I am re-reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. E is listening to it on CDs during his commute.
When I first read this, I had a hard time getting blown away- maybe it was the great expectations, the fabulous reviews - until I was about 1/2 way into the book. After that point, it was firmly entrenched in my mind. I haven't really stopped thinking about this book since I first read it, and I often recommend it. I think because the whole immigration/first generation/fuku issues resonate so completely for me - but my issues with that are obviously different [different gender/race/ethnicity/country of origin/religion/type of fuku]. Plus, who doesn't love footnotes? And trash talking Trujillo?
This time, I'm sinking in a little easier, plus it's great to talk about it with E, who has none of the immigrant/first generation baggage. The problem now is, I've been trying to write and it's hard for me when I read something so lyrical to think that I have anything to say.
In other news, we, as a family, have decided to take up some sort of fighting regimen [yes, we did have a Burn Notice marathon recently. Why do you ask?]. I'm thinking Krav Maga. G read up on Egyptian stick fighting, which also seems kick ass. But I have a hard enough time keeping the stuff in my purse organized - where the hell would I put a 4 foot long stick? Up my butt?