To Read List...

The Wasafiri list:

1 The Famished Road by Ben Okri
2 Collected Poems by Elizabeth Bishop
3 Staying Power: The History of Black People in Britain by Peter Fryer
4. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred D Taylor
5 The Stories of Raymond Carver by Raymond Carver
6 The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño
7. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez
8 North by Seamus Heaney
9 A House for Mr Biswas by VS Naipaul
10 Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes
11 Palace of the Peacock by Wilson Harris
12 River of Fire by Quarratulain Hyder
13 Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
14 Philosophical Investigations by Ludwig Wittgenstein
15 Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie
16 Disgrace by JM Coetzee
17 Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama
18 The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje
19 Collected Poems by Allen Ginsberg
20 Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje
21 One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez
22 Sula by Toni Morrison
23 The Private Life of Chairman Mao by Dr Li Zhisui
25 The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie

Why I Hate Cell Phones

I’m not averse to technology by any means and I like the usefulness of the cell phones, but if I see one more person with a cell phone attached to his or her ear I’m going to scream. Don’t get me wrong—I see the usefulness of having a portable phone. It’s fantastic. I love knowing that if I’m driving down the interstate I can call Triple A for service, make arrangements with relatives, or reach my employer on the road.

But do I need to walk into the local greasy spoon chatting it up with my Aunt Zoe in Wisconsin in my phone voice? You know, pause to give my order, then resume the conversation so the rest of my listening audience can relish the tidbits of my dramatic (and very important) life.

I can understand touching base with someone, making arrangements, or plans . . . whatever. But once I stood in line behind a guy telling a friend "Hey, did you know that Bob got engaged and he’s so happy and he proposed to . . . ." Okay . . . this is one of those calls better made at home. And here’s an example of a recent profound conversation overhead at Barnes and Noble:

"Yeah, I caught two perch."

"Nice."

"Nice."

"Nice."

"Nice."

And it went on like that four ten minutes. Gawd!

I don’t know about you, but I enjoy my privacy and use it to screen out the incoming barrage of input. How can you listen to a friend productively if you are paying for your greasy spoon meal or bagging up your potatoes at grocery store while dodging shopping carts? You can’t. I sound so curmudgeonly. I’m not.

I love the entire cell phone culture—and that’s what it is. A cult. As part of the cult, they show extreme submission to a crazy and unpredictable demigod: The cell phone. I enjoy watching people answer their cells doing the cell phone epileptic fit/dance (at least for us women with large purses). Receipts and lipstick, flying out in all directions to get the damn phone lodged underneath a paperback. The cult of the cell phone requires users acquire the special phone language (uh hunh? Ya ya ya ok ok ok ya ya ya). And texting? Wat. r u ok? Brb. Ttyl and k—the new minimalist language devoid of vowels, yet phonetically correct.

The devotion bestowed onto a cell phone even bleeds into a cult member’s everyday life. Take eating out for example. In many cases the cell phone is lovingly set upon the table to view the owner’s meal. Many cell phone owners lovingly hold their cell phone in their hands and stare at them for lengthy periods of time, mesmerized by their features. This little god in a plastic coated box can vibrate, ring and sing to you—even vibrate in your pants (And what other god can do this? Hunh? Nada).

It seems as though in our society, the cell phone has become a socially acceptable and fashionable prop. As families spread out and people move away from home, we become increasingly disconnected from family and friends. The cell phone gives us the impression of being close to others. It can also alert people that we are important and have very weighty matter to discuss that absolutely cannot wait, even if we are shopping alone.

Jane Eyre: The Final Reading

I admit it I’m a sucker for Victorian literature. If the women are repressed, the men ultra polite (with dirty minds and ulterior motives), and beautiful silk gowns are involved, well, I’m hooked.
Let me tell you my story and relationship with Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.

I’ve always been a book addict, even at a young age so it’s no wonder I was ecstatic when my mom announced she was volunteering at my rural Catholic school to be the librarian. Of course this meant I had access to "the" library and better yet unshelved books not yet touched by human hands. That was a delicious thought for me.

So every week Mom loaded up the car with books that needed to be catalogued and stamped and Dad would haul the books into our living room. Mom dragged a sickly green portable typewriter home to type the cards for the books, and stationed it at the kitchen table. That old rickety thing would cluh clunk at the shift keys and the keys would stick, but it served its purpose.

Every so often the books would escape from captivity and burrow their way into the cracks of our car seats. And if you had the uniseat—as in the old days—it was easy to lose one of them forever. Not so with Jane Eyre. She managed to stay right within reach so as never to be forgotten or lost from our grasp.

Each morning my dad drove me to school and often in our travels we found a loose book on the floor or the uniseat. One particular frosty morning, as I was tugging my coat close toward me while the defroster blasted the windshield, I found myself sitting on Jane Eyre. It was a small compact paperback with a red and blue cover. I pulled it out from the uniseat and inspected it, scrunching my eye-year-old eyes at the tiny print inside. As soon as I touched it I knew I had to read the book—it became my personal Moby Dick of sorts. I had to read it—it was challenge.

"Dad?" I yelled over the defroster, "How do you pronounce the last name?"

"I have no idea."

So it stuck with me the entire day. I couldn’t let it out of my mind, and when Mom picked me up after school I told her about the book.

"Mom, it’s Jane Ire or something."

"No, it’s Jane Aiir."

"Oh, what’s it about?"

"Well, you’re a little too young to read the book," she smirked and laughed. "In time."

"But I have to read this book!" I whined. So each day on the way to school I picked up Jane Eyre and tried trudging my way through the murky text. I sighed. I was vexed. I gave up.
I flung Jane Eyre back to its spot in the uniseat and only later did I take it inside and throw in the pile of books in the living room. Farewell friend. Maybe I’ll see you again.

And I did. It’s amazing what four years can do to a kid’s reading comprehension and mine had blossomed. I was reading the usual trashy teenage stuff with typical romantic plots, maligned friendships, and broken hearts. But I was bored, and lucky for me my teachers recognized this and made a list of "challenging books". Of course, wedged in between a myriad of selections was my beloved Jane Eyre. I squeezed my eyes in delight. My mom and I ventured to the public library (of course, the school library didn’t have these exotic books), and she proudly displayed the xeroxed book list to the librarian who was rather nonplussed with the importance of this mission. Armed with loads of library knowledge my mom and I weaved our way around the library to find the books. I would have taken all the books home, with my addiction and all, but instead I settled for two: Jane Eyre and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

Jane Eyre was my hero. She had all the elements of the perfect female hero: the nasty stepmother and cousins who wanted her abolished from the house, the lack of siblings, the self-righteous and uptight Mr. Brocklehurst, forced and unwanted lessons, nasty teachers, poor living and working conditions, the ache of loneliness, and love of books. Page after page I read the inner musings and opinions of a character (and writer) who shared my inner thoughts and feelings. I was amazed at this. And then came Mr. Rochester—I fell in love with him immediately. He was crusty, funny, sarcastic, smart, and amorous. At twelve, I thought he was a dream come true. (Only later did I realize this would precursor my love of older men). Of course, it also took me 27 years to figure out that Jane Eyre is pathetic and Mr. Rochester (Edward) is crazy.

You have to understand, reader, that I read Jane Eyre seven times. Once at 12, again in 10th grade, next in 12th grade, both as a freshman and senior in college, again during some dark days of my life, and lastly this past month. It took me seven times to realize that all these years I had idealized Mr. Rochester and honored Jane Eyre for the silliest things. Now it is time to move on.
Jane Eyre grew up unwanted and unloved, so it makes perfect sense that she would fall hopelessly in love the minute she was around a kind male figure. He was the only male figure she was around . . . other than her dopey cousin and the towering Mr. Brocklehurst.

Mr. Rochester is an experienced, spoiled man. While it is true he married a crazy woman and I guess we are to pity him (are we? She was akin to a mail order bride), and this brings humanity to his character. But how he describes Adele, the child who he denies fathering, is cruel and harsh. Wouldn’t a future mother or wife recognize his jealousy and possessiveness? He sounds like a crazy womanizer, scrounging the countryside for a pretty accoutrement to his collections and drawing room. Why does he settle with Jane Eyre—the plain and naïve girl with no dowry or connections?

First of all, as an experienced hunter, he knows she is naïve, young, and impressionable. Second he’s desperate, after all he’s getting quite old at the age of 34 not to be married in Victorian England. And finally, to his credit, I think he’s trying to find a sincere woman who is not interested in his money and land. He is also hiding a crazy wife in the attic . . . so Mr. Rochester has issues. And what better person to help him than a young, sweet thing cut off from humanity in an out of the way place like Thornfield?

But it was those exact qualities about him that drew me to him all these years. He tortures her with his wit and corners her into verbal battles. He parades Blanche Ingram around, making Jane think he is going to marry her when in fact he has no whatsoever of marrying Blanche Ingram. Mr. Rochester poses as a gypsy lady torturing Jane into thinking he is seeing her past and knows her future. Then he unveils himself. His crazy wife in the attic makes a guest appearance every so often . . . attempting to murder Jane or Mr. Rochester . . . and maybe both. Of course how could I forget that he actually tried to marry her when he was still married to his syphilitic wife in the attic. Any sane woman would run from this childish man. But not Jane. She’s a trooper.

She endures this treatment with aplomb . . . always enduring his torture quietly. That’s why I think she’s pathetic. Every single time he sets her up and she falls for it. He knows she is in love with him, and he watches her writhe in glee, yet Jane doesn’t think to fight back. Though when she finds out about his past, she does run . . . more out of sadness than revenge. My favorite pathetic part was when she was about to accept St. John’s marriage proposal and she claims to hear Rochester call her name in the night . . . and drops everything to run to him. As a diehard romantic, even I thought that scene was barfy and pathetic.

Don’t get me wrong—Charlotte Bronte created an early feminist character that voiced fresh ideas about women and society. And Mr. Rochester was a smart enough man to value a woman for those same sentiments. Yet, it was the Victorian era. Martyrs aren’t valued today and often their woes are pointless. It is time for me to close the pages of this book in hopes that I will find my own Mr. Rochester (without the sadism) and be the Jane Eyre I wanted her to be—without the martyrdom. Jane Erye will always be my hero, but now it is time to be my own.

I'm a Loser, Baby, So Why Don't You Kill Me

It only happens about . . . oh once every twenty years or so that I win something. I mean I was competing against other people and I was randomly selected to win. It's not the same as those silly scratch-off tickets in which you win--another ticket--or $2.00 (to buy more tickets).

Let me set the scene for you . . .

The ad: Instead of treating the one you love to the typical dinner-and-a-movie fare this Valentine's Day, why not think outside the box of chocolates and enjoy a night out with the romantic sounds of ________?

I thought, what the hell--I'll never win. I never win. I'm a loser, baby. I click-clacked my personal information in the boxes imagining all the possible suitors who may be available (that would be none). But believing (slightly) in the law of attraction, I imagined that if I will those tickets into my life, perhaps I can will a date as well. Psychosis talking. Now imagine my consternation when I received a call earlier today informing me that I won. Two tickets.

And do I still want them? Yes, of course (I'm still hopeful and psychotic).

Pick them up at 7:00; the show starts at 8:00.

Why yes, it's a romantic rendezvous--and the show isn't until Saturday. Surely with my romantic life being at a all time high, I will find a date, right? Yes, sitting here in my house I will find a date. I WILL myself a date; I can send vibes out to the tri-state area imploring unsuspecting single men that I want to go to the concert and not ask my mom or best friend instead. You see, I avoid Valentine's Day. I imagine it doesn't exist. It's reserved for "others"--I, on the other hand, am an unwilling spectator.

And now, Monday night . . . I think oh I'm a loser baby. I should have said, hey give them to a happily and joyously in love couple, more deserving than I. I can't stomach going by myself or with friends.

My plan: Wednesday I will call and tell them to please give those tickets to a couple. I will listen to the CD and get wasted on chocolate. Bah.

Wanted: Dry Cleaning Attendants with No Sense of Humor

I've tried eliminating dry cleaning from my day to day life simply because it's bad for the environment and it's expensive. But once in a while even I need some help from the experts to clean a large item or a badly soiled one. While I'm not an expert by any means when it comes to the appropriate tools and items needed for cleaning, I DO know when something sounds like bullshit and I feel the urge to poke out my eardrums with an icepick.

Here is the scene: Me rolling up an oversized queen-sized comfortable into a small enough roll so that it can fit into a garbage bag. After about ten minutes of meticulous rolling and stuffing, I finally crammed the cloth penis into an enormous, but flimsy condom. I couldn't help but look at the thing and laugh. It was obscene. I felt like I should be clothed at all times around that short, stout monster standing at attention in my dining room.

When I finally had a enough guts to take the thing out in public, I threw it in the trunk and drove merrily away, glad to be rid of such an eyesore.

But my troubles were not over.

As I rolled up to the dry cleaners I had a bad feeling about this comforter. I mean I had vacuumed the cat hair off it the week before--it wasn't too bad. The cat puked on it earlier this week--I cleaned it up--no problem. I flopped the unsightly beast onto the counter and said that I needed it dry cleaned.

--What size is it?
--It's a queen.
--I'm going to rip the bag [huffing] I'm not sure if I can get it off.
--It's okay if you rip the bag; I'm going to throw it away.
--Is there anything on it that needs to come off?

[processing, no, I just bring things in randomly just for the hell of it; as a matter of fact, I went down the street to your competitor and had it dry cleaned PRIOR to my coming here so that there would be nothing on it. I can see how swamped you are with business.]

--Well, yes, there's cat hair on it--
--[interrupting] Cat hair? Well, let me look at that cat hair because we I can't send it over with cat hair.

[processing . . . umm why the hell not--this IS a cleaning business, no? And does that not entail cleaning the crap that happens to get stuck on pieces of material?]

--Well, I cleaned off most of the cat hair, but there still is some cat hair on it.
--I have to check this to see how much cat hair is on there [huffing]. [After the inspection] Well, I don't normally send things over there with >>this much cat hair.<<
--Okay, well just do what you need to do [cracking up here].
--There is just TOO much cat hair.
--Umm well that's why I brought it here . . . to get some help getting the cat hair off the comforter.
--Is there anything else on it?
--[having fun here] Well, actually the cat puked on it as well.
--Cat puke? We don't clean up cat puke.
--I cleaned up the cat puke, but there may be a slight spot that needs to be cleaned.
--[She gives me simmering stare] Well, when do you want this?
--When can I have it done?
--How about next Thursday?
--Umm . . . wouldn't you like my name and phone number?
--Oh yeah, [like it's an afterthought] well, what it is it?

[Okay, by this point I'm ready to die laughing. Customer service rating on a scale from 1-10--about a 2. The joy of pissing off an anal retentive buster on a scale of 1-10---10.]

I can only imagine what I'm going to hear from this woman when I come and pick it up.