dyeing my soul

This morning, I was reading a book that quoted Marcus Aurelius as having said: “The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.” For me, this is true. On a bad day, if I'm not careful with my thoughts, I can have stained my poor soul all the hues of a gangrenous rainbow before midday. There are people who are glass half full people and those who are glass half empty people. If I allow myself free reign with my thought life I can be a "this filthy glass is half empty with tepid water that stinks of sulfur," person. I don't want to be that person. I don't want my children to learn from that person. In a combative effort I've adopted the motto: "Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."

Please don't get me wrong, this doesn't give me an instant Pollyanna outlook (BTW Pollyanna gets a bad rap. Read the book, she has the right idea.) that renders my whole life lollipops and raindrops but when I catch myself focusing on the negative, I try to turn my sights on something better. It helps.

It's not necessarily easy. Take, for example, the Case of The Disabled Dishwasher. My dishwasher has been on the fritz for approximately six months...maybe more if I am honest. I'm not exactly sure when it started but the dishes just stopped coming out shiny clean. Then they started coming out with scummy white residue. Then the dishwasher itself started getting greasy build-up the kind of which one might find between the teeth of a person who has not been acquainted with a toothbrush in a fortnight or in the ears of a child who never met a bar of soap. I was reluctant to call Sears for a service repair for a few reasons:

1. that loathesome time window that presupposes I have nothing else to do with my life.
2. the inevitable lecture blaming my poor maintenance for the resultant appliance failure.
3. I have avoidance issues.

I hoped that if I ignored it long enough, it would get better. Surprisingly,this magical thinking didn't work so I tried troubleshooting the thing to death. I concluded that the water was just not getting hot enough. Maybe the heater was broken? Finally I became desperate enough to overcome my reticence—I just wanted my clean dishes. So I called the Sears service center and made an appointment. Of course, the automated robot voice gave me a appointment window for a Friday between 8am to 5pm. Not an auspicious start. I waited all day long and the guy never showed. He called at 7:30pm to say he wouldn't make it but would put me on the schedule for Saturday...unlikely. Didn't happen. After several aborted reschedules, he showed up the next Wednesday.

Can somebody please explain to me whether there is a special class at appliance repair school called "How to belittle the appliance owner 101". Before the sentence, "I think something's wrong with the heater," was out of my mouth, my new friend had dismissed that notion with a flip, "If it was the heater, this thing wouldn't be running at all." Okay, I guess I was wrong. He then proceeded to tell me that he wasn't familiar with the Bosch brand and had never seen my particular model. Additionally, he had no repair manual for this model, blaming the "Information Nazis" at Bosch for deliberately withholding their schematics. He then launched into a didactic about the history of the dishwasher since the late nineteenth century, while never once touching my dishwasher. Seriously? At this point, I began opening the dishwasher and gesturing at it and even taking off the filter and one of the dishwasher arms as if to say, "Please feel free to follow suit." No takers.

After peering into the airgap and making a few unfruitful phone calls, he told me that my water was just too cold because the dishwasher was located on an outside wall. He advised me to run the hot water until it was scalding before running my dishwasher because the Bosch heating unit was inadequate to heat my water sufficiently. I had already tried this little nugget of water-wasting wisdom as advised by my owner's manual... to no avail and told him so. Shrug. I tried to show him the build up of scum throughout the unit and he responded, "Yeah that's pretty gross." Shrug. At this point I felt tears of frustration building up. He added, "Ever try Dishwasher Magic? That should help clean the gunk and I have a special on it today for only ten dollars a bottle." So desperate was I for any result, I almost said yes. I made a quick pitstop at my computer and checked the internet for comparable prices. Lo and behold, several sources were offering this dishwashing miracle for only five dollars...for the same number of fluid ounces...hmmmm. When I declined his amazing bargain he stated, "Well, I don't know how I'm gonna get you outta here for less then $129."

Pause.

Deep breath.

Pause again.

"When I made the appointment with Sears, they told me it would cost $75 to receive an estimate of repair. Why would it cost more?" He sighed and rolled his eyes, "The $75 is just for me walking in the door." Um HELLO, ALL YOU DID WAS WALK IN THE DOOR!!!!!! I just stared in silent disbelief. After several minutes of a staring contest, he said, "Well if you want the $75 dollar offer, you'll have to decline my estimate." Your estimate? WHAT ES-timate? I continued to stare until I finally found my words, "Um, yeah I'll be declining your estimate." Even the $75 was galling.

If there are any readers out there, I bet you are wondering how this story has anything to do with my opening paragraph. How is this me thinking on the noble, right, pure, admirable? You're right, it's not. I am getting there.

The unrepair job happened in mid December. After that, every time I neared the dishwasher, I just wanted to smash plates to smithereens in violent protest. I wanted my glass half smashed. I was bemoaning my dreadful fate to a friend when she told me about a guy who had fixed her Bosch when her heater broke. She looked in my dishwasher and told me, "Oh yeah, that's what mine looked like." She gave me the company's name: Dunn Wright (if you live in the San Francisco Bay Area write this down- it's a name worth knowing) She told me, "My guy's name was Bruce and he was awesome." Awesome? I don't know this Awesome you speak of. I practically ran to the phone. That's a lie. I was so afraid of a repeat of the last repair debacle that I delayed and delayed and delayed. Did I mention I have avoidance issues?

Finally I just couldn't stand it anymore and I called the folks at Dunn Wright. My friend's guy, Bruce, came the very next day, early in his three (yes, only three) hour window and listened to what I told him. He then proceeded to dismantle my dishwasher where the other individual had never even lifted a screwdriver. Within twenty minutes he had discovered that the circuit board that tells the heater to heat was short-circuited and I would need a new one. He ordered the part, came back in one week and installed the item. He charged me $224 for the two visits and the part. Now my dishwasher works to perfection: sparkling clean fabulousness, HOT out of the dishwasher.

So here's the thing, what if the guy from A&E factory direct, the maintenance company contracted by Sears, had fixed my dishwasher in the first place? I definitely would not have been so frustrated, I wouldn't have wanted to punch him in the skull, I wouldn't have spent a month struggling with my ridiculous avoidance issues. On the other hand, I am so wildly grateful for the fact that my dishwasher is finally fixed. I practically skip to the kitchen these days. I almost want to kiss each dish as I take it out of the washer. So, maybe I'm not exactly grateful for the useless ripoff of my first encounter with the Sears guy but without him, would I be as appreciative? Right now, not only is my glass half full, it's completely full with a pretty party parasol on top. Excellent. I'll think about that.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Friday Book Discussion

As I began to read TGWTDT, I had the strangest sensation that I had already read it and was quite disappointed that I had purchased it rather than borrowing it from the library. The descriptions evoked a picture in my head that I had seen before. Waste of money, not to mention I had started a doomed book club based on a book I've already read.

Then I realized I was wrong. The opening pages only reminded me of this other book called Borkmann's Point by Hakan Nesser. Nesser is a Swede like Stieg Larsson and both books are mysteries. Seems like a thin connection. While I was searching for the memory of Borkmann's Point...aided by the handy internet, I found that there is this thing called the Nordic Mystery Boom. I am pretty excited about it because, to be sure, my first love in literature is the mystery: since Harriet The Spy, through Hounds of the Baskerville, to my first grown up novel The Bourne Identity, all of Agatha Christie and on to my serendipitous discovery of PD James (the Julia Childs of mysteries). So devoted am I to the mystery novel and all its manifestations that I once embarked on a summer of James Patterson. Actually his first novels were good but I persisted in reading them all, until I finally had to throw a paperback into the pool in disgust at his ridiculous attempts at penning the voice of a woman: "You go girl!" Gag.

I was still wondering what it is about these two Swedish writers whose similarity made me mistake one for the other. A review of the purported Nordic Mystery Boom in an 2008 LA Times article came up with a word that concisely captures the reason for my déjà vu vibe. The reviewer called the lot of them "glum". You, Joe Queenan, are correct. They are glum and therein lies that uncanny similarity I think. There is something about the glumness that I really like. Any thoughts?

BTW, Jessica, you will be happy to know that the original Swedish title to TGWTDT was "Män som hatar kvinnor" - "Men That Hate Women". If you can take comfort in the veracity of a Wikisource then you will be pleased with this less cheesy title I think.

Book Club

As Death Cab For Cutie and my son’s blog would say...”So this is the New Year and I don’t feel any differently.” It is 2010 and I’m the same me, only older. Boohoo. Resolutions? Hardly. How can I tackle a new challenge when I barely want to meet the same old challenges? And by challenge I mean: cleaning the kitchen, getting out of the house, writing this blog. I think I might have some sort of Seasonal Affective Disorder (otherwise known as SAD which makes me chuckle...so maybe not). SAD or not, I definitely need to jump start myself through these winter doldrums. How can I do this? Well, I have this handy trick: I have learned to impose synthetic constraints on myself to meet the smallest of goals. What does this mean? In short, I play mind games on myself to achieve a desired effect...as if I were both Pavlov and his dogs.

Take for example: exercise. As I age, I have come to a place where my laziness outweighs my vanity and I no longer am particularly motivated to go to the gym. I can tell myself that it is good for my health, that I like being strong, that it releases endorphins that increase my sense of well-being...blah blah blah. None of these arguments for exercise have ever been particular motivators. Only the fear of cottage cheese curdling on the back of my body has made me a regular habitué of 24 Hour Fitness. As the years pass though, cottage cheese seems an easy price to pay for the pleasure of remaining stationary. What’s a little extra geography compared to my desire to hibernate? These are dangerous and seditious thoughts that need to combated cleverly. So brilliant me, I have come up with various motivational tricks to get meself to the gym. My failsafe is to find an interesting book and strictly allow myself to read it only while running on that silly elliptical machine. Believe it or not, this usually works. Apparently I am stupider than I am lazy. I have been playing this trick on myself through approximately ten consecutive winters. I wonder when I will catch on?

Unfortunately, in this new year I was having trouble finding a book interesting enough to pull off the prestige until genius struck again and I utilized my facebook status to glean book suggestions. In no time I was rewarded with a healthy list. Because I appreciate the response, I have decided that I will honor each of these suggestions by reading them in the order received ( with the exception of the books I have already read). I’m pretty excited. (Little do I realize, this list will be tricking myself into going to the gym for the next six months)

Concurrent with my vile laziness, I have this other pesky problem. I have been having trouble finding a book club that I feel attached to. I was going to one club and it was fun to attend but I am not sure that, in all fairness, it should be called a “Book Club” (picture me making air quotes here.) Invariably 75% of the members had read 45% of the book or less. Our discussion of the actual book rarely lasted more than fifteen minutes in sum. This group would probably be better defined as a “Social Club” or perhaps a “Wine (or margarita or martini) Tasting Club” These sort of clubs are fun but not really what I’m looking for in a “Book Club” (more air quotes) If I were writing a singles ad for a book club here’s what it would look like: Desperately seeking a reason to read books that I might never have otherwise read, hoping for insightful discussions on the merits, or lack thereof, of a book, love long walks on the beach... I jest but you get the idea: I'm looking for something a little more meaningful than a glass of wine and fifteen minutes of mindless fun.

Final stroke of genius: I’ve decided, armed with my facebook list of book recommendations, to start my own Night Of Grace Blog Book Club. Here’s how it works. I will post my trusty facebook list. Whenever I start a new book I will post the title of the book and begin making comments as I see fit. Feel free to read along, maybe you’ve already read the book and have insights, make comments, don’t read along and make comments, make comments on another piece of literature, music, art, tv show, movie that might be apropos of the discussion, or make comments apropos of nothing. Clearly this is an experiment, so I can make the rules up as I go along. Just come and participate. Make it a resolution. You will be helping me:

• Get Me To The Gym
• Be In A Book Club
• Continue This Blog (I desperately want to quit and I’m trying to make it through a one-year commitment...to myself)

Book Short List:

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

Firefly Lane

Straight Man

Wind-up Bird Chronicles

Those That Save Us

I will be adding more as we progress (unless this is a total failure and it doesn't progress) Feel free to post more book suggestions in the comments

Starting with The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo...get ready, set and go!

Maggot Brain

So, I was watching House last night. I love that show. House is brilliant AND people absolutely love him for being an insufferable misanthrope...please. My favorite thing about House, after the scathingly witty writing and Hugh Laurie, is the music at the end of each episode. Whoever has the job of song choice is a niche savant if you ask me. That one song almost always evokes and then multiplies the poignancy of the show's climax.

Even so, in last night's episode I was completely taken by surprise by the guitar solo that accompanied the death of House's patient. I am not necessarily a fan of the long, drawn out, indulgent electric guitar solo. I don't really get the fuss about Jimi Hendrix to be quite honest. So when I wanted to cry at the end of the show, I wondered if I was just emotionally attached to the dying character. Short answer: Nope, not that attached. It was the music that was causing an emotional reaction...weird. I whipped out my trusty iphone. My husband recommended this handy app called Shazam that allows me to hold the phone up to any piece of music, tag it and nine times out of ten, Shazam tells me the name of the song and the artist who is performing the song. So cool. Ten seconds later, I found out the guitar solo that broke my heart was called "Maggot Brain" by Funkadelic. Hmmmm, never heard of it.

Strangely intrigued, I googled Funkadelic and Maggot Brain and found out that the soloist's name was Eddie Hazel. Okay, I don't really claim to be a music aficionado. I listen to what I like and that's about it. But it seemed strange to never have heard of a musician who could produce something so achingly beautiful. The last time I had such a visceral reaction to an instrumental solo was YoYo Ma's Bach Prelude From the Unaccompanied Cello Suite No.1. Pretty big stretch but genius is genius.

Anyway, I Wikipedia'd Eddie Hazel because I was interested but only interested enough to get the amount of reliable information Wikipedia answers can give. The anecdote that I found most interesting was a tidbit where George Clinton (now him, I've heard of), while recording this song, told young Eddie to play his solo "like your momma just died." Why interesting? To me, the first two and a half minutes of Maggot Brain sound exactly like I felt when my momma just died. Oh, and I guess the second half of the song was supposed to be played as if the guitarist had found out his momma was really alive. By then, I think the LSD that Mr Hazel was allegedly under the influence of had fully kicked in. After the first two and half minutes the music starts to degenerate a bit and loses the poignancy that made me stop breathing for a second. It definitely doesn't sound like I would have felt if I found out my momma was really still alive. But the first two and half minutes were amazing. So, well done Mr. Hazel and thank you.

Home Grown Terrorism

Today I am betwixt and between two forms of laziness: a Lost marathon which is getting my family game ready for the Series Ending Season coming up on February 2 and the Jets' game (Go Jets!). Translation: my derriere is essentially soldered to the sofa. Unfortunately sometimes nature calls. Even more unfortunately when I went to answer her call, the sign said "Occupado". Seeing as I had already disengaged my lazy bones from the couch, I thought I'd better clean up the breakfast dishes. After all, our daughters had been so kind as to prepare breakfast, the least I could do was clean them up. As I was cleaning, I discovered a pan from last night's roasted chicken hiding out in the oven (don't you judge me) Needless to say, the marinade of soy, oyster sauce, balsamic vinegar and spice was soldered more closely to the sides of the Pyrex pan than my behind to the couch.

Here's a Hint from Heloise: Fill a severely scalded pot with water and some dish soap, set it to a boil and allow the debris to soften and naturally fall away from the pot. I didn't see any reason this practice should not be extended to the Pyrex pan. Pyrex is supposed to be indestructible is it not? So, I filled the pan with water and dish soap and placed it across two gas burners on my stove and turned on the flame. As I let the water begin to boil, the bathroom finally became "Vacant". Blessed relief. Just as I shut the bathroom door behind myself I heard a loud explosion in the kitchen. Oddly, I knew exactly what had happened.

A few things:

1. Good thing I went to the bathroom at that exact moment. The blast radius was at least four feet. I am not sure of the force with which the glass shards flew across the kitchen but I am picturing myself standing at the sink with stalactites of pyrex sticking out of my back. (I suppose neither stalactites nor stalagmites would be correct but I don't know the term for a sideways formation. I should ask Superman. What with the Fortress of Solitude and all, he must be an expert)

2. I've never been so pleased that everyone in my house is a veritable underachiever in the cleaning department. This translates into nobody else being in the kitchen at the time of blast. Thank You, God. Literally.

3. I was pleased with my quick thinking in recording the disaster. Last time I had a disaster I wanted to blog about, I cleaned up too quickly and only had remnants to record.

4. What a bummer that all this gloriously broken glass came from a pyrex pan. Given my penchant for redeeming broken parts for a new creation, you'd think I'd be thrilled with all that new material. But I don't care for clear glass, it just has no character if you ask me. My mind began to change as I cleaned up the blast site, piece by piece. Some of the chunks of glass were just too beautifully patterned from the stress of heat to throw away. Score.

5. One kitchen terror disaster = one more blog. Thank you Pyrex

6. The Jets won! GO JETS!

Lazy Monday

I thought I should start out the New Year fresh and bloggy but then I had another think. Instead, I gave myself a mental vacation, mourning the return of my kids to school with minute attention to several application games on facebook. Thankfully, my sister provided this hilarious blogbite for our entertainment. She is my very first guest blogger. BTW, she is genetically linked to that guy featured to the left (to the left)...who, with skill and wit, has used his camera morphing program and natural good looks to provide us with some lovely art.

Splitsville

by Jessica Hall

riddle me this: why? oh why? every time i am pregnant must i end up in a split that is at once too deep to get out of and EVER DEEPENING, RIPPING MY GROIN to SHREDS!!!!!!!

so there i was, straddling my bath, reaching to clean up the far side of the bath WHEN SUDDENLY my foot slips out from under me, and keeps slipping farther and farther away from my center. laughing and crying, and crying even harder at the laugh/cry combo, and peeing my pants and 100% STUCK.

i have no idea how i got out of the split-but the only thing that saved me from NEVER getting up again was the side of the bath digging into my crotch, providing me with just enough support to get up again.

it was insane, i still haven't recovered and am self medicating by double fisting ice cream sandwiches!

Artwork by Tom Dowd

Model:Tom Dowd