to be way-laid back and ultra-intense at the same time.  Kind of like Pink Floyd themselves, now that I think about it. 

Then about a year and a half ago we were in New York City for a wedding reception, and a large portion of the guests were staying at a hotel across town from where the party boat was docked, so the bride arranged a fleet of towncars to pick us all up and transport us to the site.  As a late summer dusk was falling over New York, we piled into our shiny black towncar in all our finery and started weaving and bobbing through the honking mass of vehicles.  Our driver had a classic rock station playing and was enthusiastically singing along to all the songs in a melodic Dominican accent.  Then, Another Brick in the Wall came on, and I, being of the opinion that Pink Floyd should always be played loud, cried out “Crank it!”  which our very accommodating driver did.  The rest of the trip through the heart of New York, the entire car sang every word of the song at the top of our lungs while we four Seattleites swiveled our heads left and right, back and forward, trying to see everything we could of the city.  When we stepped out of the car we were all just pumped!  Like I said, it was surreal.

Last night a friend of ours, John, was playing with his band, a fun cover band aptly named The Art Thieves, just a mile away from our house at Joe’s old grade school.  Loyal friends and supporters of the arts, and armed with the knowledge a few of our friends would be there as well as a bar, we went.  It was an all-ages show, in what used to be the chapel when Joe (and John) attended this Catholic school,  but now converted to the gymnasium/theatre.  We walked through the doors and I instantly flushed with my I’m-so-out-of-place feeling, because the only person wearing as much black as I was the priest who was wandering in and out of small pockets of children and moms and dads, the patrons of this school and church.  But people were having a good time, dancing and socializing, so I relaxed and enjoyed the music, hanging out with the bad kids by the promised bar.  Thinking all the while, “I feel a blog coming on….”.

As I was visiting the restroom I heard the unmistakable deep-bass opening to Another Brick in the Wall.  The instant irony of John’s band playing this particular song in his old parochial school, filled with the ghosts of funny-smelling, ruler-wielding nuns (Joe has told me stories…) thrilled me!   Then as I turned the corner to re-enter the gym I saw a large portion of the crowd line-dancing.  To Pink Floyd!  The horror!  Do I see cowboy boots?  Is that the priest out there?  They need to be stopped, I told Joe!  Then as I watched them, their slow swaying rhythm, hearing their footsteps dully thudding on the gym floor in time to the music, I realized it was perfect; a double-irony (does that cancel the other out?). Here are all these good people, whole families, from little girls in spring dresses to moms in clingy sweaters dancing like automatons to this incredibly dark song.  I’m sure I clapped the loudest, in sheer (evil?) delight, as the last strain of the song faded away.  And later, as we slid out the door, (feeling a bit like crashers, because it had reached a point where we either helped these mostly-strangers clean up or leave), I looked up to the starry sky over the church across the parking lot, hand in hand with Joe, and thought, “Haven’t been struck by lightning yet!”

On a whim (I picked up the phone instead of screening the call) recently I participated in a telephone survey, where I was sent a particular magazine on a certain day, and asked to read the magazine for a minimum of 15 minutes.  I had to fill out some forms before-hand and afterwards, which had to do with consumer choices.  The next day after receiving the magazine I was surveyed via phone about products, advertising and a couple of the articles, but I’m afraid I probably wasn’t much help–Interviewer:  ”What brand of facial cleanser do you use?”  Me:  ”Uhhhhh. None. Wait, you mean like soap?”   It was a magazine I might pick up and browse through in a waiting room, or sneak a peak at in my parents’ living room (because if they spot you reading it they’ll assume you want a gift subscription to it for Christmas, so watch where your eyes roam or what your hand brushes or you’ll end up getting Reader’s Digest for the next five years, which I only figured out a few years ago does not include complete stories, but I totally kick ass at the Word Power), but not one I would ever buy (there was one little helpful make-up hints article where this guy was saying “your eyes should look like Gerber daisies!”). 

Anyway, there was one little blurb in the magazine on this woman who gives Taser Parties. I’ve been intrigued ever since.  It’s not like a party where you go around tasing people, as fun as that sounds, but about self-defense, set-up something like a Tupperware party, or make-up, or the most recent girl-party I personally attended, one that featured a mind-numbing (well, maybe not mind…) amount of what an old friend used to call “marital aids.”  A sticky good time was had by a-a-a-a-all! 

I was telling Joe about the Taser Parties and he promptly volunteered to be zapped.  At our hypothetical party.  Which I refused to do–I wouldn’t want to hurt my husband, even if he did ask!  But we did toyingly consider Nathan, figuring he’d probably already done it (rightly so, it turns out, because we asked if he would let us tase him, hypothetically).  Run, Nathan, run!!  But it must really hurt, or it wouldn’t be effective, right?  A couple years ago we were at a friend’s house where they had one of those heavy-duty, hand-held, bug zappers that looks like a racket and I was overcome with curiosity to see how much it would hurt to be zapped by basically a battery-operated fly swatter.  I was warned by all, but still had to see for myself and casually, cockily, bopped it on the end of my unshod foot where it instantly melted a hole in my tights and burnt my big toe, much to everyone’s amusement and my yowling surprise.  I have no desire to experience the awesome fire-power of the civilian-issue taser, thank you very much.  Give me a good marital aid any day, I say!

But in the right environment, I could see where the comfort and security of being armed with a taser would be a very welcome thing.  Plus, I’ve been racking my brain for the perfect Mother’s Day gift, and can so see my mom packing a leopard-print taser in its matching holster next time she visits the big-bad city of Seattle.

Guess what’s waiting for me at the library, thanks to the miracle of placing holds and then waiting patiently? Behold:

Into the Wild (DVD)

Michael Clayton (DVD)

American Gangster (DVD)

Margot at the Wedding (DVD)

Atonement (DVD)

Novels in Three Lines by Felix Fénéon (book)

Black Postcards: A Rock and Roll Romance by Dean Wareham (book)

Back to Black by Amy Winehouse (CD)

I love the library.

I found this article in Reuters via Glorious Noise. Apparently, Smoke on the Water is the greatest guitar riff of all time (if you poll the students at the London Tech Music School). It came in #1 on a list of the 25 top guitar riffs ever. From Reuters:

The majority of the 25 songs selected by current students of the London Tech Music School, were recorded in the 1960s, 70s and 80s. Only seven were recorded in the last 20 years.

I’ve included the list below, but only so you can pick it apart mercilessly, as I have. I know, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. But, it’s still so fun.

1. Smoke on the Water - Deep Purple 1973

2. Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana 1991

3. Walk This Way- Aerosmith 1975

4. Purple Haze- Jimi Hendrix 1967

5. Sweet Child O Mine - Guns N’ Roses 1987

6. Paradise City - Guns N’ Roses 1987

7. Ace of Spades- Motorhead 1980

8. Enter Sandman- Metallica 1991

9. Under the Bridge - Red Hot Chili Peppers 1992

10. Welcome to the Jungle - Guns N’ Roses 1987

11. Run to the Hills - Iron Maiden 1982

12. Walk- Pantera 1992

13. Johnny Be Goode - Chuck Berry 1958

14. Back in Black - AC/DC 1980

15. Immigrant Song - Led Zeppelin 1970

16. Wake Up - Rage Against The Machine 1992

17. Highway to Hell - AC/DC 1979

18. My Generation - The Who 1965

19. 7 Nation Army - The White Stripes 2003

20. Born to Be Wild- Steppenwolf 1968

21. Give It Away - Red Hot Chili Peppers 1991

22. Paranoid - Black Sabbath 1970

23. Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)- Jimi Hendrix 1967

24. Eye of the Tiger - Survivor 1982

25. Money for Nothing - Dire Straits 1984

It appears that the kids in London have never heard of a little group called The Rolling Stones.

Fourth through seventh grades I lived with my family in Japan—half the time off-base, “on the economy,” the other half on the US Naval base in Yokosuka.  My father has always been a Sunday-driver kind of guy, and being in a foreign country the drives we took there were always an adventure.  When we first arrived we had a huge Chevy Impala shipped over that he would delight in turning down into some narrow back alley, practically scraping the sides of buildings with its swollen American body, while we all held our breath praying that one of those little three-wheeled trucks didn’t come jostling its way toward us, leaving no escape.

 

One weekend outing I remember, quite vividly, was spent touring Japanese orphanages, where we were looking for a little girl to adopt.  They were all beautiful places, shrine-like in their serenity, with dark mahogany woodwork, and lush foliage in tidy courtyards, and adorable, round-faced girls with shining black hair shyly peering around corners at us.  My parents talked to the caretakers while I did my own shy blue-eyed peering back.  For some reason, my parents changed their minds and we ended up not adopting, and it was never mentioned again.

 

 A couple of years ago I was recalling this memory at a family gathering, and was greeted by dead silence.  It had never happened. I was shocked!  Apparently, perhaps feeling my privileged (spoiled) youngest child status threatened from some chance remark, or maybe from something I had read, I had this incredibly detailed dream which over the years had settled into the memory portion of my brain as truth.  I even remember telling friends about this potential adoption, wondering what it would have been like to have a new little sister, and how it may have re-shaped my personality.  Then I started to doubt all of my past memories; was it reality, a dream posing as reality, or even a passing thought that had snuck over into Truth Territory innocently whistling and scuffing its little sneakered foot in the dirt?    

 

I recently read A Long Way Gone, Ishmael Beah’s account of being conscripted as a child soldier in Sierra Leone, and got totally wrapped up in it, because his story is interesting, and I found it encouraging that he came from such a situation of horror and is using his book and experience to enlighten the world. (I still think so, by the way.) In my blissful ignorance to current events, I was telling Hannah how intense this book was, and she very tactfully suggested I do a little research as there had been some controversy about the truthfulness of the story.  But of course!

 

When I read a memoir, I keep my own personal skepticism in mind, for surely it can’t just be me?  I couldn’t give you a verbatim recount of the conversation I had at breakfast this morning, how can we expect someone writing about something well after the “fact” be expected to be entirely accurate?  I’m not saying that people who knowingly lie about things should get away with it by naming their outright fiction a memoir, because they’re out there. It seems like a given to me that publishers should always include disclaimers, and do better fact-checking, especially when it concerns a specific event.  In the meantime, the literary world can continue to have discussion groups, and write insightful books on the topic–I trust they’ll figure it out. (And when they do my personal insider, Hannah, will let me know!) I just feel maybe we should be a little more forgiving of the memoir genre itself.  Appreciate it for art’s sake or whatever.  And if I ever decide my life was ever interesting enough at any point to write a memoir, they’ll be a huge statement at the front of the book, maybe even part of the title:  Maybe 20 percent truth, most likely 80 percent bullshit.  As far as I know…