The Lisa Life

Breakdown

Breakdown, go ahead and give it to me/Breakdown, take me through the night/Breakdown, go ahead and give it to me/Breakdown, it's alright

I've had what's know in the program as a slip.

I haven't had a good week.  The holidays are always hard for me (I might have mentioned that before, you think?).  Mia has had a cold with a terrible barking cough.  I kept her home from preschool because although I am sure that is where she picked up the cold, I didn't think she needed to spread the joy.  The cold turned into an ear infection and after a fairly painless trip to her wonderful pediatrician's office, her first antibiotic.  However, being cooped up in the house during the winter with a child who although she sounds tubercular, has more energy than Rachel Ray on meth, is not fun.  Nerve, last, see: Lisa.

I've floundered over a short story I've been writing for two weeks now.  I finally made some progress and either through my own stupidity or my Fred Flintstone desktop Word 97 program, lost all but the first few paragraphs. 

I've yelled at my (sick but not incapacitated) child.  Threatened to beat the dog to a bloody pulp.  Banged many pots and pans.  Barked at my poor long-suffering husband.  In general, I've been a real bitch.

Last night, my husband put on his coat and said he'd be right back.  I figured he was getting something out of the car, moving the trash dumpster thingy which was banging in the wind, or just stepping outside to count to ten so he stopped thinking of how long he would have to serve if he duct taped my mouth shut.  He was back a few minutes later and threw a pack of cigarettes at me.  A lovely, beautiful, glorious pack of Monarch Lights.

I could have eaten them.  A bacon wrapped filet mignon smothered in a red wine demi-glace could not have looked more inviting.

I don't want to start smoking again.  I hate myself for doing it.  I really have no excuse.  I'm not going to start in earnest.  I think a lot of the desire to smoke is coming from my overall holiday angst and jangled nerves and being marooned in the house, boredom, not enough outside stimulation and part of it is just my highly-addictive personality.

I have a doctor's appointment on Tuesday.  I think it's time to go back on the anti-depressants in earnest.  Finer living through some kind of chemicals.

Edited to add: Thank you so much, everyone, for your continued encouragement, both on and off the blog.  It helps.  It really does. 

Jennifer Haigh

Our local library is not the greatest.  They have a large selection of books, but they generally are not books I would go out of my way to read.  They have well over an entire shelf of Danielle Steele's literary abortions, but I had to order Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates through the inter-library loan program. (Thank you, Higher Power, for the invention of the inter-library loan.)  Their true crime section is as bleak and barren as the Nebraska plains in March. As a result, I often wander the aisles, randomly eyeing the volumes, looking for something interesting that is not The Bridges Of Madison County. (Side note:  They do have a wonderful selection of cooksbooks.)

Last week, I stumbled across two books by Jennifer Haigh, Mrs. Kimble and Baker Towers.  Ms. Haigh is a graduate of the prestigious Iowa Writer's Workshop and the recipient of the PEN/Hemingway Award for First Fiction for Mrs. Kimble and the winner of the 2006 PEN/L.L. Winship Award for Bakers Towers. 

I read Mrs. Kimble in its entirety yesterday and started Bakers Towers (at about 2 a.m., I might add).  The lady can tell a wonderful story. 

Mrs. Kimble is the story of Ken Kimble, a sleazy opportunistic man who marries three women.  The story is told from the third person point of view of the wives and Kimble's son Charlie, who was abandoned by Kimble at the age of six.

Baker Towers is set in a Pennsylvania coal town in the World War II era (rather fitting since today is Pearl Harbor Day).  It captures the town and the people of that generation and place perfectly, that spirit of innocence and hope without being mushy or sentimental.

Neither book is "chick lit", which for the most part, I abhor.  They are, however, compelling and lyrical and inviting.  I was right there, looking over the character's shoulders.

I would highly recommend a week-end curled up with Jennifer Haigh's wonderful imagination and skillful pen.