In Denfense of Book Buying

I love to read. Growing up, I used to read hunched over in this old pink chair my parents had in the living room, my legs draped over the side, my shoulders slumped into the book. I read everything and anything, including medical books, classic literature, dictionaries, my parents' crime novels and the Babysitter's Club series.

There are several things in this world that, money permitting, I would shop for nonstop: shoes, underwear, makeup and.....you guessed it, books.

My mother worked in a library growing up and we had unlimited access to the library. My mother is a staunch believer in using libraries and is horrified by my book purching penchant. However, what she fails to take into account is my obsessive habit of reading and reading the same books over and over again. I have read Bridget Jones's Diary at least 20 times. The Harry Potter series? Probably 7 readings each. Ann of Green Gables? Like, a billion since the age of seven. Almost every single book I own has been read at least twice.

Favorite books are like old friends. I love that when I'm under stress or nervous, I can pick up and old standby and merely open the book to any part (beginning, middle, or end) and know exactly what is happening. It's comforting to know these characters inside and out, to feel like they are part of my family.

You Are Now Entering the Twilight Zone

The drive back from Denver took forever. Not as long as the drive there (we took the senic route and a long lunch in Santa Fe--11 hours worth of car ride!), but still upwards of 8 hours.

I napped for awhile, read my book, ate gummi bears (red is my new favorite). But nothing could change the boring factor of this drive. And boring it is. I never realized that Colorado and northern New Mexico was so flat. Here in the central area, there's mesas and craggy mountains to break up the flatlands. But much of the I-25 between ABQ and Denver looks like the midwest--flat and boooooring.

Weathermen predicted a snowstorm, so we tried to make good time, but the snow started about two hours north of Santa Fe...and it was the strangest snowstorm I've ever driven through.

We didn't need the windshield wipers. Not once. The stow wasn't sticking on anything. The wind was blowing the snow up and around the car. The headlights illuminated the flakes and it looked like we were driving into a tunnel of snow, not a flake of which landed on the windshield. Actually, what it looked like was that old standby screen saver from Microsoft or the old Starwars movies. It looked like we were driving through stars, at light speed, hurdling through time and space to some unknown destiny in a glaxy far, far away.

But really, all I was headed for was home. And even though a huge part of me wants to be anywhere but here, a tiny part of my heart couldn't wait to be back.

Intermission

I think I've reached the intermission stage of moving. You know, that stage where you don't quite belong anywhere.

As of March 1, I will have lived in the great craphole of ABQ for nine months. Is it starting to feel like home? No. But Tucson is no longer home, either.

I am homeless.

Or, at least I feel like it. There is some deep desire in my being to have roots somewhere, to belong (obviously, my modern human heritage is not from the nomadic peoples), and I feel rootless right now.

Or perhaps, the problem is not that I lack roots. Perhaps my roots are spread out so far, I can hardly comprehend it. I have friends scattered across the Continental US, not to mention a certain individual who I love deeply who is battling the monkey pox and malnutrition in the DRC. And by friends, I don't mean someone who I know of---I mean friends, people who I speak to on a weekly basis (sometimes daily).

My net has been cast far and wide; to some degree, I believe I can call Phoenix, Seattle, L.A., St. Louis, Providence, DC, Naugatuck, Williamsburg, New York, Fairfax, Manassas and Tucson home because people who I love deeply reside there.

So at this intermission of my life, this lull between leaving my old home and making my new, when I am looking around me, digging frantically in the dirt of ABQ, nuturing my tree, begging it to take root, I need to pause and thank all the homes I have out there, the friends and family with their arms and homes open wide, loving me and supporting me.

You know who you are.

Thank you.

Praying to my Porcelain God

Somehow it is only fitting that the first time I drink to the point of illness since college is with my college roommate and instigator Barbara.

Barbara and I have had long torrid affair with alcohol, including run-ins with friends' fists, 1 am trips to the delis for pitchers of Bud Ice (yes, it does look like urine, but even worse, it tastes like urine) and even getting a friend of ours arrested once (totally by accident, I swear).

We started out in a nice little bar and grill where, overtaken by the spirit of Bond in the recently rented Casino Royale, I had the best dirty martini---just the perfect amount of olive juice and a very smooth vodka. Well, I've never been one to say that martinis should be sipped and savored, but I also usually don't pound them like water on a hot day.

By the time we got to the actual bar, I could hardly carry on a cohesive conversation. Barbara, who was drinking Jack n' Ginger like it was going out of style, quickly caught up with my level of drunkenness. Neither of us have any memory of paying, leaving the bar, flagging down the taxi or getting to my hotel room. But we did--in one piece. And the night had just begun. I almost wish I had a third person video of that night, with Barbara and I laying on either side of the toilet on the cold tile floor, alternating turns on our knees. I have not been that intoxicated since my senior formal where I locked myself into the student union bathroom and my poor ex-Beloved had to drag me out of the girl's bathroom to his room, where I puked red wine for hours in the sink.

Officially, I'm getting old. I can no longer rebound from my alcohol. In fact, I swear, when I woke up this morning (36 hours later), I was STILL hung over. I honestly think I peed straight vodka for the first ten hours the next day.

I was a true champion in college, but I think if this weekend is any indication, my glory days are over.

Fictioning

Remember a few months ago when I did that crazy write a novel in a month thing?

Well, my friends. That novel has been dusted off. I printed all 198 pages of it (using the laser printer at work, of course)

The editing process has begun. And it is a BITCH.

I've never edited such a large thing (I hestitate to call it a "novel" yet) in my life.

How do I do this? How do I keep the bigger picture of this thing while being nitpicky? I'm only four chapters into it and already, feeling overwhelmed.

Neptune High

When it comes to TV shows and books, Sorority Sister Cristin has never steered me wrong.

The People's Exhibit A: The O.C.
Now, I'll give you that The O.C. has veered off in an alarming direction and may not be of the same quality during it's early years. But you have to admit, the show rocked it for awhile. And how could we not just love, "Welcome to the O.C., Bitch!"

So when SSC started mentioning Veronica Mars, my interest piqued. But for some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to watch a show on UPN. It just hurt. I mean, my love for The WB was bad enough to admit to people.

But now that the CW & UPN have merged into The CW (rest in peace, WB), I caught an episode a few months ago. And I loved it. Veronica was not some bobble-headed teenage blond thing, but this rocking, snarky PI with killer hair. So I netflixed the past seasons on DVD.

I am officially in L-O-V-E with Veronica Mars and this show has resurrected a part of my past I believed long dead: full-fledged crushing on a TV character.

I am not ashamed to admit it. I have the hots for Logan Echolls. (Yes, it's a little less disturbing now that they are out of high school.) I rewind the DVD during his makeout scenes so I can see his half-naked body in slow-mo. I have officially reverted back to my middle-school days when I plastered posters of Christian Bale on the walls of my bedroom and took photos of the television screen when I watched Newsies over and over.

And I love every minute of it.