Joshua Ferris Feels Your Pain. Or Maybe Just Mine. But Quite Possibly, Yours Too.

It took me a long time to find this month's Book You Should Be Reading---there were many false starts and also-rans. I finally stumbled across a worthy contender over the weekend, which I finished last night: Then We Came to the End, a first novel by Joshua Ferris. Almost all of the action takes place in the offices of an advertising firm in Chicago, and you can tell from the opening paragraph that the author has done some hard time in a cubicle. In less skilled hands, this book could have turned into "Dilbert" disguised as a novel, but there's a surprising amount of heart and pathos served up with all of the deadpan humor. You can read an extensive excerpt at the bottom of this blog entry.

Shameful admission: I almost didn't buy this book, because I don't dig the cover art much. It's kind of a canvas of yellow Post-It notes, with the title and author's name Sharpied in red ink. And maybe I'm weird, but to me that smells like Cliche Corporate Thriller. Which this book ain't. You can see the much cooler British cover here.

And a final word about what the deal is with me and hardcovers: I like the idea of supporting young authors, especially first-timers, by purchasing their work in hardcover. My knowledge of how the publishing industry works is fuzzy at best, but I do understand that an author's ability to secure a favorable contract for Book #2 correlates pretty strongly with a respectable sales record for Book #1. So if I find a debut author who I think is talented or original or promising---someone whom I hope to see published again, and soon---I try to hook 'em up with a hardcover book sale.

Also, I know that someday I will own a lovely house, and the lovely house will feature a lovely library, and all of the bookshelves will be overflowing with hardcover first editions of my favorite books. That being said, I promise to hunt down a good paperback for March.

Books You Should Be Reading, January Edition

So, I spent all of my lunch hour crafting a witty post, chock full of awesome book recommendations for Sarah (and anyone else in search of a good read). And then, just as I was about to post, all my work was laid waste by some sort of scheduled Blogger outage. No doubt my just punishment for clinging to Old Blogger like the Luddite I am. But I simply couldn't punish all of you by wittholding the following book recommendation for even one more day: The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Vol. I. I was so moved by this book that as soon as I finished it, I immediately sat down to write a thank-you note to the author, M.T. Anderson. But you don't have to take my word for it (Reading Rainbow flashbacks, anyone?)---it won a 2006 National Book Award. Further encouragement for the journey can be found here and here. Also, when you finish this novel at 2 o'clock in the morning, and find yourself absolutely dying to talk to someone about it, please don't call me. I will be asleep. Instead, I direct you to the commentary by the fine folks at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast.

In some bookstores you will find this title woefully mis-shelved under Sci-Fi/Fantasy. I have no idea why---it's straight-up historical fiction, the fruit of four years of research by the author. No wizards or spaceships, I promise. Also, please don't be put off by the "YA" classification---this book has more challenging language and themes than most of the grown-up literature out there.

More later, after Blogger and I kiss and make up...

New Year's Eve, Karaoke, and the Not-So-Stunning Conclusion to the Saga of Engi'dear

Alas, it has been two fat months since my last post. To the faithful few among you who check in once a week or so, clinging to the faint hope that something, anything, will have changed on this blog---thanks for hanging in there. This post's for you.

So, last night Engi'dear and I got all spiffed up and went to a New Year's Eve party at the home of some mutual friends from church. Everything was awesome---the people, the food, the lethally alcoholic (yet delightfully fruity) rum punch. At some point, someone busted out a karaoke machine. I vaguely recollect joining one of our gracious hosts for a duet---Atlantic Starr's "Always." Feel the cheese, people! And you know what's even more unfortunate than the song selection? The fact that my singing skills rank somewhere below those of, say, William Hung. Bwahahaha! Bygones.

Eventually we took a karaoke break to count down to midnight and watch the Times Square ball drop. More general merriment ensued. Around 1:30, Engi'dear and I gathered our things and headed out the door.

On the drive back to the East Bay, the conversation was very stop-and-go. Little awkward silences began to pile up like snowflakes. Now, because I am by nature a shy person, I always feel personally responsible for these weird quiet spots. In my mind's eye, I imagine Smokey the Bear pointing an admonishing finger at me: "Only YOU can prevent conversational lulls!" Sometimes, when my brain has exhausted all possible small talk options, I'll go for the Hail Mary and ask something so broad, yet so personal, that it can only be described as a "college essay" question.

So I asked him what he thought was most different about the Engi'dear of five years ago, when compared with the Engi'dear of today. And he was game--he considered the question carefully, gave a thoughtful answer, and then lobbed it back at me. I said that I thought I was braver than I was five years ago---maybe not by much, but braver nonetheless. He asked me why I thought that was the case. And I said that I was beginning to understand that, in most cases, the potential benefits of whatever risk I was considering outweighed the potential costs.

And then he started making his ducky face. The ducky face is characterized by a furrowed brow, expanded cheeks, and protruding lips from which air is slowly expelled. I'd seen the ducky face on one or two other occasions---it usually indicates that he's making a decision about whether he should say something that's weighing on his mind. I've seen him get flummoxed, think better of it, and then switch conversational gears entirely. This time, though, I could tell he was going to soldier through and say what needed to be said.

We pulled alongside the curb in front of my apartment and he took a deep breath and started in on The Speech. There is only one Speech; it has been the same since the dawn of time. The foundation of the Speech never changes, although masters of the Speech may introduce stylistic variations on the basic themes. I've heard the Speech many times, and I've given it before, too (Okay, okay, maybe twice. And once was in middle school, so I suppose it doesn't really count). I appreciate the courage it takes to wade into the treacherous waters surrounding the Speech. I do.

But you'll forgive me if I zoned out a bit while he was talking.

"Confused...you and I...really crazy time right now...transition at work...value our friendship...wouldn't want to ruin...Um, does this make any sense?"

Huh? Oh, yes, of course. I totally understand. We're good.

"So, hey, I'll see you later this week?"

Um, yeah, I think so. (Unless of course I'm working late, or recovering from ebola, or leaving the country immediately to broker a peace accord in the Middle East. Any of which could legitimately happen between now and Wednesday.)

And when it was over I felt a little sad and a little stunned. It took me a long time to muster up the will to change out of my black evening gown and into my pajamas. The peep-toe stacked heel pumps came off with a quickness, though, so I must not have been totally out of my head with despair. ;-)

Now that the rum punch has worn off, I think I can expand on my answer to last night's college essay question. The difference between me now and me five years ago is that the 2002 model would have spent gobs of time and effort trying to analyze the situation and fix it. Because if you just try hard enough to change yourself, and become whatever it is you think lovable looks like, someone will eventually choose you, right?

2007 me is gentle but honest: "Oh, cupcake, he's just not that into you. I'm really sorry. Chin up, kiddo, we're rollin' on."

And right now I'm rollin' out to pick up a CD and some Korean food, because I was a very good girl--I blogged!

Happy New Year, y'all.

The Chocolate Weekend

My weekend rocked pretty hard. On Saturday I went to Tru spa to get a manicure with an adorably pregnant friend. (I secretly love hanging out with pregnant women, because they're the only people I know who need to pee as often as I do.) We had dinner at the Neiman Marcus cafe, and then I Muni'd up to the Marina to attend a chocolate party/benefit for CityTeam.

The chocofeast had already been raging for hours by the time I arrived---it looked and sounded a lot like a college frat party, complete with red Solo cups, but there were no kegs. Just 40 pounds of velvety Belgian goodness in various forms---candy bars, crepes, fondue, a chocolate fountain. The place was packed wall-to-wall with people, but I managed to find Engi'dear and some other familiar faces. We stayed until the party ended and helped clean up, so it was almost 2 o'clock in the morning when I finally made it back to the East Bay and climbed into bed.

But I still managed to make it to 9 am service on Sunday, as did Engi'dear. The church bulletin mentioned that there would be a tour of the Scharffen Berger chocolate factory in Berkeley after second service, and Engi'dear suggested that we go. I happily agreed. And while we were hanging out in the gift shop, waiting for the rest of our tour group to show up, he asked me for my number. Score!

After the tour, we drove back to E-Ville, where we had lunch. The conversation was really good---a pleasant surprise, given that I'm freakishly shy. (Kjerste has got my back on this.) And then the bill came.

I knew I had to do The Reach--that thing where you start making the slow-mo grab for your purse, hoping desperately that he'll stop you. I didn't want to assume that it was a date, but I also felt certain that if he let me pay for myself, it was a definitive sign that we were just buddies. And I don't want to be his buddy--I wanna be his girl. So I just about did the dance of joy when he said "Sorry, I'm gonna have to be that guy," and picked up the tab. I'm determined to keep my expectations modest here, but as gestures go, that was much more romantic and hopeful than, "So, with tax and tip, your half works out to $16.59."

He dropped me off at my sketchy apartment, which is probably especially jarring to him because he lives in Piedmont (Man, where were you when the Cohos were booking their reception venue?)

Just can't wait to see him Wednesday. Cutie.

Challenge!

I've been thinking lately that my life is a little light in the challenge department. And without challenge there can be no triumph. Or growth! So I've decided to get on board with Suziemusi's Fabulous Campaign and choose some mountains to climb.

Short-Term Challenge: I'm participating in National Novel Writing Month. This basically entails cranking out 50,000 words of marginally coherent fiction in the space of 30 days. That's about 175 pages, so yes, it's as crazy as it sounds. Fortunately, the emphasis is on quantity, not quality. I've convinced my sister to join me on this mad adventure, because she's a voracious reader and a great writer, and hey, the baby can change her own diapers for a month (right, Banana?).

Long-Term Challenge: A friend and former co-worker of mine spent months training for this year's Nike Women's Marathon. But shortly before the race, she and her husband received the happy news that they were expecting, so suddenly running 26.2 miles wasn't such a good idea. But she has vowed to run in 2007, as kind of a post-baby victory lap.

And in a moment of insanity or clarity, I told her I would run with her.

Never mind the fact that I'm not actually a runner. I can become one! I already have to run for my BART shuttle most mornings, so that's a start. Next year's race is in San Francisco on October 21, 2007. Is it even possible to go from couch potato to marathoner in the space of a year? I have no idea, but I'm sure as hell gonna try. So, if you see a sad-looking girl shuffling around Lake Merritt some Saturday morning, asthma inhaler in hand, don't laugh. Do stand by with your cell phone, so that you can summon emergency medical personnel to the scene.

The primary goal: make it to the finish line (where there will apparently be a handsome man in a tuxedo, handing out commemorative Tiffany necklaces to the finishers. This sounds like a fable that race officials tell the ladies to keep 'em moving, but it's true.)

The extra-credit goal: Match or beat Oprah's 1994 Washington marathon time of 4:29:20.

Cue "Chariots of Fire" theme...

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs

On Wednesday during lunch, I was strolling down Market Street carrying a bag of assorted and sundry goods from Whole Foods, including organic taco shells, Clover Stornetta sour cream, and a quart of milk---in a glass jug!---from Straus Family Creamery (Arethusa, I hear you. I grew up on Hamburger Helper and fast food, but I'm trying.)

As is often the case on Market, I passed many homeless people holding cardboard signs. For the most part, the faces were familiar, as were the written messages. There was some guilt. When you're carrying designer milk and walking past folks who may not know where their next meal is coming from, it's hard not to feel like a dirty yuppie. Anyway, one of the guys sitting on the street seemed a little off to me---he was too young, too blond, too freshly scrubbed. We locked eyes briefly and I felt compelled to read his cardboard sign. In neat lettering, with a ballpoint pen, he had written the following:

"I NEED A GIRLFRIEND."

I had to smile. And at first I thought,"Wow, that's pretty high up there on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs." But that would only be true if he was genuinely seeking "love and affection." If his intentions were more, um, carnally inclined, then that's way down there at the base of the hierarchy, with food and shelter.

Hope all of y'all are getting your needs met way up at the tippy-top of the triangle.

Smelly Cat

First of all, I'd like to thank all of you for your insightful commentary on "Quality Time." You've given me a lot to think about.

I think there seems to be a general consensus that both individuals in the relationship need to have reached a certain level of emotional maturity and/or openness to a lifelong commitment. Also---and this appears to be especially true for men---most folks expect to have completed their formal education and established themselves in some sort of career before they start seriously thinking about happily ever after. And all of that has been the case for generations. But it does seem to be taking longer and longer to reach that point (the average age at first marriage is now 25 for women, and 27 for men, which is the oldest it's ever been in America.) I imagine this is due in part to the fact that a graduate degree is fast becoming what a college degree used to be--i.e., a ticket for entry into the middle- and upper-middle classes.

So it's taking people longer to finish their educations and move from proto-adult mode ("Look, Ma! I can take care of myself!") to mature adult mode ("I can take care of myself and other humans"---typically a spouse and/or children, but this could also mean dependent parents, siblings or extended family).

I'm definitely a proto-adult right now, because I'm really only responsible for myself. But I'm eager to transition into the land of mature adults. Jury's still out on where Engi'dear fits in this schema, but he's all done with grad school and really loves his job. Stay tuned...

Yeah, so obviously this post won't be about a smelly cat. But I did love Phoebe's rendition of that song on "Friends." And with that non sequitur, I'm going to segue into my contribution to Kjerste's smells and emotion topic. I've decided to focus on the smells of my childhood days in daycare.

Smells Like Disappointment: Off-Brand Chocolate Sandwich Cookies

I spent a few years with an in-home daycare provider named Becky. Every day at snack time, I would hope against hope that the cookie tin would contain real Oreos. But instead they were always generic knock-offs, and usually stale. Some good things about my time with Becky: She taught me to play chess. She let me watch "Punky Brewster," even when the smaller kids wanted to watch cartoons instead. She tried in vain to get me to stop biting my nails.

Smells Like Frolic in Sunshine: Honeysuckle

During part of my fourth grade year, I was enrolled in an after-school program in Palo Alto. I spent the afternoons outside tearing around on the playground, and when dusk fell I would come inside and read Garfield books. The chain link fence that surrounded the playground was covered in honeysuckle, and sometimes my friends and I would bury our noses in it, or chew on the little green plant shoots. Good times.

Smells Like Love and Guilt: McDonald's French Fries

Sometimes, when my Dad had to work late, I would be the last kid at the center when he came to pick me up. He would often find me playing a half-hearted game of checkers with some staff member who wanted to go home even more than I did. I would be positively ravenous, so we'd stop by McDonald's before driving home to our (then-new) house in San Jose. I would ask if I could just have a large order of fries for dinner, no burger. He would enthusiastically say yes, and he would go on to expound upon the nutritional merits of the lowly, unsung potato. And then we would both feel better.