We lost power for more than 24 hours due to IRENE. We are fine, thank the fates, no major damge or anything, but it was a strange interlude.
It made me grateful tenfold that I married the man I did. That I married my best friend. A resourceful man, a clever man, a kind man, a patient man, a man that makes me laugh, that makes me feel beautiful, that can cook and can continue to surprise me, amaze me, delight me, and inspire me.
It was difficult adjusting to the power outage at first. Especially when night fell. It was somewhat adventurous, but largely frustrating because Aaron was supposed to be starting work the next day. His last day of freedom and we were technologically crippled.
Crippled, but not paralyzed. He went right on doing what he had wanted to do, slowed, but not deterred. Her built things without powertools. It was amazing to behold his patience and his determination. I kept rather quiet, having grown up with a man who could be irascible and unreasonable while building things, especially when tools did not work the way they ought, or when some problem presented itself in the form of a setback.
But Aaron? He remained pleasant. Even tempered. It was... nice.
We hung these amazing new bookshelves, which are not really bookshelves, but simply books seeming to float on the wall.
It looks great, and it looks even better because it is flanking the new BRIGHT YELLOW bookcase aaron has just completed! It is a bookcase on wheels, behind which is my entire IKEA wardrobe unit, and the door to the laundry! It is a secret bookcase! Well, not so much a secret, but a multi-purpose, awesomesauce bookcase dreamt up and executed by my favorite person.
I'll have to take pics sometime.
It is wonderful, and all is perfect with it, excepting that I almost crushed the cat's head between it and the wall. Curiosity would have literally killed my cat, had he not pulled his furry little face back at the last second. Phew! I shall have to endeavor to watch out for sneaky little kittens near my incredibly heavy, solid, secret bookcase door unit!
Anyway, whilst I was reorganizing books and reshelving them and generally finding new homes for everything, I came accross a big ole book I had purchased at one of those library sales where everything must go!
I purchased this novel based on title alone. "Through A Glass Darkly". Great title, right? I have been meaning to open it and peruse it, see if it'd catch my attention. So I open it, begin reading, expecting literature, and what do I find? Why this enormous, well titled, behemoth of a book posing as literature on my shelves for years is actually no more than an historical fiction romance! Aha! With the power out and boredom setting in, I am hooked by the scandal rocking the first pages. The eavesdropping, the broken engagements, England in the 1700s! An within a few more pages I am even more intrigued by the prospect of a fifteen year old girl marrying a 42 year old man--who may or may not have secret homosexual secrets! YUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
I tell yyou, I read this 743 page tome cover to cover, stopping only to eat, fret about how I ought to be lesson planning, make love, and go the bathroom! It absorbed me. And this is saying something, too, because it was AGES into the book before there was any actual sex. Usually the holding-out of a romance novel frustrates me, angers me, and makes me petulant. But nope, I was hooked. I was actually hooked on the story, on the characters, on what might happen. It was WELL WRITTEN. Honestly. I mean, obviously I can tell the difference between literature and, well, this. But nonetheless. It was good. Really well written.
Now, I thoroughly enjoyed what few sex scenes the author gave me. And I loved that most of them weren't between the main heroine and her hero. I loved that the ones she did include were often kinky, dark, and salacious. I especially loved and appreciated the one between our Hero and his handsome friend from the war... yum yum yum yum yum. If only she had been more graphic... but don't fret, my imagination works very well, thanks.
Anywho. It ended up being something less predictable than I imagined, and I have this unsettled feeling now that it is over. It was headed right to classic romance novel resolution, when it took some really interesting and point-of-no-return corners. And. Well. Incase you want to read it (you probably won't) I won't spoil it, but... I just feel unsettled. All morning I've been rushing to finish it so that I can get on with my life, do the things I need to do, do the things I want to do, and instead I feel all weird and my mind keeps wandering.
I'm writing this in the hopes of exorcising some of my unnameable frustration. It was good. It was a good book. It didn't end happily ever after, and yet in a way, it kinda did. It ended on a hopeful note, at any rate. But.
And of course this makes me think of my writing. So many similar elements, familiar themes. Some main characters even had violet eyes. And then of course there was the whole 15year old with a 42 year old who'd known her since she was a little girl, who felt particularly paternal toward her... yeah.
But I haven't time to write much anymore, and when I do I struggle with how to end it, how to make strings come together, how to resolve situations that seem like they cannot possibly resolve.
And I have more important things to worry about. to occupy my mind. My mind, which seems too dense and slow and clumsy to manage all that I will have to manage in the coming days, weeks, month, year.
At the root of all my procrastination is this gripping fear. That I don't know what I'm doing. That I will fail. Fail the kids, fail the people that hired me, the people who put their neck on the line to get me hired, fail my husband and my family, fail fail fail.
I sit down to plan and nothing comes but flittering ideas and vague concepts. I keep thinking: If this were a drama class, I would not have this problem. And others keep assuring me that I'll be great! Not to worry. THat I can do it.
But in my hear of hearts, I tell you, I am scared shitless, and feel like I am up against the hardest thing I'll ever have to do in my life.
Become a real teacher. Without the proper training. Without a clue as to what I ought to be doing. Or how I should go about doing it.
I need to survive, survive until I can get more training, but in the meantime? How well can I tread water? Can I do it well enough to convince on-lookers that I know how to swim? And can I keep these kids, these kids who are already struggling, who need someone strong and capable and confident, can I keep these kids from sinking along with me?
The historical romance novel is done. The power is back on. Sure, there are dishes to be done, cleaning to be seen to, laundry piling up. But my first priority is sitting down and really, really truly, planning some fucking lessons.
Holy good god.
It made me grateful tenfold that I married the man I did. That I married my best friend. A resourceful man, a clever man, a kind man, a patient man, a man that makes me laugh, that makes me feel beautiful, that can cook and can continue to surprise me, amaze me, delight me, and inspire me.
It was difficult adjusting to the power outage at first. Especially when night fell. It was somewhat adventurous, but largely frustrating because Aaron was supposed to be starting work the next day. His last day of freedom and we were technologically crippled.
Crippled, but not paralyzed. He went right on doing what he had wanted to do, slowed, but not deterred. Her built things without powertools. It was amazing to behold his patience and his determination. I kept rather quiet, having grown up with a man who could be irascible and unreasonable while building things, especially when tools did not work the way they ought, or when some problem presented itself in the form of a setback.
But Aaron? He remained pleasant. Even tempered. It was... nice.
We hung these amazing new bookshelves, which are not really bookshelves, but simply books seeming to float on the wall.
 |
| Like This! |
It looks great, and it looks even better because it is flanking the new BRIGHT YELLOW bookcase aaron has just completed! It is a bookcase on wheels, behind which is my entire IKEA wardrobe unit, and the door to the laundry! It is a secret bookcase! Well, not so much a secret, but a multi-purpose, awesomesauce bookcase dreamt up and executed by my favorite person.
I'll have to take pics sometime.
It is wonderful, and all is perfect with it, excepting that I almost crushed the cat's head between it and the wall. Curiosity would have literally killed my cat, had he not pulled his furry little face back at the last second. Phew! I shall have to endeavor to watch out for sneaky little kittens near my incredibly heavy, solid, secret bookcase door unit!
 |
| "Put...The Candle...BACK!" |
Anyway, whilst I was reorganizing books and reshelving them and generally finding new homes for everything, I came accross a big ole book I had purchased at one of those library sales where everything must go!
I purchased this novel based on title alone. "Through A Glass Darkly". Great title, right? I have been meaning to open it and peruse it, see if it'd catch my attention. So I open it, begin reading, expecting literature, and what do I find? Why this enormous, well titled, behemoth of a book posing as literature on my shelves for years is actually no more than an historical fiction romance! Aha! With the power out and boredom setting in, I am hooked by the scandal rocking the first pages. The eavesdropping, the broken engagements, England in the 1700s! An within a few more pages I am even more intrigued by the prospect of a fifteen year old girl marrying a 42 year old man--who may or may not have secret homosexual secrets! YUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
I tell yyou, I read this 743 page tome cover to cover, stopping only to eat, fret about how I ought to be lesson planning, make love, and go the bathroom! It absorbed me. And this is saying something, too, because it was AGES into the book before there was any actual sex. Usually the holding-out of a romance novel frustrates me, angers me, and makes me petulant. But nope, I was hooked. I was actually hooked on the story, on the characters, on what might happen. It was WELL WRITTEN. Honestly. I mean, obviously I can tell the difference between literature and, well, this. But nonetheless. It was good. Really well written.
Now, I thoroughly enjoyed what few sex scenes the author gave me. And I loved that most of them weren't between the main heroine and her hero. I loved that the ones she did include were often kinky, dark, and salacious. I especially loved and appreciated the one between our Hero and his handsome friend from the war... yum yum yum yum yum. If only she had been more graphic... but don't fret, my imagination works very well, thanks.
 |
| Oooh, a detail of a renaissance style painting, like Girl with the Pearl Earring! It must be goooooood.... Since mine was a hardcover long ago separated from whatever dust jacket it may have been born with, I had no such itriguing luxury as this damsel in the oh-so-popular-these-days Tracy Chevalier novel style....and yes, I have read each of Ms. Chevalier's dissapointments after Pearl Earring.... |
Anywho. It ended up being something less predictable than I imagined, and I have this unsettled feeling now that it is over. It was headed right to classic romance novel resolution, when it took some really interesting and point-of-no-return corners. And. Well. Incase you want to read it (you probably won't) I won't spoil it, but... I just feel unsettled. All morning I've been rushing to finish it so that I can get on with my life, do the things I need to do, do the things I want to do, and instead I feel all weird and my mind keeps wandering.
I'm writing this in the hopes of exorcising some of my unnameable frustration. It was good. It was a good book. It didn't end happily ever after, and yet in a way, it kinda did. It ended on a hopeful note, at any rate. But.
And of course this makes me think of my writing. So many similar elements, familiar themes. Some main characters even had violet eyes. And then of course there was the whole 15year old with a 42 year old who'd known her since she was a little girl, who felt particularly paternal toward her... yeah.
But I haven't time to write much anymore, and when I do I struggle with how to end it, how to make strings come together, how to resolve situations that seem like they cannot possibly resolve.
And I have more important things to worry about. to occupy my mind. My mind, which seems too dense and slow and clumsy to manage all that I will have to manage in the coming days, weeks, month, year.
At the root of all my procrastination is this gripping fear. That I don't know what I'm doing. That I will fail. Fail the kids, fail the people that hired me, the people who put their neck on the line to get me hired, fail my husband and my family, fail fail fail.
I sit down to plan and nothing comes but flittering ideas and vague concepts. I keep thinking: If this were a drama class, I would not have this problem. And others keep assuring me that I'll be great! Not to worry. THat I can do it.
But in my hear of hearts, I tell you, I am scared shitless, and feel like I am up against the hardest thing I'll ever have to do in my life.
Become a real teacher. Without the proper training. Without a clue as to what I ought to be doing. Or how I should go about doing it.
I need to survive, survive until I can get more training, but in the meantime? How well can I tread water? Can I do it well enough to convince on-lookers that I know how to swim? And can I keep these kids, these kids who are already struggling, who need someone strong and capable and confident, can I keep these kids from sinking along with me?
The historical romance novel is done. The power is back on. Sure, there are dishes to be done, cleaning to be seen to, laundry piling up. But my first priority is sitting down and really, really truly, planning some fucking lessons.
Holy good god.
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