The Person-Shaped Hole

You know that voice in the back of your head that whispers,"this is a terrible idea, and I don't mean a Bad Idea (tm), but it's truly terrible and you will rue not listening to me..."? 

Rue it, I say!

I never, ever regret listening to that voice, and I always without fail regret ignoring it. Especially when ignoring it takes the form of sticking my fingers in my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, and singing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" at top volume. For five months.

Mine eyes got very tired of the glory of the coming of the lord. 

Let me back up.

There is this person who has been a dear - often a best - friend for a dozen years. We have been one another's biggest fans, loudest cheerleaders, clearest eyes, and broadest shoulders when needed. Recently he moved back to California, and we decided to give being friends with benefits a shot. After all, who better to console a person after a bad break-up than their biggest fan? It... was a bad plan. I knew it was a bad plan when I first heard the words, "I'm not ready for a relationship right now, is that okay?" come out of his mouth back in December. I knew it was a bad plan when I called it off, then a few days later we drank too many Jack Rose cocktails over Doctor Who and fell back together. I thought that it was a less-bad plan when, after the Jack Rose incident, things shifted a bit; he was more careful of me, sweeter and concerned. When he came to meet my friends and family and charmed them all. When he said, "you've got me, T. Don't worry."  It turns out that charm is my kryptonite, and I didn't expect this person - THIS person - to take advantage of that, even unconsciously, because when one is healing from a bad break-up, one will do pretty much anything to feel better and validated. He put me in charge of remembering that this was all fun and games, then let himself say whatever would bring a light to my eyes or a smile to my face - even if he didn't actually mean it. So that's what happened. 

And it happened with a vengeance that only the voice in the back of my head is capable of wreaking, because that voice is a grade-A bitch who loves to say, "I told you so!" 

This last Thursday, his words fell like rain: This means too much. I'm sorry. You're perfect and beautiful and amazing and (adjectives), but I can't do this. I'm not a forever kind of man. I think I'll be single forever. I'm so sorry. It must be me, because you're wonderful and (more adjectives). I don't remember saying the things you are saying I did. I fucked this up. I met this girl - she came out of nowhere - she doesn't matter - nothing happened. I thought I was being clear. I'm so, so sorry. Mea culpa, Tika. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.

And then, the double-edged sword of:

This started to feel like it was for forever, so I need out. 

vs.

I'm not That Guy for you, T. I'm just not. 

I didn't say it was okay, because it isn't. I didn't say "I forgive you," because I don't yet. I didn't call him a coward or plead or accuse or shriek or set the relationship on fire - although I came so close to that last that I had to put my phone down and look hard in the mirror for a moment because I do so love to watch bridges burn. It comes from the same part of me that doesn't look over cliffs because I might try to fly.

*****

The worst of it all is, when relationships don't work out, this is the person I turn to. The person who says all the adjectives and makes me feel better, who sends me weird shit in my email to make me laugh, who plays video games or watches ridiculous British TV show marathons until I have something else to talk about, who reminds me that whomever I left or left me is the one who lost because I'm marvelous. That's what we do for one another. Did.

And now, all those things that usually make me feel better - losing myself in a video game or show, finding quirky little corners of the internet to share, looking up new (or very old) adjectives - feel instead like glass splinters and I don't know where to turn to distract myself, so I've been standing very still in the middle of my apartment, just staring at this person-shaped hole.

The Woman in White - Part the Third

ZOMG YOU GUYS I AM PSYCHIC OR AT LEAST PRESCIENT.*

No sooner had I mourned the lack of Frederick Fairlie, Esq., than he appeared in all his selfish, crotchety glory. Well, not exactly no sooner - first someone else takes up Marian's narrative in her diary. The sheer magnitude of that intrusion gives me the creeps in a very personal, visceral way.

I had this relationship lo, these many years ago that was simply awful. I was 21 and what can only be called a child, and like many a country girl was completely taken in by charm and occasional dribs and drabs of kindness followed by monstrous neglect. Y'anyway, I kept a notebook behind my bed where I poured out the abuses and soreness on my silly little heart in what can only be called verbal diarrhea. Seriously, it would have been heart-wrenching if I'd had any self-control whatsoever, but instead it probably read like the rantings of an attic-bound Mrs. Rochester who was favored with Yellow Wallpaper. One day I came back from school to find my notebook open on the table to a page with handwriting on it that wasn't my own; I was told in the addendum that he "assumed it was left for him to read since it was in the open" - as in, tucked under the bed but not completely out of sight. I got no apology, no explanation for his behavior in either reading my freaking diary or anything else; just a condescending note saying that now he'd read it and was glad that he knew "how I really felt."

The experience taught me that thoughts are not meant to be shared unless they are fully-formed and tempered like Athena; I've never kept a diary since.

Marian wasn't in (much) love with Fosco, but her fears and puzzlings were hers and hers alone. Fosco's audacity in not only reading but writing in her diary - where he knew she would return and therefore see it - is the point where readers who are still on the fence should fall squarely on the side of Count Fosco as Evil (Genius) and Violator of People.

Ok, then we get to Frederick Fairlie, who says things that make me laugh out loud like, "I find it's best to give in to Marian - it saves noise," and (my personal favorite), "What have I to do with bosoms?" What indeed, Mr. Fairlie. How's Louis, your occasional book stand and the most accommodating of servants? Hmmm?

And then the narrative is taken up by Mrs. Mickleson, the housekeeper at Blackwater Park and a fascinating sketch of a woman. Collins takes his opportunity to turn the traditional prejudice of the upper class toward the lower on its head as well as to illustrate the deep xenophobia that characterizes a lot of Victorian fiction: Mrs. Mickleson is completely taken in by Count Fosco, is worshipful of his status as a nobleman, and attributes all of his potential faults to being "foreign." She even gently berates Laura, reminding her that foreigners mostly grow up in "popery," and that she (Laura) shouldn't think the worse of him for it. It must be Laura's upbringing as a Proper English Lady that keeps her from telling Mrs. Mickleson to STFU - that or her insufferable lack of spine. It's probably the latter.

Next, we turn back to Walter Hartright, who talks... and talks... and talks. It's sad to me that Marian doesn't get to tell her own kickass part of this story. She adds Jail-Breaker to her already impressive title of Sherlockian Ninja without even betting an eyelash, she suggests everything that Walter then does, and she takes on the chores of their new establishment like a champion while Laura sits and recuperates from being in an asylum for three weeks. Seriously, I begin to think that Wilke actually was the closet feminist that we all claim him as; all the female characters in this book are stone-cold clever except for Limp Laura, and all the men are rather useless unless they are traipsing about Central America learning how to evade capture by darting around a corner, with the obvious exception of Fosco, Evil Genius, of course.

Laura, meanwhile, is being told that her little drawings are being sold for money so that she can feel like she's "contributing" to the family fund, when really they're being bought by Walter and treasured up. This makes my feminist heart rage a little - or rather, a lottle; it's okay to lie to Laura, but it's not okay to disguise yourself to avoid detection? What she went through was undoubtedly pretty horrible - mental patient care wasn't (and still isn't) exactly top-notch - and Laura being Laura probably didn't consider that she might be rescued. BUT STILL. She even knows on some level that Marian is better than she is; she tells Walter that she's afraid he'll start to love Marian more than he loves her. to that I say, pssssht! Marian is too good for you, Milquetoast Hartright. Take your mental case and leave Miss Halcombe to a better fate than making you think all her good ideas are your own forever. Speaking of which, my favorite part of this reading was when Marian suggests writing to Mr. Fairlie to get the story of what happened at Limeridge House, because I had already read it! Hurrah for high-context writing!

Walter decides to do something manly and discover Percival's seeeeeeeekrit, which turns out to be "LOL parents weren't married!" And on the way he meets Mrs. Catherick, Anne's mother, who is the living embodiment of this guy:

"When I have changed my mittens, I shall be all in black."

I think I'll ship Mrs. Catherick and Mr. Fairlie for the rest of the novel. Someone bring me a Pesca, STAT!





*I know I've read all this before, but I forget what happens sometimes. It's a giant book!

The Naming of Things

I like titles and names. Our descriptions of things have so much power; how often have you had difficulty remembering someone's name because they don't look like a Becky or a Liz or a Peter or a Martin Freeman? I carried a different name all the way through high school, and the changing of my name - while technically unofficial - changed a lot of things in my life. Especially that people stopped breaking out into song the moment they heard me introduce myself. You might think that people breaking into song would be something I enjoyed; after all, I'm a huge fan of musicals, I identify deeply with Julie Andrews characters, and I feel pretty strongly that one of the major things missing from my life is a regular and appropriately-timed dance break. But most people can't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid,

and I often had to smile awkwardly in that way people with easily-punned-upon names do, as if I'd never heard someone make the connection before.

Also, I learned a lot about people's taste in music; now they just ask me if I've ever been to the Tiki Room in Disneyland.*

Anywhoodle. Names: I like them, they are interesting, and they are curiously mutable in that they take on the aspects of the things that have the name, and also impart their own. Could Fairuza Balk have been a Jennifer Cook? Sure. Would she have been an early 90's gothic icon? Probably not.

All this came up because I've been assiduously avoiding the final discussion of The Woman in White on almost all of my book blogs until I finish the third reading (so...close...shut UP Hartright...stabby-stab...), so I'm rather desperate for news of the Book World, so I caught up on Neil Gaiman's blog today, which has far less book stuff than you'd think so I tend to just skim it to see if he'll be in town any time soon.** I collect names and hoard them away because they intrigue me, especially literary ones and generally in pairs, like Jane and Elizabeth or Mycroft and Sherlock or Kaylee and Simon or The Doctor and Idris (or Donna or Amy or Martha but not Rose).

Which is to say it's a good thing that I'm not a crazy cat lady (thanks only to Mr. Darcy being a finicky isolationist, as one might expect) or having any children, because I'd probably be doomed to twins and have to choose, and "The Doctor" isn't really an appropriate name for a child.

I think, though, that the next time I adopt kittens - far, far in the future because Darcy will live foreverdoyouhearmecat - they will be named Verity and Sydney.***












* The answer is: 1) Yes, of course, 2) Yes, I sing along with my own name subbed in for "tiki," and 3) Yes, my friends are awesome and sing along with me appropriately.

** All the commas in that sentence are grammatically correct, even if they are legion. Just so you know.

*** I understand that an entire blog post leading up to what I will name my future cats probably qualifies me as a Crazy Cat Lady.

The One With Actual Knitting Content

So remember when I found my Rosebud Shawl, complete with instructions? I've been working on it pretty steadily and am nearly halfway through the pick-up edging, then it's only the outer edging to go. Here's a picture of a finished shawl done by Maureen in Fargo. See those diamond patterns between the center square and the edge? I'm working my way out from the center and am almost halfway done with the second diamond. It takes about 45 minutes to do 2 rounds, so please send the people in white coats soon.

I finally took pictures of the (very few) knitted things I've completed this year! In a fit of pre-Christmas spirit, I wrapped up yarn for my brothers and stepfather and promised them all socks by June for their Christmas presents. They're mostly done:

Stepfather Socks: Regia Sock Something, ~413 yds

Stepbrother Kai Socks: Regia Sock Something, ~395 yds.

THB's socks are half done and have been dedicated out-of-the-house knitting. I've got a coffee date with Nadia tonight, so maybe I'll get a few rows in on them over gossip.

I also spent an evening and several episodes of Grey's Anatomy binding off the over 400 stitches on my Slant Shawl that I started in November:

ella rae Lace Merino, 883 yds.

This thing is easily 12 feet long; I'm almost tempted to chop it in half and make it wider. Maybe if some perfect ribbon for the cut end shows itself, I'll go ahead and do that. In the mean time, it's going to be one of those shawls that snags on everything!

So. Many. Holes! (TWSS)

In the category of failed experiments, I finally ripped out my hap shawl:

Somewhere around 1500 yards of knitting - gone.

It wasn't working as intended, so I'm going to find an actual pattern and follow it. The horror! I may also over-dye that light blue; there's something about it that is too twee, and I kind of hate it.

And in other news, I've returned to the possibility of tomatoes. Last year I got my plants over Mother's Day, but this year I planted earlier and the contrast is pretty clear: 

May 16, 2011

May 8, 2012

At this rate, I might even get tomatoes before August!

The Woman in White - Part the Second

So Walter Hartright has left the building and taken his wimpy mooncalf-gazing self off to who knows where (actually, I know: London, then Central America to draw stuff for an expeditionary expedition to get over Laura). And thank goodness, say I. Don't let the gangplank hit you on the way up!

Then Mr. Gillmore, the family's lawyer, takes up the reins of the narrative. He is the epitome of the British gentleman lawyer: gruff and opinionated and avuncular - which actual-uncle Fairlie is not, of course. Is that juxtaposition or dichotomy or just ironic? I can't tell anymore. But he does say a few things that make me laugh:

1) Laura looks like her father but acts like her mother. Conversely, Marian looks like her mother. Stop and think for a moment - which sister is the ugly one? For a brief second, I think maybe Wilkie forgot which was whom in that giant noggin of his.

2) Mr. Gillmore is "very much afraid that Mr. Hartright is 'going wrong.'" Also, "There are three things that none of the young men of the present generation can do.They can't sit over their wine;they can't play at wist;and they can't pay a lady a compliment." If Hartright hadn't been so busy going wrong, maybe Gillmore could learn him a thing or two, eh? Eh? ::elbow::


3) Gillmore is served chilled port by a servant who should know better. For whatever reason, this made me hoot with laughter. Apparently port should not be chilled? I have no idea; I drink wine out of a box.


Then Gillmore's huffy self gets replaced by Marian to the sound of trumpets and the waving of flags. I just love Marian - who can't love a Victorian who thinks Elizabeth I is highly overrated?  Yes, there're some strange-sounding lovey bits between her and Laura - I think Sarah Waters is probably a big fan of this book - but her dedication and loyalty and bad-assery cannot be underestimated, as we shall see. Brace yourselves, my beauties. There are a lot of italics coming your way.

First, Laura tells Percival that she will marry him if he still wants to marry her, but that she loves someone else. Then, Laura is all, "I'm going to sacrifice myself on the altar of whatever this is and marry Sir Percival no matter what!" which, I may be a modern girl, but why not just leave? Martyrs bother me. Also, if the guy loves you and you tell him you're in love with not-him, he'll be jealous because that's how that emotional situation works. If he is NOT jealous, then he is NOT in this for love (especially if you are an heiress!) and you're free to pursue your penniless sitar player.

Two for Sundays, please.

On the eve of Laura's marriage, Marian has the unenviable duty of explaining something about the Way the World Works to sweet, innocent Laura. Is this the infamous "lay back and think of England, dear," speech? Marian couches it in terms of polluting innocence, so probably. And then Marian pours out her heart to her diary, saying basically, "surely Percival's not a dick? Surely I've done the right thing by pushing her into this marriage instead of saying, 'let's all be poor and marry Hartright!'" Then she says "I hardly know myself in the character of Sir Percival's warmest friend," then five lines later says, "I HATE Sir Percival!" Thank you, Mr. Collins, for reminding us that within every woman of 26 is the 16-year-old petulant child she used to be.

But you know what is so sweet? Mrs. Vesey the Cabbage Brain made Laura a Shetland shawl on the sly as a wedding gift. As someone who is attempting the same thing, let me tell you: it's no mean feat. Plus, knitting content! (I've been working on stuff, not fast enough. Moving on.)

H'okay. So. Percival and Laura go off on their honeymoon, and they bring back Count Fosco and his wife, Eleanor. Fosco is the creepiest of creepy creeps. He's huge and fat and wears womanish colors and has the lightest footsteps of everyone ever so that he's continually creeping up on people - but never mind about closing the window when you're talking secret stuff, just speak low! - and he has tamed some mice and they're continually crawling about his person. Ick. One night he goes on and on about how good criminals don't get caught, and no one bats an eyelash. Then Eleanor says something about listening to men like a good woman, and Marian points out that she (Eleanor) used to think that freedom of opinion was super-important - which is a way of saying that she (Eleanor) was a disagreeable harpy before her marriage - and no one bats an eyelash. Nary a neuron is fired.

Percival makes some comment about Laura making a "virtue of necessity" by marrying him, which translates to modern talk as "you weren't a virgin when I married you," which I guess doesn't translate all that well to modern talk because virgins, LOL. And shizz goes down, and Anne Catherick shows up and rabbits off to who-knows-where, and Percival corners Laura in the boathouse which, if it had been Hartright or written by Daphne Du Maurier would have led to Victorian sexy times but instead leads to Laura telling him everything instead of LYING to her shit-talking, secret-keeping husband.

Then Marian turns into a Sherlockian ninja and starts putting together clues from things like a boot scuff in the sand or a bit of fringe at a fork in the road and scampering over rooftops to hear Fosco and Percival talking about how to get Laura's money, at which point I am shrieking at my iPod that of course he was in it for the money, see above re. jealousy!

The End of Part 2

So, what have we learned, dear readers? That port should be chilled, men of this age are useless, and Laura is - while not quite as ridiculous as previously thought - still a milksop bore.

I miss Mr. Fairlie and Pesca. Maybe they'll show up in the next section?

My Brain on Post-Thesis Turn-in Day

Last night I turned in my final presentation PowerPoint and presentation outline for my Master's in Teaching. There are still some things to do - I need to finish my Teacher Preparedness Assessment #4, which is the write-up portion of the lesson I video recorded back in June, and I need to actually present my Action Research to the school panel. So I'm not done-done, but I'm done for a day or two and there are no more hard deadlines. Hurrah!

Today I've been tidying my house and thinking about the two wedding shawls I need to finish this fall. When my cousin Perfect Phillip announced his engagement to his adorable now-fiance last month, I decided immediately that the Rosebud Shawl I started last year would be my wedding gift to her; an added bonus to me as a fairly scattered knitter is that the shawl is somewhere around 30% finished right now. However, back at the end of December I went on a massive house-cleaning streak

And Put Everything Away.

The problem with this is that I am an extremely visual person, which is a nice way of saying that I'm pretty much an "out of sight, out of mind" type. So all of those carefully packed boxes under my bed? They're there to keep massive cat-hair bunnies from taking over my room. All those stacks of paper that I tucked away in boxes? As good as recycled. And all those half-finished knitting projects that used to live on my coffee table were tucked away as well - some of them several boxes away from their patterns.

Preach.

So, I spent the last week idly looking for both the Rosebud Shawl - tucked into one of the under-bed boxes - and then looking slightly more frantically for the marked-up pattern. It wasn't in the bag with the shawl where it should have been, it wasn't in the envelope with the original version, it wasn't in the stack of papers in the box in the closet (although there were approximately 50 other patterns tucked between school work and handouts). I dug through more boxes under the bed and discovered a plethora of knitting I'd forgotten, most of it with needles still in and some of it even with a recognizable goal.

I can think of at least 2 more projects that aren't pictured here, but I don't know where they are...

I dug through the decorative basket next to my couch that now holds my knitting-in-progress (instead of the coffee table). After finding a hojillion projects in various states of completion and therefore completely overwhelming myself with the extent of my knitting polygamy (shawls and sweaters and socks, oh my!), I pulled the Rosebud Shawl out of its fabric bag to see if there was any way I'd be able to figure out where I was. And there, tucked neatly into the bottom of the bag, was the pattern.

I'm going to pour a glass of wine and photograph the actually completed knitting I discovered along with the unfinished objects, then spend the rest of the week catching up on The Woman in White and either ripping out or finishing some of this pile.

The Woman in White - Part 1

Last Sunday I was riding home from two lovely weeks in San Jose and finishing up Walter Hartright's narrative. Chapter 15 ended just as the train pulled into the Davis station, where My Nadia was waiting to pick me up and take me back to my poor neglected kitty, who has been sleeping by my head ever since.

I managed to finish all 15 chapters via audiobook, despite starting a day late and at least two nights filled with infamously pink cocktails.

I have been informed that these are a Hangover in a Glass. They are also delicious. In the spirit (hah) of full disclosure, we didn't drink the WHOLE bottle - there are a couple of shots left. 

Once I got back to Sacramento, motivation to move back to the Bay Area ASAP fully in place,* the "Woman in White Part I" posts started showing up in my Google reader, and I dutifully ignored them so I could formulate my own opinions - I had even bookmarked lines and stuff to talk about on the audiobook! I was so prepared to write that post on time, guys. And then... I didn't.

I have none.

I didn't start the next chunk of the read-a-long because I didn't want to color what I thought about the first part before writing about it, and now I'm not only behind in reading and posting but also in my Google reader.

Let us jump in to The Woman in White so I can start catching up. Wilkie Collins may have been a womanizing jerk with a giant forehead, but he was also at least moderately hilarious and for the First Sensation Novel Ever** he did a pretty good job of building tension - especially when Hartright is walking back to London from his mother and sister's house all alone in the middle of the night through looming hedges. The first time I heard that scene, I was driving home from MY mother's house all alone in the middle of the night through a looming forest, and when a hand reached out and grabbed his arm, I shrieked and nearly ran off the road. Scary bits of books are not my finest hour, keeping-it-together-wise.

One of the greatest aspects of this book upon a second and a half reading is that I cheer the entrance of every new character, even when I already know and either love or love-to-hate them.

There's Pesca, the quintessential Italian Anglophile. He's my favorite sympathetic character, and Collins wisely took us away from him early in the narrative lest readers become so enamored of him that they forget who the real hero is (*cough*Marian*cough). If you never read this novel (you really ought to) do yourself the favor of reading Chapter 3, right-all-right!

But on to the quotes:

Nature has so much to do in this world, and is engaged in generating such a vast variety of co-existent productions, that she must surely be now and then too flurried and confused to distinguish between the different processes that she is carrying on at the same time. Starting from this point of view, it will always remain my private persuasion that Nature was absorbed in making cabbages when Mrs. Vesey was born, and that the good lady suffered the consequences of a vegetable preoccupation in the mind of the mother of us all (49)

And then there's everyone's favorite invalid:

My morning's experience of Miss Halcombe had predisposed me to be pleased with everybody in the house; but my sympathies shut themselves up resolutely at the first sight of Mr. Fairlie... "So glad to possess you at Limeridge, Mr. Hartright," he said in a querulous, croaking voice, which combined, in anything but an agreeable manner, a discordantly high tone with a drowsily languid utterance. "Pray, sit down. And don't trouble yourself to move the chair, please. In the wretched state of my nerves, movement of any kind is exquisitely painful to me." (43) 

And then, of course, there is the fantastic Miss Marian Holcombe herself:

The easy elegance of every movement of her limbs and body as soon as she began to adveance from the far end of the room, set me in a flutter of expectation to see her face clearly. She left the window - and I said to myself, The lady is dark. She moved forward a few steps - and I said to myself, The lady is young. She approached nearer - and I said to myself (with as sense of surprise which words fail me to express), The lady is ugly! (35)

Oh, WALTER. Thank heavens Marian is too smart to fall in love with you, you unmitigated ass. In contrast to her sister, Miss Laura Fairlie is a milksop, a milquetoast, a lackluster cardboard cutout of a girl who wears blue and white stripes and a straw hat, for god's sake! Collins is drawing an interesting parallel here between Walter, the ostensible hero of the story who acts mostly on Marian's suggestions and doesn't really do anything himself except lift heavy things, and Laura, whose only outstanding qualities are her beauty and placidity. I wonder if Collins did this on purpose in a similar way that Fitzgerald made Nick Carraway into nothing but a voice to illustrate the goings-on of West and East Egg. Then again, Laura and Anne Catherick are doppelgängers, so perhaps Anne got a double share of pluck when Nature was absorbed in something else.

And then there's Sir Perceval Glyde and Count Fosco: possibly the best, creepiest, jolliest villain EVER. But that must wait until the next part of the narrative, starting in 3..2..1..







*The lack of decent Thai food, pho, yarn stores, and proximity to old friends was overwhelming. It only took 2 1/2 years to figure it out.
**Again, Ann Radcliffe begs to differ. Henceforth, AWiW will be referred to as the First (Victorian) Sensation Novel Ever or Mme. Radcliffe's ghost might put Laurentina's skeleton in my closet.

The Woman in White Read-A-Long (Among Other Things)

Goslings!

I have been off Mae West-ing it in the last few months, but I have not forgotten that I owe you more than a snarky review about a book most of you will hopefully never read (because I read it for you).  I know you are all on absolute tenterhooks to know what I've been knitting, reading, and doing in the regular world. The first two are easy: I have been knitting late Christmas socks for my mens and a shawl for my Nadia, and I have been reading All The Things. But I am house-sitting in San Jose for my friend Auntie Social and thus do not have access to said knitted things to take pictures of, and this kitchen table isn't conducive to a lot of typing which is why I haven't done my homework yet.

Speaking of homework, I am finishing up my LAST CLASS for my Master's degree in three weeks, and then the Real World kicks in. If any of you need an executive assistant/event planner, let me know. Brie: call me when you win the lottery and I will move to Philly and be your nanny and we will have lovely crafty fun all the time instead of that whole executive assistant thing.

And now, the Woman in White RAL, as hosted by the hilarious Alice, with whom I would like to be friends and prowl the Chicago Library looking for sexy nerd men books.

This will be my second-and-a-half time through this book. The half time came first in an ill-judged attempt on my part to take a class on 19th c. British Literature from a professor with a brand new shiny PhD. It was only ill-judged because I didn't know at the time that new PhDs are the worst teachers because a) they have very little actual training in how to teach*, b) they are still thinking about nothing beyond their dissertation, which in this woman's case was in the Romantics - whom I cordially despise because I don't particularly like nature or philandering cads, and c) they have developed a habit of proving they are right, so any deviation from their train of thought tends to be frowned mightily upon.**

Y'anyway. I sorta read the book just enough to pass the essay, so it only counts for half. The first WHOLE time I read WiW was right around when Raych read it for her big project, and those sassy emails were a delight.

Ok. Let's talk about Wilkie Collins, whom I thought was a woman for the longest time.

Clearly not a chick.

I learned from Alice and Contractually Obligated to Like Books that he was dude-bros with Charles Dickens to the point of occasionally sharing women. Now, I have a group of friends who spent the majority of their late teens and early twenties diligently dating everyone else within that group of friends. There were break-ups and make-ups and fights, and now that we're older and mostly settled down (the latest wedding was in December and I just went to a baby shower where I was the only unmarried girl and one of only 3 unpregnant, and the other two were not for lack of trying if you catch my drift) we occasionally play the "remember when you were dating me? That was hilarious!" game.

I borrowed a dress from my friend to wear at her wedding to my ex-boyfriend, at which I sat next to his ex-girlfriend-before-me and the two of us shed happy tears. This wedding resulted in my "niece" Evelyn, who has made an appearance here in the past and who is expecting a baby sister in June (see above re. baby shower).

I really wish this were in focus.

I'm not really one to knock someone for a little trading amongst friends is what I'm saying, although I will throw out some censure for being married while they did it. Jerks. So, Collins and Dickens were buds and clearly somewhat douchey, which we will come back to more toward the end of the book.

Woman in White was published in Dickens' magazine and was a sensation - possibly on the same scale as Old Curiosity Shop, for which people famously lined up at the NY Pier to discover whether Little Nell was dead***. It is considered to be the first "detective" novel and one of the first "sensation" novels, although I think Anne Radcliffe and Catherine Morland would have something to say about the latter.

And that's all I have to say so far because there is a pitcher of mimosas and a dance party of one waiting to happen on the back deck.





* She says, from the lofty tower of an upcoming Master's in education.
** Obviously this doesn't go for ALL new PhDs. But the ones in the humanities do seem to be particularly uppity. Feel free to remind me of this should I ever become a PhD.
*** She was. I just saved you from reading that book, too!

Death Comes to Pemberley - P.D. James

Death Comes to Pemberley by P.D. James
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

First, let's talk about Jane Austen pastiche. You might think that I would like it; after all, I'm the girl who re-reads all 7 novels religiously every year or perhaps two if I'm deep in a Victoriana phase. Who would imagine that girl wouldn't want more Austen, amirite?

You'd be wrong. I've come to realize that longing for more Austen is not the same as accepting the drivel that issues from the pens of writers, both recognized and otherwise, who attempt to parse The Magnificent Seven into continuations of the romances that people who are not me believe are at the heart of Austen's work. Yes, you read that right: I don't think that Austen is about romance, or at least not entirely. Obviously everyone ends up properly paired at the end; she was writing for women, after all, and if there's one thing we know from the shelves of used bookstores everywhere, women love their proper pairings - particularly if they're accompanied by a little bodice-ripping. Bu Austen's most pointed references are to society and the manipulations that people utilize to get what they want - the end result isn't romance, but attainment of desire at the expense of those who value "society" above human truths.

And now, let's talk a little about this novel.

Elizabeth and Darcy are happily ensconced in Pemberley with their two boys and regular visits from Jane and Bingley. But before this all can be explained, James gives us the gossip's view of Pride & Prejudice, which is that Elizabeth is a conniving fortune-hunter and that Darcy was, well, conned.

When you start to wonder if a book will get any better by page ivx, maybe it's time to put it down. But I didn't put it down because I love me some Lizzy Bennet. More fool, me.

What follows is a laundry list of what this novel's problem is. Feel free to imagine me going all brown-girl on this book, waving my finger in the air to great effect while raising an eyebrow and saying things like, "aaaand another thing!" I may possibly be a Latina hair stylist in Washington Heights for the rest of this review.

- Elizabeth does not still have feelings for her sister's husband. She never really did, so pasting heart-flutterings onto her 6 years after her marriage to Darcy is... stupid.
- Darcy and Elizabeth hardly interact at all. They interact even less with their children, who are relegated to the nursery and only mentioned as plot points.
- Charlotte was blamed for Lady Catherine finding out about Darcy and Elizabeth's supposed engagement. To take a life-long friendship and reduce it to petty "domestic revenge" tarnishes both the friendship and the character unnecessarily.
- James tied in other Austen books. I know that Austen's books were all written and set around the same time period, but Highbury and Pemberley do not exist in the same world. Wickham working for the Elliotts is absurd, and Harriet Roberts nee Smith would never take in someone's bastard, even if it was the nephew of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Tying in other Austen characters smacks of inside jokes where none are necessary.
- Darcy is a laconic character. He never uses 200 words when 20 will do, and marrying Elizabeth wouldn't have suddenly turned him into Mr. Infodump. Phrases like "As you know, Magistrate, the sheriff's job is to..." should never fall from ANY character's lips - much less from Mr. Darcy's!
- Wickham is not a killer, and to try to paint him as a suspect just means that the inevitable acquittal is boooo-ring.
- Even more boooo-ring than the big reveal of the killer was the mutual explaining that Darcy and Elizabeth did in the last 20 pages of the text. They go on a walk and he proceeds to mansplain to her why he chose her and how she changed him, blah blah. It's as if James realized that her two major characters hadn't interacted in any significant way, then conveniently forgot that the confession scene in P&P ever happened.


Death Comes to Pemberley was my final attempt to enjoy Austen pastiche, and that enjoyment was a miserable failure. So authors, please take note: even if you're wicked famous and super-awesome, please don't use these (or ANY) characters to try to prop up your poorly conceived plot lines.

4 of 11 yellows



View all my reviews

Oh Hello, February!

Where did you com from? Between continuing to travel all over the place, hosting some lovely friends, and running my league's very first home team bout, January seems to have passed me by - and with very little knitting done, not to mention any homework whatsoever for my penultimate Masters class.

Two unfinished socks, a stack of books, some tea, and a cat who is about to be an asshole. This sums up my January nicely.

Maybe today I'll peel myself away from the Derby Inbox of Doom and finish something knitting-related while I listen to Brideshead Revisited.

Yep. That sounds like a plan.

Someone is "helping."

.22 Down, 11.78 to Go!

The first knit of 2012 is complete! 

Austermann Step Yarn, 382 yds.

Late Christmas socks for my papa. Standard K3P1 rib with what I think is an Eye of the Partridge heel. My dad isn't really into crazy colors - and these qualify as "crazy colors" to that Federal employee - so I'll  over-dye them a little so the white places are also a shade of tan. I'm quite pleased with how well they matched up! 

Next up is a pair for my stepmother, Lisa. 

Seacoast Handpaints Panda Yarn, "Bee Balm"

This will end up being Thelonius socks. I spent a happy evening last night winding yarn at my coffee table and watching Leverage, then I cleaned out a random basket that was sitting around - how do I end up with random baskets? I never think of myself as a "basket person" (basket CASE, maybe...) and yet they're lying about - and put all my Late Christmas Pre-Knitting (aka yarn) into it. Efficiency! Focus! Late night caffeine! 

In keeping with my streak of not spending weekends at home since August, I'm heading down to San Jose on Friday to see a Tennessee Williams play with some friends and then attend Jasmin's baby shower. Little Genevieve made her debut yesterday at 4pm, adding the definite eventuality of baby-huffing to the enjoyment of seeing good friends and the wool fumes of a well-stocked yarn store!

Tika 2012

2011 was pretty swell. I joined a roller derby league, traveled all over the place visiting old friends and making  new ones, and settled in to my (no longer) new apartment. I knitted not as much as I anticipated (a meager 6-ish miles) but nailed my goal of reading 75 books (29,060 pages!!) and revisited spinning.

Like years before, I didn't finish my crafting goals. This seems to happen to me more often than not; Largely Unrepeatable is full of "I tried this and failed, then I tried THAT and failed, and now I'm doing this with no real hope of success given the time frame! Go me!" In regular conversation, that's often called overstretching oneself or delusions of grandeur, but I feel strongly that goals and challenges aren't always meant to be met, especially if they're truly challenging. They're also a way for me to figure out what is important to me. If you've been around here for awhile, you're probably aware that I'm not very fussed if I can't knit through 11 or 12 miles of yarn in a year, but it was important enough to me to complete the goodreads challenge that I picked up books when I might have occupied myself doing other things. Goals (and the revisiting thereof) give me a chance to focus (and refocus) on what I like and who I want to be. And who knows? Maybe this year is the year I complete the 12-Mile Quest; after all, it's right there in the date.

Becoming part of Sacred City's family of hard, confident, passionate women has helped me to find the steel, confidence and passion I misplaced somewhere along the road. I've thought a lot over the last few days about when I was happiest in 2011, and the answers were fairly simple: I was happiest when I was cheering for my team, listening my niece tell me that "T is for Tika," and laughing so hard I cried - most recently over my own inability to add two coins into 35 cents.* At none of those times was I taking myself too seriously or worried about How Things Appear to Others, and there's a lesson there if I can only grasp it.

So with that in mind, Tika 2012 is about focus.**
I will focus on:

- Reading 100 books 

- Maintaining the relatively healthy agenda I've been following since October (hello waist! Nice to see you again!)

- Working diligently through the sometimes-oppressive amount of yarn and fiber at my fingertips, with the addendum of keeping incoming purchases to a reasonable incoming/outgoing ratio
- Finding employment
- Finishing my Master's degree
- Applying for PhD programs

But above all, I want to focus on:
- Making good and thoughtful choices


That's a lot of gerunds.





*Feel free to remind me of this next time I'm crowing over being Sooooooo Smart.
**Or, if you'd rather join me in my already-oft-repeated 2012 mantra, "pay the fuck attention, T!"