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I’ve been off sick from work the past week trying to find my blood. Er, well, finding the energy to try and find my blood might be a more adequate way of putting it. I spent most of the mornings at home puttering because we didn’t have a computer until today (yay!). The prednisone, in addition to making my cheeks puffy, is now keeping me awake. So, I get up around 6 AM and can’t get back to sleep. There’s only so much television you can watch, only so long you can sit on the couch before you think, “a walk might be good.” Or “maybe I can handle a matinee today.”

So I saw Match Point, which I found deeply sexist and kind of frustrating. Granted it’s Woody Allen’s best picture in years and I can see why so many critics liked it. I don’t want to give away any spoilers so I’m going to leave it at the fact that despite the overarching comparisons to Crime and Punishment and more than adequate performances the movie still falls flat.

Okay, well, I’m going to say one thing, if you’ve seen Unfaithful, then you can probably guess the part of the film that totally annoyed me. In the end, I crave emotional conflict on the screen, and the film never really gave it to me. It was nuanced and from an interesting perspective, but felt a bit outdated in terms of both the characterization (yawn Scarlett Johansson) and the dialogue.

Yesterday I went to go see Failure to Launch. Oh. Boy. By the end, I was kind of charmed, but all in all, it’s a totally mediocre film too.

Annnywaaay. While I was waiting for my friend before seeing Allen’s film, I browsed through the local bookstore in the mall. To this day, I’d never actually seen any of the Classic Starts in the store, and I have to admit, it was kind of thrilling seeing some copies of my own books up there on the shelves for kids to discover and their parents to (hopefully) buy. In fact, it was more than kind of thrilling, it was pretty damn cool.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I think Gemma Townley is the best living chicklit writer out there. Even better than Jennifer Weiner (and I heart her too). Even better than Marian Keyes (she kicks ass, she does). But it’s the level of sophistication that Townley’s books manage that keeps me coming back and thinking about them in comparison with the rest of the pack.

Learning Curves manages to be absolutely girlie; I mean it contains many, many of cliches known to the chicklit genre. But there’s an extra spark there in Townley’s fresh, invigorating prose that takes the book to a different level. It’s so absolutely well written, well plotted and clips along at a dazzling pace.

Not to mention the fact that Townley is so adept at creating cute, quirky but relevant characters. In this particular book, post-eco-“warrior” Jennifer Bell, whose father left when she was still a wee girl, infiltrates his company at the behest of her mother (wanting more information about possible shady deals). Her parents haven’t seen each other in years and one of the charming sub-plots involves what really happened in their marriage.

Of course, Jen meets a man—the delicious publisher Daniel Peterson and, of course, falls in love with him. And I know it’s the unwritten chicklit rule that the road to said romance must always be rocky, but how Townley makes it all happen remains both bright and refreshing. It’s not knowing that Jen won’t remain undercover for long in the MBA program at her father’s firm that matters, it’s how Townley achieves the emotional high points that take the plot from point A to point B.

All in all, a bright spot in my anemia-addled brain that can’t seem to finish a book to save my life. Despite all the things Zesty keeps telling me to read.

The cable modem is here. The internet is on. I’m back on the information super highway.

I have so much to say!

I took Zesty to the ballet on Sunday afternoon for her birthday. More of the year of the accidental tourist and the commitment to do more things out in the city. We saw the National Ballet of Canada perform three short George Balanchine pieces: The Four Temperaments, Apollo and Theme and Variations.

The first was the most modern of the three, and therefore my favourite. The lines were crisp and clean, there was lots of introverted footwork and the dancers wore very scaled back costumes. The second piece, the story of Apollo’s birth and subsequent relationship with his three muses, was also good. The final piece, the showstopper, Theme and Variation, was the most classical of the three, lots of tutus and plenty of dancers on stage.

So much of what I like in ballet is sort of what I like in literature too. Clean, crisp formations, smart positions, interesting movements, and the language of bodies used to tell a story. The most classical, and I’d hate to say, Victorian, elements of Theme and Variation, the bold statements made with grande battements and overwhelming set pieces, are the aspects that I resisted the most. There are things that I love about the history of the ballet, how every pointe and position harkens back to the court of Louis XIV, but I also like how now in my later life, I can see how the same history remains constrictive too.

I started asking myself how relevant ballet is anymore to anyone who might not be that into the idea of dance. They are the same problems the world of books faces every day too. How do we keep literature relevant in a world where Paris Hilton is ‘news’ and people are reading less and less? How will the National Ballet of Canada reinvent itself in its new venue for a new century? How do you balance the idea of tradition with the inevitable fact that culture is changing so quickly?

All in all, it was a wonderful way to spend a few hours on a Sunday afternoon. And then, I charged over to a friend’s house to watch the Oscars and laughed my ass off in the company of some of the funniest people I know. Talk about a cultural shift…from Apollo to pimps, almost too much for a 24-hour period.

Holy crap dial up is slow. How do people survive without being able to whip around the internet without the painful loading times and abysmal crashes that seem to happen once every five seconds.

We’re still waiting for our new computer. They said it would come in 7-10 days (today marks day 7). But until then I’m using my work computer and the so early 90s dial up that’s making me feel like I should pull out my grunge wear and don some combat boots while listening to bad indie rock by former Toronto-based “reggae” band One.

I saw Melissa Bank at the ‘ladies’ afternoon at the IFOA this year and bought a copy of The Wonder Spot shortly thereafter. Her reading was hilarious and her delivery dry. The passage that she picked was perfect for the setting and Bank did well with the audience too.

So much brouhaha came about this summer after Curtis Sittenfeld’s review in the Times, but after reading the book, I’m tending to agree with her thoughts. The book is more of a series of vignettes than an actual story. Each chapter is separated by even smaller little bits of writing that read like scenes from an excercise in a creative writing class. It’s hard to understand where Bank’s decision making came from in terms of how she chose to tell the story. The events she chooses to leave in and what she keeps out is somewhat mystifying. The book would have been so much better if she made the decision to plum the emotional depths of a few important parts of Sophie’s life instead of hovering somewhere on the surface.

The Wonder Spot moves quickly through Sophie Applebaum’s life; it starts when she’s about twelve and by the time the book has finished, almost thirty years have passed. Bank’s witty prose flits in and out of Sophie’s various love affairs and ineffectual career choices. She’s a very funny writer and has the ability to sum up a situation in a few short sentences. But it’s a style that might seem more fitting for a short story than an entire book.

I felt the same way about The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing. But in terms of The Wonder Spot, I really miss an overarching plot; it would have stopped me from thinking, “What is this book about?” Because in this case, it’s just not enough that it’s about Sophie’s life, because, well, nothing happens. She sort of ends up exactly where she starts, new boyfriend, newish job, and no real revelations. And in terms of her intellectual growth? Well, it too is very much like where she started: average and adolescent.

All of the important things that do happen, seem to happen in parenthesis. Her father dies in passing, one of her boyfriends (one that doesn’t even have his own chapter) dies, and she loses her best friend (of sorts), but we never see and/or hear of the emotional involvement. We simply move on to the next stage in her life, a new art class, a new boyfriend and an attempt to find a new job.

I liked the book to some extent, but I just wanted there to be more. I just wanted something, anything, to happen to Sophie that pushes her past bland optimism and dry wit.

Shockingly, both work and the super-fancy disease doctor agree that it’s best to let you stay home and try to find it. So that’s where I’ll be: on my couch getting even fatter from the damn prednisone and resting until my blood counts normalize over the next couple of weeks. Apparently, no one wants a bloodless Ragdoll around.

The hardest thing to get over though, is the feeling of defeat when it comes to the disease. I feel like I’m letting it win, and it kind of has, I mean I can’t even get up a flight of stairs without feeling so tired I want to pass out.

But the biggest lesson from all this? I’ve got to learn how to relax. Stress causes the disease, at least, that’s what I think, and I’ve spent my whole life either putting myself through stress or trying to figure out how not to deal with it by barreling through so I don’t look weak.

Do you think I can find the answer in the next two weeks? Anyone?

Over the past week, I’ve made a rather pathetic attempt to try and watch some of the Oscar-nominated films before I head over to a friend’s house on Sunday night for the gluttonous, but absolutely addictive, show.

I watched Pride and Prejudice after my super-fancy disease doctor’s appointment yesterday afternoon. I resisted. Keira Knightley? Not my favourite. And Jane Austen and I have a rather precarious relationship (one too many failed attempts at acing Victorian literature classes during university). But I was won over, dammit, I was. It’s a great little movie, perfect for a rainy afternoon when your blood goes missing.

Then our friend Kate came over and we had our Shrove Tuesday pancake dinner. I’ve given up sugar for Lent. I’m not Catholic, but I do like the ritual of Lent. Fingers crossed John Constantine doesn’t come over and give me hell. Ahem, no pun intended.

Annnywaaay. We watched Walk the Line. And I resisted. Then resisted some more. I have a mythical relationship with Johnny Cash (read poem I and poem II). In my mind, the whole idea of a Hollywood biopic about his life could only end in disaster. I mean, Ali anyone? But on the whole, it’s an entirely passable film. The performances are solid; both actors refuse to mimic Johnny and June Carter Cash. They approach the roles like they’re maybe even a bit independent of the people that inspired them and that’s why it works. There’s a slight bit of surprise that the film’s been nominated for so many awards, but of the current batch of crap-ass films that came out this year, I guess it holds up?

Oh, and I went to see Transamerica. Felicity Huffman is very good in a very mediocre film. She’s got my vote (well my heart’s vote; my pen’s going with Witherspoon. I want to win the cash!).

My second visit to the super-fancy disease doctor in as many weeks was kind of funny in a scary sort of way. They’re convinced that the wonky blood work results are from the meds. Instead of making me better, I’m just falling down a pretty dangerous path.

Ragdoll: “I just don’t feel like I’m getting any better.”

Super-Fancy Disease Doctor: “You’re not. We’re making you sicker.”

It’s a weird bit of irony I think that what’s saving my life is actually bringing me closer to the brink of death. Take this stat for example: My red blood cell count (your hemoglobin) normally runs at 125; right now it’s a 82.

Ragdoll: “I’m just so tired all the time. I can’t even walk up a flight of stairs without being totally exhausted.”

Super-Fancy Disease Doctor: “That doesn’t surprise me. It’s as if you’ve lost 1/3 of your blood over the last three weeks.”

Barring any gashing wounds I don’t know about, how exactly does 1/3 of your blood just leave your body? Where does it go? What happens to it? Did it just get up and walk out of my body when I wasn’t looking? And whose going to find it? How do I get it back?

The only other couple of times I’ve been anemic have been the result of surgeries (both hip-related, of course). The only other time the blood mysteriously disappeared was when I first got sick. But then I was a crazy dancer girl who never ate and thought Diet Coke was a complete meal. Now, I’m hearty — my blood shouldn’t go missing and leave cottage cheese thighs in its place.

Well, apparently, the advice of the insurance lady that I met with today is for my RRHB “because you’re renovating anyway” to put in a safe to hold our valuables. Considering we don’t own anything remotely valuable to put into a safe (so how’s about dropping the desktop in there sweetie when you’re not using it) with the exception of the two rings I’m now wearing ALL the time, what would be the point? Although I do think it would be uber cool to have an Ocean’s Twelve style safe tucked into the wall behind our, ahem, “amazing” art collection. Heh.