My Sweet, Glossy Weakness

I don't know if it's obvious to you or not but I have a sincere love and adoration for magazines. Oh my darkest days, a stack of magazines has a sort of healing notion. They're shiny, they're full of shoes that I'll never be able to afford, dresses that I'll never fit into and make up that I'd never wear anyway. But fantasy is fun. Who doesn't want to be Jennifer Aniston wearing underpants and a leather jacket--if only for a minute?

My favorite magazines, in order, of appreciation:

1. Dwell: Here's what Dwell does for me, it makes me feel a strange combination of hope and jealousy and future-nostalgia and planning all at once. I want to grow up and live in a cool house/ apartment. Also, I am kind of a geek for floor plans and European design. And in this magazine, almost all of the houses that they go to are inhabited by a man and a woman who have two different last names. So they're either partners and friends who never did marry or they did marry and she kept her last name. Either way, I love the idea.
2. Cosmo: Don't judge me. As a feminist, I really should not love Cosmo the way that I do since it's pretty much all about how to land a boyfriend and then how to keep him sexually satisfied until he either decides to marry you or break up with you. But it's not like you don't have those mindless indulgences that may or may not barely conflict with your personal convitions. This magazine smells delicious.
3. Interview Magazine: My first draw to Interview, honestly came from the format. It's big, bigger than your average magazine. It's, like, 11x13" or something. It's great. And it's not perfect bound, just folded and stapled and I just love it. Also, I don't know about you, but I love a good eavesdropping. Stop judging me, would you? I'm just trying to be honest with you here. How can our relationship blossom when you keep holding it against me every time I bring forth my reality? Okay, then. Anyway, my favorite articles come in a He Said, She Said sort of format so that I'm more or less just noseying into their conversations. All of the articles in Interview are really just conversations between two people. And not an unknown reporter and someone famous like usual. Like, the most recent issue is an article about Carey Mulligan by Susan Sarandon. That's cool stuff, man. My favorite article was about David Benioff by Jason Bateman. Also, the photography in this magazine is phenomenal.

That's all. What are your favorite magazines?

I freaking love magazines.

And I probably freaking love you.

What are you reading?

During the last few months of 2009, I was doing a hell of a lot of reading. I got very excited about all the reading that would happen in 2010 and I was going to keep track of everything that I read. Well, I reported on Brief Interviews with Hideous Men and then that was it. But to keep the record from piling up, let me tell you about the only two other books that I've read since this lovely decade began.

First up: The Kiss by Kathryn Harrison

I beg you to let me begin with how I came to obtain this book. I was at the library and I'd left my reading list at home. I was on a time crunch and wasn't really feeling like reading something big and important. It was the literary equivalent of jonesing for chicken nuggets. Not only that, but I was on a time crunch. So I went to the autobiography section (usually a very safe bet for a fiction-non-fiction lover like myself) and when I got a text message indicating that I was late to my next appointment, I grabbed a smallish book and checked out with the idea that anything I read can teach me something profitable.

This. Book. Sucked. I didn't want to finish it but there's something about me that won't allow that to happen.

It's the story of a girl who grows up without a present father. Then when she's an adult, she meets her dad and they begin a harmless sexual relationship. For the next 200 pages or so, she hashes out how powerful he was over her and how manipulative. I was really looking for something, any sort of light, any bit of responsibility or silver lining to a unique, absurd, painful situation. Nope. It just ends.

Next!

A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life by Donald Miller

Donald Miller, if I could just take a moment to write you a love-letter it would read like this:

Don,

You know how you soothe me. Do you know that when I lay in bed at night and read this personal note to me (that you so kindly had cover bound and for which you oddly requested I pay seventeen dollars), I'd drink you in. You'd pass through my eyes, down my throat and I'd feel you sit warm in my chest like amaretto. I want to go hiking with you, I'll ride a bike across the country with you (if you feel like doing that again--if you don't then I'll have to admit that I never really wanted to do that in the first place but I would have), I'd let you kiss down my neck like you tried to do with that other girl. I'll pretend like you weren't in love with that other girl. We could be a team, Don. You and me. You get me. I get you--is there anything that two people want for more in the whole world? I submit that they do not. How lucky we are.

Anyway, I hope that you Google yourself and this blog shows up at the top of the page and you feel compelled to make use of the comments feature.

Love,

Libby

"...to know there is a better story for your life and to choose something other is like choosing to die." If I may be so bold as to assign a thesis statement to A Thousand Miles, it'd have to be this.

I like how he doesn't come at this subject as an expert extolling knowledge on us as students. It's like he lets us in on his journal of what his life started looking like when he decided that he wasn't content letting life happen to him anymore. He was going to take control and he told us about how it went. Here's a secret, it wasn't all happy trails. Any good story endures conflict (that's another main theme). There was actually a considerable amount of heartache and sunburns but at the end of the day, I don't think you'll ever regret a life that you fought for.

In the few weeks that occurred since I finished this book, I've started fighting for myself and my life. I'm excited. In a year, you'll be looking at a whole new girl. Thanks, Don, for showing up at the right time for me.

And now I'm reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. It was so popular a few years ago that I really didn't want to read it. But I've decided to stop being a book snob. Sometimes a book is a best seller because it's actually good (but sometimes it's because Oprah talked about it).

I love you. I know I don't say it enough (except when I say it too much). Pass that message along to Don if you see him.

Libby

Why I'm Not Eating Meat

Alternate title: You Don't Know Me

I've been a vegetarian for (officially) three and a half weeks, or more specifically 24 days (unofficially and unintentionally for five and a half). Lacto-ovo to be specific. It's a personal decision that I will get to momentarily but I'd just like to take a minute, just sit right there (I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called "Bel-Aire") while I gripe a just little. I don't want to be one of those big-time complainers, so I'll try hard to dress this irritation in a comical drape because I fully understand that none of this is even remotely important in the grandest of schemes.

A lot of people think they know why and--interestingly, they all have a different idea. The following are not reasons why I have chosen the way of meat-free living:

Meat is unhealthy: On the contrary, it's common knowledge that meat is the easiest (and arguably the most delicious) method of obtaining the protein that you need to maintain a balanced diet. Conversely, there are many ways to prepare a vegetable that will deem it completely unusable by the human body. I mean, we've all been to the state fair, have we not?

In fact, I can attest to the fact that it's very difficult to maintain the same kinds of protein levels that you get when you're ingesting turkey sandwiches on a regular basis. Suddenly everyone lets me know when they go without eating meat--like I secretly expect everyone to make the same choices as me--and they always append the statement with, "and I feel so good!" To which, mentally of course, I respond with, "Are you kidding me? I can't hardly think straight and I'm not sure, could be that my glasses need a good cleaning, but I'm probably going blind." But, hey, if skipping bacon gives you happy feelings, feel free to explore those feelings.

Meat is murder: I think that animal-based protein substances are completely legitimate food sources. I would think that if God cared what we had for lunch, he'd probably say to eat the damn chicken, that's what it's there for.

Meat is icky: At my job you see a whole lot of ick in the realm of meat (when you slice it for a living, you see and smell all sorts of things), it's true. But I'll admit to you that my most disgusting food moment involved a box of rotten lemons. Everything is icky given the right time and environmental conditions.

Lent: Nope.

When I lived in South Dakota, Jamie and/ or I went to the Farmer's Market pretty much every week. We stuck to things like potatoes and honey and flowers and a few of the farmers I got to know, if not by name then at least by face. There's something that makes you feel one with the universe when munching on a kolorabi that came from someone that you had a short relationship with. Anyway, that really prompted a personal food revolution in me that got me excited about eating local and clean sorts of foods. You know, always fresh over frozen (and frozen over canned). Eating whole grains and leafy greens and seeing the change in the way that my body reacts to the foods that it's being treated with. Eating locally is really hard when you live in a small community, though. You'd think it'd be easier considering the vast amounts of farm land but I'm pretty sure that McDonalds has dibs on most everything that comes out of the ground. But spring time is just around the corner and with that, hometown farmers dying to share their peas and potatoes with me.

It was the weekly walk to the farmer's market (with the combination of vast doses of Anne Lammott) that made me very aware of my body. I'd feel my legs moving beneath me, carrying my torso and brains to this place where I'd be faced with beautiful things and the opportunity to take those beautiful things home with me to eat so that I could do it all again next week. It's simple, but man it was exciting to me.

Fast forward to about six weeks ago when my brand new co-worker (now, official Facebook friend) Lorenzo asked if I was a vegetarian (I naturally gravitate towards veggie-heavy sandwiches) and I responded with, "Well, not on purpose." Being very into personal challenges at the moment, I decided that I'd see if going veggie would be as easy as I always thought it would. I used the Lenten season as my official start-stop time (though this can, in no way be described as a religious-based fast) because I knew that I'd need a set stop date or else I'd end my experiment after a few whole day or crumble once the PMS set in (which, I lived through with only minor bumps and scratches and maybe half of a Shamrock Shake. Also, one time in Wichita, Arryn and I stopped at Spangles. Don't judge me.).

I do feel good, though. Most days. Getting protein in other places has been a serious challenge and there is an obvious difference in my mood, energy and vision. But instead of going the easy route and just eating the damn chicken, I have been doing research. This is where I discovered all sorts of new foods and sources of protein. My most recent favorite being Quinoa.

Why am I a vegetarian? It started out as a personal challenge and has morphed into an awareness of the effect that my food has on my body. I have no political, spiritual, personal, ethical, or moral qualms about eating meat. I've still got a lot of it in my freezer. A lot of my best friends are omnivores.

"And since you're gone you're just another day. Ah, how do you sleep?"

Ordinarily, I am very against afternoon naps. That is, for myself anyway. I have nothing against someone who needs them--I understand it. Few people love being in bed as much as this girl. But I can't handle them for myself. The reason for this is threefold:

A. I feel like I've wasted a section of my day. I usually feel like I opted to, more or less, delete an hour or two from my whole day. Obviously, watching Tyra is a much better use of my time and energy.

B. Nap dreams are the worst freaking dreams and I always wake up feeling like I've actually been flattened in some way. After eight hours of sleep, in the morning I wake up feeling alert and light. After an hour of afternoon slumber, I often times wonder if someone's been squishing my face into the pillow.

C. I'm a lot like a toddler in that if I sleep all afternoon, I won't go down at all at night.

But today was an exception to the no-nap rule and every reason for its existence. I woke up at around 2:00 am and could not go back to sleep for the life of me. I dozed off at around 6:00 but had to wake up half an hour later to get ready for work. This is the second time in as many weeks that I have woken up at a time when many are just then going to sleep. It's starting to get old and it's only happened twice.

So far.

Icicles and Pocket Change

I have this friend who used to leave his pocket change in playgrounds for little kids to find. I can only imagine the finders were more than thrilled.

Yesterday I was walking to work and saw a huge icicle snap off of a roof and crash to the ground. I kind of just stood there--excited. What are the odds that I would possibly be looking in that direction for that split second that it took for it to happen. In this whole world, I happened to be in the one, tiny spot where this gigantic icicle decided to drop to its death in shards. It was cool. It felt like a treat. Like when little kids find pocket change and feel rich.

My Vogue Interview

I'll freely admit that it was my girl-crush on Rachel McAdams that prompted me to buy this month's copy of Vogue.

I was always pretty neutral on the subject of Ms. McAdams until I read an article a few months ago that followed her to a book-club meeting in Toronto. I'm helpless against avid readers. Even female ones. In this article I learned that she chooses public healthcare over privatized (in Canada--where there's such an option) and I think that's just plain cool.

The format for the Vogue article was inspired by the Keel's Simple Diary that I want/ McAdams writes in every night before bed. Being the copy cat that I am, I'm going to borrow the format that Vogue borrowed from Keel's. It seems fair enough, right?

Your Day Began: (Only choose one)

( ) Tapping the snooze alarm more than twice

(X) With a healthy on-the-go breakfast.

( ) Scrambling to get to work on time.

Most days that feature impending work, I'll hit the snooze alarm for over an hour--trying my damnedest to put it off. But let's be honest, that always, always leads to the third option far more often than I would like to admit. But this morning, I got out of bed an hour and a half early, had a shower, dried my hair, applied make up (!) and took a banana and a bag of almonds on a walk with me to the deli. I was so proud of myself and vowed to have a day full of healthy, clean eating. That plan worked out alright until I suffered a mind-stabbing headache and used three glasses of Pepsi to squelch it. It worked, but think of all the sugar intake.

You are Seeking: (Only choose one)

(X) The most perfect bag

( ) Bread baking skills

( ) Mr. Right

SWF seeking messenger bag with modern, adult flair. Grey is preferable but will work with other colors. I'm on the fence regarding my baking career. To continue, to abandon. That's the question. I know that I could get better if I tried a whole lot more but, to be completely honest and a little bit lazy, it's just messy. And I can't get bread to have that nice, chewy texture. It's always mealy and never raises enough. And Mr. Right... not even a question.

Your Perfect Day in: (describe)

1983: Most of this year was spent in utero, on my head. It makes me dizzy to remember it.

1995: Let's see, what was going on in '95? My class went on a field trip to the Wichita Zoo and at a rest stop there were pictures of Timothy McVeigh, who was still on the loose. Way to freak out a group of 6th graders, eh? Million Man March launches on Washington. My teacher, Mrs. Poole, called off class for an entire day in October so we could learn the OJ Simpson verdict. Then we had a lesson on the difference between "guilty", "not-guilty", and "innocent."

My perfect day revolved around taking spelling tests (which I never, ever failed), and studying geodes and then walking home and playing in our play house until the sun went down and mom called us in for spaghetti.

2002: I graduated... we spent a lot of time renovating our house and watching HGTV. The best days involved sleeping in very late, driving--anywhere that I possibly could and watching Friends on Thursday nights. I would rearrange plans to watch that show.

Your Perfect Day, Today: (describe)

Early to bed, early to rise. That's how I like to roll these days. Wake up early, go to the library, hit the coffee shop for hours of comfy reading and writing. In a perfect world (which is what I'm describing here), I'd walk over to Amic's for couscous and sangria and then hang out with Genesis and Amos. This will all happen in 63 degree weather.

That Special Someone:

( ) What special someone?

( ) Which special someone?

(X) No comment.

The other day at work, I announced that Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday. It's true, it is. I like Valentine's Day more than I like Christmas. That topic is for another blog on another day. But my friend, Sarah, said "Well, but you've never wanted a boyfriend." Initially, I felt like that was a strong over-idealization but I think that really is what it's about. There hasn't ever really been a time in my life when I wanted a boyfriend for the sake of having one. Back in the day it came down to the fact that I didn't think anyone would want me, anyway, so I didn't even consider a boyfriend an option (that's sad, sure, but in retrospect it really saved me from a lot of mess and complication). These days I really do believe that I'm quite the catch. I'm no Rachel McAdams but, really, who is? I've spent the past six or so years getting to know myself on purpose. In that, I've learned that I can carve out my own identity and that in doing so I'll find more fulfillment than I could ever get from another person. Subsequently, I know that I have a hell of a lot more to offer than a person who is looking for an identity anywhere else. Therefore, I'm not bitter about my lack of lackey. I'm happy to have Valentines Day and a day specifically designed to love. And, sure, it's true, you can love any day of the year but how great is it that we get a whole one devoted to it? I think wearing black on V Day and hating it because of one's lack of snuggle buddy is pretty much the most selfish way to spend a day devoted to love--but again this isn't the place for that. This is just the place to say that while I would love some lilies delivered to my house--I know myself and I like myself and I'm more than happy to continue to do so unless and until someone else wants to do the same next to me.

To Embrace Change Means:

Supporting Obama? Haha. I kid, I kid (not that it would hurt). Change in my life has always been signified by a serious hair change. Cut. Color. Parting it down the middle... My current change is the absense of change. Sounds silly? I've been coloring my hair since 8th grade and right now it's the same hair I was born with. And it's beautiful.

If Life's a Party, You Can Be Found: (make a list)

Sitting at the dining room table or on a couch visiting with whoever seems to be in the vicinity.

Topping out at 3/4 of a beer.

Over grazing the vegetable platter.

What Your Fans Say:

Well, that's what the comment section is for.

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men

My first book to be crossed off The Great Book List of 2010 was a good one for me, I think.*

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (1999) by David Foster Wallace was a unique collection of complex and oftentimes endearing, sometimes bizarre, short stories. This was the first I've ever read of Wallace's. I can tell that I'll become friends with many more of his works.

I think I was most impressed by Wallace's striking writing style and impeccable humor--like every story was a project. For example, the very first story of the book, A Radically Condensed History of Postindustrial Life, is about two and a half pages long but happens to be collectively contained in one sentence. It is in no way fluid and is told in a back-tracking, distracted voice. One sentence tells the career history of a man who may or may not be lounging on the deck of a pool.

My personal favorite stories, Adult World (I) and (II), enter into a marriage that is learning to become itself. It's about a wife who's finding out about herself and her husband via painstakingly realistic insecurities. As with every other story in the collection, the struggle manifests itself in the bedroom--in this particular story, most of the wife's hesitation and angst is centered right there on the head of the husband's pink, raw penis. Wallace found a way to climb right into the mind of a woman pretty clearly. Being a woman, myself, I felt like this character was written more or less flawlessly. Perhaps mind-boggling insecurity isn't something saved for females, alone. She and I share the gift of the over-think. It started with the imagination of a marital problem which then led to imagining the source of the issue (which of course had everything to do with herself and nothing to do with him) and eventually leading her to resolving the conflict at hand. In realistic fashion, it takes the wife to places (mentally and physically) that we all know that she'd rather not go. In regards to story telling, though, Wallace never ceased to deliver. In Adult World (I), he tackled the story in a stark, traditional if not businesslike manner that presents the characters, tension and struggle in no uncertain terms. He continues the story in Adult World (II) in a completely different manner. The hurried resolution is written in hastily scrawled notes and outlines (and personal notes to self) that, one would assume, the writer would go back to, fill in the blanks, wash over with a broad brush of continuity and we'd all get along just fine and never even notice the process. But we're left with a huge, satisfying comedic mess that we're happy to pick through.

But on to the brief interviews. Included in the 23 chapters are four entitled Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. These are, as shrouded in thin mystery, exactly what they sound like. Sound bites and stories as told by men in an interview. For the most part, we never know what was asked by the interviewer, all we are privy to is the response from the "hideous" man. Much like overhearing a phone conversation. There is pause for a question and then the man goes on to speak in his own tongue to tell his own story. I found myself constantly impressed with Wallace's choice to speak on behalf of these gentlemen in, generally, a very distant manner. As if releasing one's own demons was on par with filling out a loan application.

We meet a lot of men. One man shouts the same uncontrollable, absurd phrase every time he orgasms. It's embarrassing enough that he truly believes that no one could love him despite it. Another man discusses meeting a woman in an airport who had been truly scorned by a lover. He does what he can to describe to us how his heart went out to her, his genuine pity and desire to comfort her. It is eluded, later, that he has sex with her despite thel sincerity.

A lot of men, yes, but not one of them hideous. Not to me. But, then again, it's hard for me to hold anything against an honest person--even when faced with the most heinous admission. People can be their own worst critics, it seems, especially regarding such untouchable subjects. These men are never truly hideous, rather, they approach themselves with a certain measure of shame. As do us all at one point or another. Addiction. Loneliness. Desperation. Narcissism. I have a theory that we all struggle with at least one of these at any given time.

What is it about the sex? Why am I (I suppose that I can only speak on my own behalf--though I assume this could easily be yours) so very drawn to it in my literature and shouldn't I be repulsed or defend my taste and decency? I don't think so. There is the novelty, of course. There is the obvious taboo. But there's got to be more to it. As a writer, you're hard pressed to find a scenario as revealing and honest as a moment such as this--a confession, an omission, even a lie. Once the pants are gone, regardless of the task at hand and regardless of the lies that may be told or the lighting or distractions, there is at least one honest glimpse into the character. A guy who can only be turned on by a partner wearing shoes (absent mother), a woman who can only come on top (control issues)--and then there's the really kinky stuff that (while I won't get into it here) is much easier to diagnose. I dare you to write a quality sex scene that doesn't have to do with something much, much deeper. It can not be done.

Wallace used sex and confessions, footnotes and sidebars as an introduction to self-honesty. I was highly impressed with what he could do with the words he chose for this collection and I'm curious to see how John Krasinski chose to adapt it for screen in the very near future.

*I apologize if it made you blush that I used the following words: "pink", "come", "penis", "masturbate"**, "top", and "narcissism".

**"Masturbate" was actually edited out, but the sentiment remains.