Oh, Canada!

The husband and I took a trip across the border - no, not to Taco Bell. Across an actual border between the US and Canada.  Times have certainly changed, in that when we used to cross the border, we only needed . . . nothing, really.  Now, we have to be sure to bring our passports, which, I think, is the reason that EVERY SINGLE TIME WE COME BACK TO THIS COUNTRY, the border guards search our car.

Why?

Because my passport photo makes me look like a member of the Gambino Crime Family.  And not like some widow or stripper or even a low level prostitute. No.  I look like a MALE member of the Gambino Crime Family.  And for some weird reason, that was the best photo we could get when we went to get our passports.  Seriously.  I have no idea the confluence of events that occurred when we went to take our photos at the post office, but the poor lady kept retaking my photos because for some reason a photo ghost/poltergeist/monster kept making me look . . . unstable . . . or as if I had no discernable eyes . . . or just weird.  So, instead, I look like some vaguely sweaty, oily, man's mug shot.  To the point where, you know how when you send in two photos with your passport application and then they send you back your passport and extra photo? THEY KEPT MY OTHER PHOTO.

Which I think they made copies of and distributed to every border crossing so that when I venture outside this country, on my way back in I am sure to be stopped and my trunk inspected [and NOT IN THE GOOD LL COOL J WAY], so that the husband and I are sitting in the car, listening to a strange man root around in the detritus of our lives ["Oh, that must be the bag of books I keep forgetting to donate to the library" and "Shit, is that the pile of reusable grocery bags? Why is he rooting around in there? So he can shame me about the onion skins that have been floating around in there for about 2 years?"] wondering if this is the time they are going to bust us for trying to bring back some cooked chicken that my relatives foisted on us.

It is exhausting being me.

The power of positive thinking can kiss my ass

Please explain to me how, in the past two days, I've encountered THREE books about a woman who has an accident thingy and suffers amnesia. THREE.  In TWO DAYS.

First, I listened to Sophie Kinsella's book, which was . . . meh.  I should have quit reading her after the first Shopoholic book, but I keep going back, like a sucker. Or meth head.

THEN, as soon as I finished that book, later that same day, I hit the gym with my work out book, which was about . . . a woman who suffers from amnesia.  This one, whose title I can't remember [is it catching, all this amnesia?], is a mystery-ish one, full of intrigue, but evidently not enough for me to keep reading.  Thanks to whoever recommended it, but it's too much brain trauma at once.

And so many similarities!  Both are women who have amnesia in London and are married and don't feel like they know their husbands.  Sure, one skitters off into chick lit world, and the other delves into the infernal workings of the human mind, but it's too much of the similarity.

Followed by the next day, where I'm on some writer's website who is touting her latest book about . . . a woman who is in an accident and suffers amnesia!

Are amnesiacs the new vampires? Am I missing something here?

PLUS:

My oven, which is about 2 months out of warranty, decides that all its parts are going to fall apart at once.  Yeah. FUCK YOU, oven that is only just over a year old. I CANNOT AFFORD TO OWN CRAP STUFF!

And then? Trying to deal with Maytag? Useless.  Absolutely useless.

Also, dwelling on misery makes me crazy, plus I ate an egg salad sandwich for lunch yesterday, which was a horrible idea, and somehow makes the misery worse.

I tried to do one of those POSITIVE THINKING type things, like a vision board or life list, and then realized that nothing will ever come of it. My life is a awful.  I will never go to Paris, never be a novelist, never go dancing again. None of it. 

How do I reconcile myself to that? How do I just say, "You know what? You're done. This is it. Your life will not get any better. Suck it." and not wallow?

Remember when I was thrilled that I didn't go crazy after reading the book about psychopaths?

Shouldn't have opened my big fucking mouth.

I'm better now, thanks.

Well, I checked out this Yahoo! article on heart attack symptoms, and, unsurprisingly, I have them ALL.

This was after I had the shittiest day in ages, so you must understand that it's not only my hypochondria which has me thinking I'm going to join Elizabeth because this is the big one*.  It's all combining to make me think this is it.  It's over.  Particularly because Saturday was a clusterfuck of aggravation and despair. 

There was fighting with the husband and not-so-surreptitiously deciding we were getting a divorce because FUCK HIM and then we did the, "Are you done being a jerk?" thing on Sunday and then he played a Pearl Jam song he said made him think of me [No, NOT JEREMY! GOD!], so the divorce is off. For now.  [Also, I must ask again, how did I spend my 20s dicking around and NOT fuck Eddie Vedder? WHAT THE HELL? I am SO.PISSED. I didn't head out to Seattle and get him while I could. Goddamnit, Charlie. That's bullshit.]

I also was morose about . . . everything.  Literally every single thing.  Job? Life in general? Debt? Missing my kid? Hating my body/mind/hair/soul? All of it.  It was a no good very bad day.

So I ended up making chocolate chip cookies, which helped a bit.  And then Sunday was actually not terrible and Monday was less hateful.  I hate moods. I want just a flatline of okayness.  With some bursts of OH FUCK YEAH. Is that too much to ask for? IS IT?

Also, apropos of nothing: sometimes when I play WWF, I deliberately put in curse words so it will tell me, "Sorry, that's not an acceptable word."  And then I get all smug and say, "Fuck you, WWF! I WILL DECIDE WHAT IS ACCEPTABLE!" 

I may need more friends in the real world.

______________

*Please, please tell me someone got the Sandford and Son reference? Also, when the girl was smaller and still was at home all the time, we would walk into her messy, messy room and sing the theme song.  She was pissed when she finally saw Fred and Lamont's house on t.v.

Oh, the benevolent internets.

SOPA/PIPA/KELLY FUCKING RIPA

Yes, a day late.

I tried to black out my blog yesterday, but couldn't figure it out.  So I put the STOP SOPA thing on my avi, where it will remain until I figure out how to get it off - good luck with that.  It will be there until the internet explodes.

Here's the thing - this is bad policy.  Being able to shut down sites because of perceived transgressions is not a good idea for anyone. It's reactionary at best and ridiculous at worst.  I am in an interesting, albeit not lone, position of being able to address this as a

writer
lawyer
blogger

As a writer, I know that it is important the my words are my own, particularly those I create for pay and that are used as they should be.  And I've been lucky enough that my work has never been plagiarized, and unlucky enough that my words are evidently not good enough for you fucking wankers to want to steal. WELL FUCK ALL OF YOU. 

Also, nobody has cited my academic papers and presentations, which I also find to be bullshit.  Maybe I need to swear more in them. Or less. I don't know.


As a lawyer, this is just ridiculously bad policy that will only be enforceable by those with deep pockets and spastic trigger fingers.  Go ahead and guess who they are.  Also, a lot of this is addressed by laws already on the books, so just use those. RIGHT?  PS During a copyright law session, a copyright lawyer said he had been to an international copyright conference full of lawyers and guess what? In this international group of LAWYERS who are responsible for ferreting out misdeeds of pirating, guess how many pirated music, etc.? ALL OF THEM. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. Yeah, so there's that.

And as a blogger, I find this ridiculously bad policy because you know what? If I want to talk about what a fucking cunt Gwyneth Paltrow is and how offensive GOOP is, I should be able to. 

"I know!  I brought this on myself!"

Because of the 1st Amendment and also because, Jesus Christ, she is such an abomination.

The first image that comes up for "Gwyneth Paltrow GOOP stupid"

 I know, right?

*******
PS Apropos of nothing, I finally figured out what Favstar is. And by figured out, I mean I clicked on it, went, "Huh." and then closed the tab.  I'll just be famous in my own mind on Twitter. Just like the rest of my life.

I have to think of a title, too? Eh, fuck it: Books.

If it's Tuesday and I'm tired, then it must be Book Report Tuesday.

Let's get to it:

I'm not sure who recommended this, but it is brilliant, so thank you very, very much. It's The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson and I love it for the following reasons:

• I found out I am NOT a psychopath; 
• it is immensely readable; 
• it has enough crime/creepiness to keep you engaged without delving into so much CSI/cop talk that it's off-putting; 
• the guy's writing style is excellent.  It reminds me that you can write about something difficult and somewhat unpleasant and possibly dry and academic and still be engaging.  That's my favorite type of writing.  I mean, say what you will about Terry Eagleton and his Marxist literary criticism, he's highly readable and fun.  And so is Ronson. Without the sanctimony.

One of my favorite lines is this:

"A lot of psychopaths become gatekeepers, " said Bob, "concierges, security guards, masters of their own domains." 

To which I would add - THOSE FUCKING CUNTS AT THE RECEPTION DESK AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICES.

It's also good to note that I can read this book about psychopaths and craziness and not feel like I'm getting sucked down into depression and anxiety. I think this means I'm better. Yay!

****************

I've been listening to Pride & Prejudice during my commute and it is as awesome as ever. And it reminded me that as much as I enjoyed the BBC version, the book is, as always, a gazillion times better. 

And that as much as I like to think of myself as the Lizzie Bennett of my life, I'm probably more Lydia.

Or, god forbid, Mrs. Bennett.

****************

I'm also reading Destiny of the Republic by Candice Millard, which I ostensibly got for the husband for Christmas.  We're actually both reading it a bit at a time. It's well-written, which most history books are not, which never ceases to surprise me because oh, my god, the things that have happened in the world! How can you not string together two sentences about the past that don't make me fall asleep? [I am here addressing every. single. historian. who ever put pen to paper. Because of course they write longhand. They are old-school.]

Anyway, the book is about James Garfield, one of those presidents I know almost nothing about except for the fact that . . . well, before I started reading this, I knew absolutely nothing about him.  But now? I know more, not only about him but also about the inventions and beliefs of his time.  Like Edison! And the World's Fair! And Lister, the guy who invented Listerine, and how all the doctors thought he was crazy to try and kill germs and dress wounds!  Pretty cool.

I am here reminded that once, in my undergrad days, I went to talk to a history prof during office hours about who knows what [maybe just to go gab, because I am a talker], and he asked what I thought of a book we were reading about Teddy Roosevelt.  And I said, "Oh, my god, that book is so dry, I have a hard time getting through it," because, cf., my resemblance to Lydia/Mrs. Bennett, and he, a kindly old man, said in a startled old man voice, "Oh, no. Really? Because a good friend of mine wrote it."

And then I died.

******************

At bedtime, since I've run through all our Nancy Drew books, I've been re-reading Harry Potter. I'm on Order of the Phoenix now, which is a good one. Umbridge! The Weasley twins! Harry being a jackass teenager!

But, oh god, the sheer weight of this book. I am very, very seriously thinking of getting a Kindle [iPad?] because I think I crushed a rib last night holding this book up to read.  I mean, I'm sure I could probably read something more lightweight, like a paperback, but how will I know what happens if I don't keep reading?  I can't just rely on my memory!  And dropping a Kindle on the husband as I doze off wouldn't be as satisfying in that mean spirited/loving married way.

What are you reading?  What book do you use as a weapon?  Have you ever insulted anyone to almost their face?