Our bodies are betryaing us. Wyatt's had a cough. Elise has had the flu--sick since Tuesday, feverish, achy, moaning on the couch, the whole nine yards. Forrest is all plugged up and has post-nasal drip and is determined to beat the cold by drinking orange juice and standing in hot showers (not simultaneously). Jonas woke up yesterday feverish, too, and has a greenish cast to his complexion (poor kid). Ethan woke up this morning and announced that he was also sick--although he doesn't have a fever and his complexion always looks pasty white--but then I feel guilty because of all my kids I'm always most suspicious that he's faking it.
Sorry, Ethan, if you really are sick and I'm suspicious. I'm sure you really did want to go to church :-).
I don't have the goop, but my body's betraying me in other ways. Besides the omnipresent tailbone pain that serves to remind me of my body's rapid descent into middle age, I now have a skiing injury that I'm quite certain will start acting up whenever the weather's about to change for the rest of my life.
I neglected to mention last week that we took the kids skiing. (Well, we took Elise and Jonas skiing, since Ethan was at school and Wyatt doesn't ski.) I try to be a good sport about snow skiing--I really do. Healthy, active, super-fun people with names like "Pikabo Street" like snow skiing, and I want nothing more than to be healthy, active, and super-fun. Forrest loves snowboarding and I wish I could be one of those hard core outdoorsy chicks who likes to "push it to the limit" and "live dangerously" and "participate in sports of any kind."
Alas, I am not.
Well, okay, I'll waterski. That's kinda fun, sometimes. I also like yoga, but I don't think that counts because although it's technically "active," it's done inside, to introspective instrumental music, and at the end you get to lay on the floor and listen to people say soothing things and meditate.
So I decided to try and be sporting and go skiing with my family. Elise and I spent some time on the bunny hill and actually enjoyed ourselves. Swoosh, swoosh, giggle, giggle, look at the pretty trees! etc. No falling down. No terror. I was having a good time but knew it would be short lived because the bunny hill at Brighton is way too short. Even I was getting bored. (It seems to me the Chickadee at Snow Bird is the perfect bunny hill--just challenging enough, and not over in 90 seconds.) But Jonas and Forrest had been on the "big hill"--and yes, it's probably not even a "big hill" as far as legitimate skiing is concerned, but it's big enough, alright??
Anyway, both Elise and I needed to man up and go join them. So we did and for the first half I was doing okay. Snow plowing, cutting back and forth to reduce speed, looking cooly competent instead of mildly panicked, and so forth. But then we cut around these trees and the powder was really deep and--oh no, oh no, ohnoohnoohno--I started going too fast and the tree was zooming up to meet me and CRASH. I crashed.
The worst part is that not only am I not the best skiier, but I'm an even worse faller. I fell with my knees splayed out in the way little kids to when they're sitting on the floor and the powder was so deep that my skis were completely stuck. No WAY I could move those things. So I had to yell for Forrest to come help me while my knees screamed in pain. He pulled me out and I tried to be tough about it. I even went down the hill one more time. But I knew I'd be paying for it.
So now, a week and a half later, I'm limping up and down the stairs. They feel better today than yesterday (which is weird, since yesterday I was wearing a brace) and my left knee is a lot better than my right, but I still feel like a hobbly old lady.
Dumb bodies.
Hopefully we'll all be healed here soon.
But hey! The Academy Awards are on tonight! So there's that. Do you think Kate Winslet skis? I'd feel lots better about myself if she didn't.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Gong!! It's Valentine's Day!
V-Day kind of sneaked (snuck?? I'm always so tempted to say snuck) up on me. Luckily I'm married to an understanding man who's happy with a gourmet caramel apple and a card from the grocery store (lovingly inscribed). He, on the other hand, outdid himself this year.
Not only did he get me an iPod Nano--on sale at RC Willinson's (long story, a guy Forrest worked with once upon a time called it that in all seriousness and it kinda stuck)--but friends of ours, Dana and Joel, scored 4th row tickets for Ballet West's production of Madame Butterfly so he surprised me with a stylin' night out on the town.
My mom and dad showed up right as we were getting ready to go so they could give the kids their totally-awesome-Grandparents'-bag-o-VDay-loot, and my mom took one look at Forrest and said, "You look so handsome we absolutely have to take a picture! . . . Oh, and you look nice too Angie." (I'm just giving you a bad time, Mom. I know you saw Forrest first, which totally explains it . . . right?? :-).
So my mom was going to take a picture but with my heels on I was so tall that she would have been coming at me from the bottom up angle, which is SO not the angle members of the Sweat family should employ, so I made my dad take the picture instead. And Forrest does look killer hot.
We headed downtown with Dana and Joel and, miracle of miracles, were able to get a table at the Blue Iguana for dinner in under 30 minutes. Pessimistic me was muttering under her breath that there would be NO WAY we'd get a table downtown on Valentine's without a reservation, but this was an example of a time I was happy to be wrong. Our waiter was pleasant and super fast, we scarfed down our burritos and Cokes, and we still had 30 minutes left to run across the street (okay, well, the guys ran, and I teetered along in my too-high-for-winter-downtown-running heels) (I have a feeling this post is going to set a record for parenthetical asides and humorous-adjectives-connected-with-hyphens).
The main attraction of the night was Madame Butterfly, but there was an opening act, too. An Asian-influenced contemporary ballet called "Gong."
The costumes were created by Isaac Mizrahi, which made me feel cool because SO WERE MY TOO HIGH HEELS! (Target, sale rack, $19).
I was really enjoying myself--I love contemporary dance, and I feel well qualified to say this because I watch So You Think You Can Dance faithfully every summer--but halfway through my friend Dana leaned over and whispered, "This is so not what we were expecting." And I whispered back (wondering if she was suffering from we-invited-them-so-we're-responsible-if-they-don't-like-it-itis), "I'm really enjoying it. I like contemporary dance." And she said, "Yeah, but it's so hard to follow the story. Last time we came there were costumes and sets and . . . "
And then it hit me that she and Joel didn't realize this was the opening act. This wasn't Madame Butterfly. By then a couple was doing a completely silent routine (no music--very avant-garde and super cool) and we had to stop talking, so I ran my finger under the part of the program where it said, "Also Featuring Mark Morris' Gong." Once the realization hit her she started to giggle a little and elbowed her husband, who was also as confused as all get out. During intermission, Joel kept saying, "I'm a pretty smart guy, and I'm SO not getting this! Who's the Geisha? Who's Lieutenant Pinkerton? Why does everyone else seem to be following all this?" Anyway, it was funny, in a ballet humor kind of way.
Madame Butterfly itself was just wonderful. Great costumes and set design (whew!) and the female lead was amazing. There's a 10 minute or so pas-de-deux (see, now that I go to the ballet AND watch So You Think You Can Dance, I throw around all kinds of technical dance terminology) between Butterfly and her American "husband" Pinkerton right after the marriage ceremony that's incredibly passionate and demanding--lifts and leaps and bounding all over the stage--and both leads were astonishing in their stamina and strength.
And who would have thought the ballet would make you cry? But it did. Madame Butterfly is a classic tragedy, and we read the synopsis beforehand so we'd know what to expect . . . but when Butterfly hands over her darling little blond boy to Pinkerton's "new" American wife before she kills herself?? I mean, do you have a heart of stone? Kleenexes! So she hands her beloved child over, you start crying, then she takes a giant sword and stabs herself, raises her blood covered arms in the air, dies, Pinkerton dashes in and falls in a heap on the floor and BOOM! Over. Not even enough time to recover your composure. Classic tragedy. But man, it was good.
So that was our Valentine's night, full of complimentary mothers-in-law, efficient Mexican waiters, Isaac Mizrahi design, contemporary dance misunderstandings, and lifts and leaps and betrayals and bloody suicides.
'Twas all very romantic.
Not only did he get me an iPod Nano--on sale at RC Willinson's (long story, a guy Forrest worked with once upon a time called it that in all seriousness and it kinda stuck)--but friends of ours, Dana and Joel, scored 4th row tickets for Ballet West's production of Madame Butterfly so he surprised me with a stylin' night out on the town.
My mom and dad showed up right as we were getting ready to go so they could give the kids their totally-awesome-Grandparents'-bag-o-VDay-loot, and my mom took one look at Forrest and said, "You look so handsome we absolutely have to take a picture! . . . Oh, and you look nice too Angie." (I'm just giving you a bad time, Mom. I know you saw Forrest first, which totally explains it . . . right?? :-).
So my mom was going to take a picture but with my heels on I was so tall that she would have been coming at me from the bottom up angle, which is SO not the angle members of the Sweat family should employ, so I made my dad take the picture instead. And Forrest does look killer hot.
We headed downtown with Dana and Joel and, miracle of miracles, were able to get a table at the Blue Iguana for dinner in under 30 minutes. Pessimistic me was muttering under her breath that there would be NO WAY we'd get a table downtown on Valentine's without a reservation, but this was an example of a time I was happy to be wrong. Our waiter was pleasant and super fast, we scarfed down our burritos and Cokes, and we still had 30 minutes left to run across the street (okay, well, the guys ran, and I teetered along in my too-high-for-winter-downtown-running heels) (I have a feeling this post is going to set a record for parenthetical asides and humorous-adjectives-connected-with-hyphens).
The main attraction of the night was Madame Butterfly, but there was an opening act, too. An Asian-influenced contemporary ballet called "Gong."
The costumes were created by Isaac Mizrahi, which made me feel cool because SO WERE MY TOO HIGH HEELS! (Target, sale rack, $19).
I was really enjoying myself--I love contemporary dance, and I feel well qualified to say this because I watch So You Think You Can Dance faithfully every summer--but halfway through my friend Dana leaned over and whispered, "This is so not what we were expecting." And I whispered back (wondering if she was suffering from we-invited-them-so-we're-responsible-if-they-don't-like-it-itis), "I'm really enjoying it. I like contemporary dance." And she said, "Yeah, but it's so hard to follow the story. Last time we came there were costumes and sets and . . . "
And then it hit me that she and Joel didn't realize this was the opening act. This wasn't Madame Butterfly. By then a couple was doing a completely silent routine (no music--very avant-garde and super cool) and we had to stop talking, so I ran my finger under the part of the program where it said, "Also Featuring Mark Morris' Gong." Once the realization hit her she started to giggle a little and elbowed her husband, who was also as confused as all get out. During intermission, Joel kept saying, "I'm a pretty smart guy, and I'm SO not getting this! Who's the Geisha? Who's Lieutenant Pinkerton? Why does everyone else seem to be following all this?" Anyway, it was funny, in a ballet humor kind of way.
Madame Butterfly itself was just wonderful. Great costumes and set design (whew!) and the female lead was amazing. There's a 10 minute or so pas-de-deux (see, now that I go to the ballet AND watch So You Think You Can Dance, I throw around all kinds of technical dance terminology) between Butterfly and her American "husband" Pinkerton right after the marriage ceremony that's incredibly passionate and demanding--lifts and leaps and bounding all over the stage--and both leads were astonishing in their stamina and strength.
And who would have thought the ballet would make you cry? But it did. Madame Butterfly is a classic tragedy, and we read the synopsis beforehand so we'd know what to expect . . . but when Butterfly hands over her darling little blond boy to Pinkerton's "new" American wife before she kills herself?? I mean, do you have a heart of stone? Kleenexes! So she hands her beloved child over, you start crying, then she takes a giant sword and stabs herself, raises her blood covered arms in the air, dies, Pinkerton dashes in and falls in a heap on the floor and BOOM! Over. Not even enough time to recover your composure. Classic tragedy. But man, it was good.
So that was our Valentine's night, full of complimentary mothers-in-law, efficient Mexican waiters, Isaac Mizrahi design, contemporary dance misunderstandings, and lifts and leaps and betrayals and bloody suicides.
'Twas all very romantic.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Cool! (But not Funky Cool)
I have two cool Bound on Earth related bits-o-news. First, I got a surprise book review in the Deseret News! It's a really great review . . . although the caveat about gratuitous "sexual references" makes me chuckle.
The other is that the nominations for the Whitney Awards came out this morning. The Whitney Awards recognize novels by Mormon authors, and I was nominated in three categories, including Novel of the Year. So that's exciting! (Should I be practicing my "It's an honor just to be nominated?" speech?? Probably.)
So speaking of cool, here's an exchange between Jonas and me as we drove to the Dinosaur Museum last week. I was shimmying a little to Pink's "So What" (hey! It's catchy!).
Jonas: Mom, what did I tell you about funky?
Me: I don't know, Joe. What did you tell me?
Jonas: Funky's out of style. Especially for moms.
Point taken.
The other is that the nominations for the Whitney Awards came out this morning. The Whitney Awards recognize novels by Mormon authors, and I was nominated in three categories, including Novel of the Year. So that's exciting! (Should I be practicing my "It's an honor just to be nominated?" speech?? Probably.)
So speaking of cool, here's an exchange between Jonas and me as we drove to the Dinosaur Museum last week. I was shimmying a little to Pink's "So What" (hey! It's catchy!).
Jonas: Mom, what did I tell you about funky?
Me: I don't know, Joe. What did you tell me?
Jonas: Funky's out of style. Especially for moms.
Point taken.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Betraying My First Love
It has come to my attention that I haven't been reading many novels of late, which makes me feel vaguely guilty. Not quite kiltered. Weird.
I consider myself an inveterate novel reader, a fan of long-form fiction, a product of a childhood filled with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Secret Garden, Harriet the Spy, and Thirteen is too Young To Die. (I threw that one in lest you think my childhood novel-reading tastes were uniformly impeccable. I also loved a novel called You're a Cover Girl Now!, and another called The Launching of Linda Bell about a group of high school kids who take a--wait for it--ugly smart girl with glasses named Belinda Belinsky, get her contacts and a give her a spiral perm to make her beautiful, only to find that she ends up SUPER WITCHY once she turns hot.)
Anyway.
Being "one who reads novels" has always been a part of my identity, right along with being "one who raises her hand during lulls in Relief Society discussions" and "one who doesn't start thinking about what to make for dinner until at least 4:45." But I've noticed a precipitous dropping off in my novel habits lately. It's not that I'm not reading. I am! Just not novels.
Here's what I'm reading right now:
-Short fiction. Tons of it. Scads. Some I'm reading for enjoyment. I always buy Best American Short Stories, and this year's is pretty good, although there's a terrible short story about Mormon missionaries written by someone who apparently has never met a Mormon and didn't bother trying to find one to give his manuscript a cursory once over. And neither did the anthology's editors, either. There are Mormons in New York, Heidi Pitlor, Series Editor. I could even introduce you to some!
But most of my short story reading is in the Mormon Lit vein, because I'm editing a collection of short fiction for Zarahemla Books. The project was supposed to happen last year but got put on the back burner. Now it's building up to a slow boil, though, and I've had fun (mostly) scouring back issues of LDS magazines and writing emails to semi-famous folks like Brady Udall and Brian Evenson . (I told Forrest that the Udalls and Evensons of the literary world are roughly equivalent to the Danny Ainges of the basketball world. So just imagine writing an email to Danny Ainge, if that helps.) So far, all the writers I've contacted, semi-famous or decidedly non-famous (but talented), have been exceedingly nice.
BUT . . . this is not the point of this post.
The books I've recently finished, or are in the middle of reading right now, are:
-An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination. This memoir about Elizabeth McCracken's experience having a stillborn baby, then getting pregnant and giving birth almost exactly a year later, is harrowing and beautiful and just amazingly well written. It's not a long book, and I tore through it in a couple of days.
-The Audacity of Hope (by You Know Who!). It thrills me so to have a president who's also a writer. Maybe this is how the big game hunters felt when Teddy Roosevelt was in office? I'm only about half way through (it's intensely interesting, but not what I'd call a page turner). Thanks, Mind, for the Christmas gift!
-The Secret Life of Words: How English Became English. Another Christmas gift, this time from my mom. Also fascinating. I've only read a couple of chapters in this one, though.
-Reading Like a Writer. I read this one in preparation for teaching this semester. I figure that if I can't turn all my students into writer-geniuses, the least I can do is teach them how to read better. This book is a great tool for that, and an interesting read in its own right.
-How Fiction Works. I bought this one on a whim late last year after reading a review (in Newsweek? Can't remember). It's fascinating, and very cerebral. Kind of makes my brain hurt. I've read about 3/4 of it, but I put it down and wonder when I'll return . . .?
-Riding Shotgun: Women Write About Their Mothers. I got a copy of this one because a couple of the essays were written by professors of mine from Hamline, and also because I thought it might make a good Christmas gift. I've only read about half of it, and as is the case with essay collections, some of the essays I LOVE, and some of them are eh. Okay.
-An Unquiet Mind. My friend Kathy lent this to me and it's just fascinating. I'm also about halfway done with this one, too. (Are you sensing a pattern here??).
So where are all the novels? Is it really true (COULD it be true?) that the last novel I finished reading was Stephanie Meyer's The Host back in the summer? First, there's the shame of my non-literary choice (although I did enjoy it--liked it quite a bit better than Twilight, actually). But look how much time has gone by?? I also read Ian McEwin's On Chesil Beach around that same time (obviously much more literary, but was a little sex-ified for my taste).
The worst part is right now I'm in the middle of (hah!)Home by Marilynne Robinson. Now, Ms. Robinson is my official "favorite author" at this point in my life(Gilead? Anyone?), and I was so excited that Kathy gave me her latest book for Christmas. And it's a beautiful book. Lovely, lovely, lovely. But I've only read half of it, too! I never used to do that with novels, at least not with good ones. I know I'll finish it within the next month or so, but it still weirds me out that I'm not only betraying novels as a form, but I'm betraying MARILYNNE! I mean, it's like my Dad not watching the Jazz.
Final example. Over a year ago, I bought Middlesex, a long, sprawling, Pulitzer Prize winning tale of Greek immigration, secret intermarriage, and genetic consequences. I'd read the beginning of the book two or three times (it was starting to feel like 1st Nephi) and finally gave up. But then--a ha!--I decided to download the audio book. Historically, I've never been an audio book listener, but now that I've been relegated to the elliptical trainer I need something to keep my brain busy while I work out. And this book is 14 hours worth of brain business. And wouldn't you know it? I'm half way through this one, too, and it's helping me enjoy my treadmill time. I don't think it really counts as *reading* a novel though, you know?
So there you have it. Any theories as to why I've been ignoring the novel? Any theories as to why I'm halfway finished with a half dozen books? Any theories as to why I'm staying up until 11:23 on a school night imbedding hyperlinks to Amazon when I should be sleeping?
Good night, then.
I consider myself an inveterate novel reader, a fan of long-form fiction, a product of a childhood filled with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Secret Garden, Harriet the Spy, and Thirteen is too Young To Die. (I threw that one in lest you think my childhood novel-reading tastes were uniformly impeccable. I also loved a novel called You're a Cover Girl Now!, and another called The Launching of Linda Bell about a group of high school kids who take a--wait for it--ugly smart girl with glasses named Belinda Belinsky, get her contacts and a give her a spiral perm to make her beautiful, only to find that she ends up SUPER WITCHY once she turns hot.)
Anyway.
Being "one who reads novels" has always been a part of my identity, right along with being "one who raises her hand during lulls in Relief Society discussions" and "one who doesn't start thinking about what to make for dinner until at least 4:45." But I've noticed a precipitous dropping off in my novel habits lately. It's not that I'm not reading. I am! Just not novels.
Here's what I'm reading right now:
-Short fiction. Tons of it. Scads. Some I'm reading for enjoyment. I always buy Best American Short Stories, and this year's is pretty good, although there's a terrible short story about Mormon missionaries written by someone who apparently has never met a Mormon and didn't bother trying to find one to give his manuscript a cursory once over. And neither did the anthology's editors, either. There are Mormons in New York, Heidi Pitlor, Series Editor. I could even introduce you to some!
But most of my short story reading is in the Mormon Lit vein, because I'm editing a collection of short fiction for Zarahemla Books. The project was supposed to happen last year but got put on the back burner. Now it's building up to a slow boil, though, and I've had fun (mostly) scouring back issues of LDS magazines and writing emails to semi-famous folks like Brady Udall and Brian Evenson . (I told Forrest that the Udalls and Evensons of the literary world are roughly equivalent to the Danny Ainges of the basketball world. So just imagine writing an email to Danny Ainge, if that helps.) So far, all the writers I've contacted, semi-famous or decidedly non-famous (but talented), have been exceedingly nice.
BUT . . . this is not the point of this post.
The books I've recently finished, or are in the middle of reading right now, are:
-An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination. This memoir about Elizabeth McCracken's experience having a stillborn baby, then getting pregnant and giving birth almost exactly a year later, is harrowing and beautiful and just amazingly well written. It's not a long book, and I tore through it in a couple of days.
-The Audacity of Hope (by You Know Who!). It thrills me so to have a president who's also a writer. Maybe this is how the big game hunters felt when Teddy Roosevelt was in office? I'm only about half way through (it's intensely interesting, but not what I'd call a page turner). Thanks, Mind, for the Christmas gift!
-The Secret Life of Words: How English Became English. Another Christmas gift, this time from my mom. Also fascinating. I've only read a couple of chapters in this one, though.
-Reading Like a Writer. I read this one in preparation for teaching this semester. I figure that if I can't turn all my students into writer-geniuses, the least I can do is teach them how to read better. This book is a great tool for that, and an interesting read in its own right.
-How Fiction Works. I bought this one on a whim late last year after reading a review (in Newsweek? Can't remember). It's fascinating, and very cerebral. Kind of makes my brain hurt. I've read about 3/4 of it, but I put it down and wonder when I'll return . . .?
-Riding Shotgun: Women Write About Their Mothers. I got a copy of this one because a couple of the essays were written by professors of mine from Hamline, and also because I thought it might make a good Christmas gift. I've only read about half of it, and as is the case with essay collections, some of the essays I LOVE, and some of them are eh. Okay.
-An Unquiet Mind. My friend Kathy lent this to me and it's just fascinating. I'm also about halfway done with this one, too. (Are you sensing a pattern here??).
So where are all the novels? Is it really true (COULD it be true?) that the last novel I finished reading was Stephanie Meyer's The Host back in the summer? First, there's the shame of my non-literary choice (although I did enjoy it--liked it quite a bit better than Twilight, actually). But look how much time has gone by?? I also read Ian McEwin's On Chesil Beach around that same time (obviously much more literary, but was a little sex-ified for my taste).
The worst part is right now I'm in the middle of (hah!)Home by Marilynne Robinson. Now, Ms. Robinson is my official "favorite author" at this point in my life(Gilead? Anyone?), and I was so excited that Kathy gave me her latest book for Christmas. And it's a beautiful book. Lovely, lovely, lovely. But I've only read half of it, too! I never used to do that with novels, at least not with good ones. I know I'll finish it within the next month or so, but it still weirds me out that I'm not only betraying novels as a form, but I'm betraying MARILYNNE! I mean, it's like my Dad not watching the Jazz.
Final example. Over a year ago, I bought Middlesex, a long, sprawling, Pulitzer Prize winning tale of Greek immigration, secret intermarriage, and genetic consequences. I'd read the beginning of the book two or three times (it was starting to feel like 1st Nephi) and finally gave up. But then--a ha!--I decided to download the audio book. Historically, I've never been an audio book listener, but now that I've been relegated to the elliptical trainer I need something to keep my brain busy while I work out. And this book is 14 hours worth of brain business. And wouldn't you know it? I'm half way through this one, too, and it's helping me enjoy my treadmill time. I don't think it really counts as *reading* a novel though, you know?
So there you have it. Any theories as to why I've been ignoring the novel? Any theories as to why I'm halfway finished with a half dozen books? Any theories as to why I'm staying up until 11:23 on a school night imbedding hyperlinks to Amazon when I should be sleeping?
Good night, then.
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