my tragic right hip

Chicklit is five today. Five! I remember when that sight was born and I was posting as one of the very first contributors. Ah, and one of the articles that I’ve written that I actually like, about Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses and Billy Bob Thornton’s movie adaptation.

Oh, and the first time I got negative press in Bookslut, for the review I wrote of Steve Martin’s truly awful Shopgirl, was also courtesy of Chicklit. Go Chicklit!

My poetry class continues to go well. Last night I read another poem of the 12 I had written (one for each month, love poems); it’s called simply “April.” Again, the teacher said, “It’s really strong.” Which seems to be his blanket comment for all of my poems, not saying it’s a bad comment, but wish that the class didn’t sit totally mute for a minute before saying anything about them. Last night they spent a lot of time talking about me, and my reluctance to read out loud before really talking about the poem. Oh well, it’s all good experience. I wish I had the time to send more poems out—it’s something I’ll promise myself to do this summer.

Heh. Westminster Abbey is now giving tourists a pamphlet explaining the factual inaccuracies of The Da Vinci Code. I’m consistently amazed at the inability for people to grasp the fact that this book is fiction, which means it’s made up, not real, invented, exaggerated, and all the other wonderful things that flow from a writer’s mind to the page.

I’ve been half-reading a whole bunch of books lately, and a few that I haven’t finished are: French Women Don’t Get Fat, a diet book disguised as a fancy French lifestyle book; Ash Wednesday, Ethan Hawke’s second novel, which is so embarrassingly bad that I can’t bring myself to finish; Runaway by Alice Munro, where I’ve started the first story about sixteen times and never gotten any further; and The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford, which I’m determined to finish, so more on that later. Ahem, probably much later.

Annnywaaay. One book I did manage to finish, which makes #27, is Paul Feig’s Kick Me. If you don’t know Paul Feig, it’s okay, he’s not actually a household name. Best-known as the creator of the truly amazing Freaks and Geeks, one of my all-time favourite television shows, Feig’s prose style is easy-going, and I really envy that. The book is so funny. I was reading it on the TTC coming home from work one night and was laughing so hard I had to put the book away for fear of serious public embarrassment. It’s such a wonderful, honest portrayal of just how plain weird you are as a kid. How you do the silliest things and how truly brutal adolescence can be—highly recommended summer reading!

I’ve watched a bunch of movies too, but only because I’ve been feeling seriously under the weather lately and have had less than no energy to do anything at all. Except kill the ants, of course.

As if my hair falling out doesn’t already suck. As if the fact that I can barely eat anything these days without a) feeling like I’m going to throw it back up again and b) having an upset tummy for more than a few hours, we’ve got ants. Not in the house yet, but they have invaded our front patio stone area (which I hate, by the way). So today, the RRBF and I bought some Ant Attack. Down with the ants! In my silly obsessive compulsive way, I’m standing outside, as it’s about to thunderstorm, standing in my socks and flipflops, watching to see how many are still scurrying around and stuff. Is the disease now affecting my brain?

…to admit that I love a good Greatest Hits record. Amazon just delivered Neil Young’s Greatest Hits and Sloan’s A Sides Win: Singles 1992-2005. I’ve been singing “Underwhelmed” for the past two weeks and took it as a sign that I should probably dump that song into my iTunes—except that I can’t because they’ve encrypted the silly CD and it totally scrambles after importation, which is seriously annoying.

The first book I abridged two summers ago, Little Women, has been on sale now since May. It’s kind of exciting to have not one but two ISBNs associated with a product of my blood, sweat and arthritic fingers. If only they would get the author correct—on Amazon it’s listed as Lucy Corvino, the illustrator, who has an important role in the production of the book for sure, but isn’t the author per se.

A couple of days ago our editor, Frankie, sent us all a note that the Wall Street Journal was publishing an article about the series. Unfortunately, the WSJ has a pay-to-read policy so I couldn’t read it until Bookslut posted a link to the article. Oh, it’s kind of cool to have a mention on Bookslut, but Jessica Crispin said something totally catty:

Wouldn’t you love to have that job? “So, what do you do for a living?” “I dumb down the world’s classic literature for the young and the stupid.”

Ahem, Ms. Crispin, I do have that job, and I’ll have you know that we didn’t think we were dumbing down the books at all. In fact, it was a hell of a lot of work to ensure that the shorter, abridged versions of all three books I’ve written now are not only similar in both tone and manner to the original, but also conserve the integrity of the classic. I think all of us that wrote them felt the same way. Perhaps the reading public agrees, as I step down from my high horse by noting, the 10 books have now sold over 500,000 copies. Not too shabby for “dumbed down” content.

A nothing day, but it’s a shame that so many days pass like this, in a normal, everyday routine of getting up, going to work, coming home and just being happy to see the sun, to feel the warmth on your skin, to ride your bike. There’s nothing special to remind you of how you spent the day, it just goes like water through your fingers.

And to see a trailer for a documentary on penguins. Oh. My. Goodness. How awesome is that? Makes me think about joining the Canadian version of Netflix, if I could only remember what it’s called—because they have a great selection of documentaries that you can’t get at your local Video 99. Now, porn, the video store near us has, in droves, but penguins, well, they’re not as, ahem, sexy.

I came across the campaign to Make Poverty History, promptly signed my name and then ordered some white bands. And no, not because Bono or Kate Moss told me to, and especially not because of silly old Sarah McLachlan, but because it’s probably the most important global issue of our time, right up there next to saving the environment. What do I want my generation to be remembered for? Generosity and good rock and roll.

Now I’m going to get on my bike with tears streaming down my face and go to poetry class.

We spent the Rock and Roll Boyfriend’s birthday looking for antiques. We went back to Aberfoyle so he could buy his 1969 Planet of the Apes poster from Poland. I bought a pair of 1970s lamps for our future living room. It’s only a year or two away.

Then we went for dinner with my brother and our good friend Kate. I lasted through dinner and then had to go home because my energy had collapsed by that point. He had a wonderful birthday though, and that’s all that matters considering this time last year we had one of the worst fights in our entire relationship.

Today is a holiday Monday. Which meant that because I did all the chores on Saturday, I fell into a sickness stupor. Hence, I watched a lot of daytime television, including Oprah. With Tom Cruise. And Katie Holmes. Ew. He kept kneeling on the floor and punching the wood. Ew. I’ll still see War of the Worlds, though. But you know, not to be negative about those in love, but these people are actors extremely good at acting. Yawn.

I finished Sue Miller’s Lost in the Forest. I think that’s book #26. The book got a rave review in the New York Times, and many people I know have been raving about it. The book is passable, and Miller’s prose reminds me a little of Joyce Carol Oates, that sort of American, easy style that reveals the ins and outs of family life exceptionally well. She has also mastered the flashback, and excels at intertwining many different stories from the past and present together.

On the whole, the book would make a good cottage read, something halfway engaging but perhaps isn’t destined to become a modern literary classic.