Thwarted Bookworm

One of the things I’ve found most frustrating about having children is the lack of time to read anything I want to read. I’m very good at reading to my girls and encouraging them to read. They both have library cards, which we turn up occasionally in odd places. And now I’ve discovered that we can check out magazines! I can check up on back issues of Real Simple, the magazine of wishful thinking.

But I digress. I get to read very little for my own enjoyment. I read Bing Gets Dressed, several times, and then Firecracker emptied the entire row of Bing books from the shelf, and we’ve been through all the library has to offer of Rolie Polie Olie. Drama Queen is working her way through the Junie B. Jones series, and pauses every few sentences to ask about a word. Last night I ended up coaching her through a PowerPuff Girls book (how did that end up in our collection?) in which Buttercup was keeping a baby whale in her room. The vocabulary seemed far too advanced for the age of a girl who would actually give a crap about the Power Puff Girls, and I finally had to take over reading the whole thing. By the way, if you love an animal, set it free.

But recently I grabbed some time to read a book, much to the chagrin of Dear Husband, who is horrified by the state of the laundry and the kitchen. I read not quite from beginning to end but close enough.  I begin to panic that I might not make it through and start skipping ahead, then backtracking to fill in the details. I do this even with novels of suspense. But, on to my book. Man, this book rocked. It had everything I like—a big door-stop of a book set in Victorian England, with many Dickensian twists and turns and surprising revelations, a dastardly villain or two, and some not-quite sweet and innocent young women.  Books like this can be a disappointment. I think back to my anticipation when I started The Quincunx (which got rave reviews), another door-stop of a book set in Victorian England etc. That book dragged the reader through every possible social ill of that time—child labor, prostitution, slums, the horrors of the legal system, tuberculosis, and so forth. I think they even ended up in the sewers at one point. The author seemed to feel obliged to plod through the entire back end of Victorian culture. When the mom ended up in the tenement I thought: Oh here we go, consumption can’t be far away now. I just had to wait for the coughing to start.

But this book avoided those problems with pacing while also taking a good romp through the Victorian netherworld. The book is called Fingersmith, and it’s about a young girl, Sue, who has been raised among thieves, one of whom serves as a surrogate mother. She is hired by another thief to help him woo a sheltered young heiress, Maude, and then dump her in a madhouse and take her money. Sue goes to work as lady’s maid to Maude, who lives in a dreary falling-down house with her too-weird-for-words uncle who is composing an encyclopedia with the help of the gentleman thief, Maude’s suitor. Maude seems to think marriage is the only way out of her isolated life but also seems to be afraid of her suitor. Well, as the gentleman thief is closing in on his prey, Sue begins to feel a bit sorry for Maude, and then a lot sorry, and then very fond of her, and then very very very fond of her, and well, problems ensue. It ends up that more people are playing deceitful games than you think, and just when you seem to have reached the end of it, there’s another revelation. I’ve just found out that there’s a DVD available of the BBC production, which is supposed to be very well done.  

Perhaps I will be able to report on another book in, say, a year.

Back to My Bloggy World

For those of you who want to know how the birthday away from the kids went, it was wonderful. I was pampered at a spa and stayed with Dear Husband at a B&B in downtown Atlanta. And spent several hours in a bookstore, one of my rare indulgences.

Ah, so brief are life's pleasures. My MIL is back in Arizona, and our house is quickly returning to its usual state of chaos. DramaQueen is on antibiotics for strep throat, and I'm watching Firecracker carefully for signs that she's heading down that path as well. No seizures since we've doubled her dose of Keppra. Also, no sleep. She doesn't see any need for it.

Today I thought it might be time to get off my heathen butt and read from the Bible. Doing so, I was struck by something I have so often thought reading scripture--this is really boring. I know that many people just love to delve into scripture. Today I opened to Nehemiah 12:44-46. Whenever I pray before I open up the Bible I end up somewhere so wildly inappropriate to my circumstances that I wonder if God is poking fun at me. Or maybe it's not supposed to be appropriate to my circumstances. Sometimes I wonder about all this "practical" application. A lot of the Bible doesn't seem all that practical to me. A lot of it just seems really weird and alien. Perhaps while we're at it we could look for a practical application of Wuthering Heights.

So, why is the Bible never as interesting as a novel? I'm sure many who read this will feel differently. I see it listed in the favorites section of blogger profiles. I'm in a web ring of ministers, who must enjoy the Bible on a regular basis. What do you do with, say, Leviticus, the most tedious instruction manual ever penned? And then there's Proverbs, which has always struck me as the book of pithy sayings about the bleeding obvious.

Besides the Gospels, my favorite book of the Bible is probably Ecclesiastes. No surprise there, I imagine. Eugene Peterson calls it a "witness to this experience of futility." Being a cup half-empy kind of person, I can readily hum along to that tune. I only read Ecclesiastes after realizing that The House of Mirth and The Golden Bowl took their titles from there. Dear Husband recommended it, too, since he thought it would resonate with my generally morose state of mind.

But, you know, I would probably rather read The House of Mirth.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Firecracker had to have blood drawn today to test her med levels. Bless my husband for taking her, because I don’t think I could cope with little Firecracker and needles. I had to trot downtown for a meeting, and since I don’t like city driving, I was pretty annoyed. But someone bought me a birthday brownie, which went a long way to improve matters. Then I found that Dear Husband had let Firecracker leave me a happy birthday message on my cell phone. This was so adorable that I’m tempted to make everyone around me listen to it.

My MIL is coming in to visit. She’ll watch the girls while Dear Husband and I have a night to ourselves in a B&B this weekend. The girls are looking forward to seeing Nana, who will spoil them, tell them how incredibly smart they are, oo and ah over all their artwork, and let them watch too much TV. What could be better?

Firecracker Goes Off

Firecracker has had seizures since she was about a year old. She has what are called partial focal seizures. She never loses consciousness, but she looses the ability to control the left side of her body. Sometimes they are so subtle and over so quickly that you aren't sure what you just saw. She has been on a few different meds, and her seizures have been pretty much under control. But after a long period of seeing very few if any, she's suddenly having them every couple of hours. I know when they're coming on because she starts laughing uncontrollably, and then she starts tilting or crumpling. She's zonked now, whether from increased meds or multiple seizures, I'm not sure.

So I'm asking whoever reads this to say a little prayer for Firecracker.

May 23 Update
Thank you all for your prayers. The increase in meds seems to be working. We saw only a couple of seizures yesterday. She's still feisty as ever.

Yet another update--May 24
Abby had one seizure last night. She started laughing and trembling. Probably brought on by fatigue, because she resists going to sleep. This morning when her bus came she started screaming and crying. This is completely out of character. She loves the bus and school. I just knew--and it turned out that I was correct--that I would hear that she had a seizure on the bus. Poor Firecracker. She has an EEG coming up, which will tell us what we already know, that her brain patterns are abnormal. Her medication will have to be revisited. I've been lax about scheduling a sleep study (requested by her pulmonologist, as it turns out, since apnea can exacerbate asthma), but her sleep patterns may also be abnormal and contributing to the seizures. I'm grateful she doesn't have grand or even petit mal seizures, but our neurologist put the fear of God into me by telling me that left uncontrolled the electrical impulses will keep building until she does have a grand mal.

My birthday is tomorrow--I'm turning 40. I do not feel very celebratory.

TGIF

Well, so much for work ethics. Here I am typing a post with 25 minutes to go to quittin’ time. I’m too tired and burned out to think straight.

The book discussion was, as I thought it would be, pretty dull. But like I said, I have a bad attitude. I thought the discussion questions were pretty lame. One was “What role does work play in redemptive history?” First of all, I don’t think I even understand that question. I don’t think I understand what redemptive history is. I was also introduced to the idea of work as worship. Well, that makes worship sound really exhausting to me. But it’s over now, and I can reflect on how it can be that the author did not mention one woman in the Bible. Considering how much women work, you’d think he could have mentioned one. Ruth, maybe. Or at least the Mary and Martha story. Or how about Mary the mother of Jesus? She must have had her hands full. But then, this is a denomination that won’t ordain women, so probably the women are used to being overlooked. Everyone else seemed to like the book. I thought it lacked any kind of exhortatory power. But at least it wasn’t Who Moved My Cheese?

So, I’m going to take my decidedly unbiblical perspective on work on home, where I can grouse about the amount of cleaning and laundry to do this weekend.

I'm Cranky

I’m tired and I’m cranky. I’m up to my eyeballs in brochures and I’ve been commandeered to work at our General Assembly next month. Ack—Atlanta traffic. I don’t like standing at a booth looking friendly and properly Christian. I have to remember to watch my language. I expect to be bored out of my mind.

Cranky Update: I also have to read a book for work. It's a book about biblical work principles. The fellow who wrote it is a nice guy and he has a great ministry, but I don't want to sit around tomorrow discussing this book when I have tons of work to do. So far, the book says nothing new. I expect to be bored out of my mind. I also expect to be irritated by the discussion. Don't you hate it when management starts trying to instill a work ethic in you? And then they pull out the Bible to back it up. I mean, really, does it help me to find the origins of work conflict in the Garden of Eden. No it does not. I start feeling all anti-establishment.

Mother's Day--Can I Go Hide?

I'll have to confess that I'm not exactly looking forward to Mother's Day. I feel very uncomfortable being on the receiving end. I feel like a fraud on Mother's Day. Twenty years from now my kids will be in therapy trying to sort through the mess, just as I did and do.

If you had asked me when I was 25 if I was planning to have children, I would have laughed and felt the usual stirrings of impatience with people who felt they had to propagate. I didn't like children. The thought of small powerless creatures depending on me filled me with, well, rage. And I thought that was a pretty good reason not to have kids.

When I was 32 I had been around a few actual children and babies and discovered that I did not want to swat them. Usually. I still wan't planning on having any children.

I still wasn't planning on having children when I got pregnant. Being pregnant required an enormous shift in perception. I felt relatively good about the whole business.

As my children get older, I find that I am revisited by old and unpleasant emotions from my childhood. This is not good. I was furious with myself as a child. I made up alter egos to absorb my fury. Now I have actual children, and sometimes I feel that I walk very close to the line. My words can be cruel. Sometimes I don't like them very much, and then I burst into tears because I adore them.

I wish my mother were still alive. She wouldn't have any advice. Actually, she was wonderfully free of any parenting advice. DramaQueen was just over a year old when my mom died. My mother adored DramaQueen. She went through a hellish round of chemotherapy because she wanted to stick around to see her grow up. I wish she could have seen Firecracker. She would say, "Oh, she has the Akins temper!"

My mom raised five children. She had wanted children all her life. She couldn't wait to have lots of kids. She would be the first to say she wasn't a very good mother, and, well, she wasn't in many ways. There were some things that went very wrong, sometimes for reasons beyond her control. My brothers, who are much older than I am, lived through some really awful stretches when mom's behavior became worrisome enough that dad committed her to an asylum. But she was affectionate and had boundless love for her children. Although when she had delusions she could be mean and kinda spooky, she was usually gentle and kind. She made sure to call each of us every week after we were all out of the house. She was a very intelligent woman who had not had the opportunity to go to college. She would have felt at home in a seminary, I think. She listened to lectures on Augustine and peppered my husband with questions about Judaism. At her funeral her pastor said good-naturedly that she always pushed him into corners with her questions. Several women from her Sunday school class mentioned the same thing--that my mom thought of questions that never crossed their minds.

Mom's frequent refrain was, "I just don't know what to do with my life." This used to drive me crazy, but I find that I'm pretty much in the same boat. I've inherited her lack of drive and energy, her sensitivity to too much stimulation, her social discomfort, her disorganization and inability to actually finish anything. I have her questioning mind, but not one-tenth of her faith.

And I can't garden at all.

Firecracker Goes to the Library

Firecracker may be the only four-year-old girl whose chosen bed-time reading last night was Big Yellow Trucks and Diggers. This had some informative tid-bits such as "The sky is blue. The track-type tractor is yellow" and "The hard hat is green. The wheel loader is yellow" and my favorite, "The garbage is many different colors. The landfill compactor is yellow." As you can see, the theme was "yellow."

Every Saturday I take Firecracker to the library while DramaQueen is in drama class. Yesterday Firecracker insisted on wearing her gold dress-up shoes to the library. They had gotten mixed up with her sister's, so she was wearing two right feet, and she's still so small that there's a good 5 inches of shoe sticking out behind her. She was pretty delighted with herself, though. As usual she took off to find books for herself. I suggested she look in the section on animals. She likes to get books about monkeys and tigers now and then. This time she chose Tunneling Earthworms. Perhaps that will be our bedtime reading tonight.

Grace Is So Cool

Well, the ministry leader whose letter I screwed up told me that he had made so many mistakes in the last months that he had lost count. So, all is well. Thanks for your prayers.

It's those sorts of actions that make me really like the people I work with, even when I don't agree with so many aspects of the theology they hold dear.

For example, for administrative professionals day, all the support staff were taken out to lunch at an off-the-beaten track little cafe serving traditional Southern cooking. After that, we were taken to a local massage clinic for mini-massages. But best of all, when we got to work that morning, on each desk was a sheet of paper with our name and hand-written messages from the senior staff thanking us for our work. The HR manager was really thinking ahead, because most of the senior staff are scattered across the country and only come into town twice a year.

I doubt many people can top that.

Mistakes Were Made

This is a lousy day. I just discovered I made a rather large mistake in a mailing. Everyone is no doubt hopping mad about it—and they do not yet know that it was my fault. Ugh.

Neurotics Anonymous

Lorraine has tagged me to list 6 neurotic things about myself. I think I may have done this in the past, but I have enough neuroses to wrap around me twice with enough left over to make Woody Allen, so here is a selection:

1. I avoid left turns where there is no traffic light, unless I know I am somewhere there is no traffic. I also can't stand it when Dear Husband, who has no such fear, decides to turn left across multiple lanes of cars going 60+. I usually close my eyes.

2. I'm afraid I won't recognize people I've been introduced to. I'll run across someone I've met and they've changed their hairstyle or their clothes (drat them) and I won't know who they are. I've decided I should act as if I know everybody until proven otherwise.

3. I won't look in mirrors in the dark. Remember Bloody Mary? Pam M., my childhood nemesis who pretended to be a friend when my mom was around, terrified me with stories about looking in mirrors and this apparation called Bloody Mary appearing. Who was Bloody Mary supposed to be, anyway?

4. I'm afraid that some day I will see a ghost. I have a lot invested in not seeing ghosts. I'm convinced that if I ever see a ghost I will be so scared I'll have a heart attack and die on the spot.

5. I don't like being without ready access to water. For instance, I don't like to be in a car without a bottle of water handy, and I don't like being at a mall where I have to find the water fountain (yuck). I also have to have water by my bed at night or I feel anxious. This started in NYC, where I discovered that I needed to drink a lot of water to deal with the pollution or I'd get headaches. Then in Arizona, well, you have to be crazy not to keep water with you at all times there. Every summer in Arizona there's a news story about a tourist who collapses on a trail because he was foolish enough to sprint up Squaw Peak without water.

6. A holdover from working in publishing: I avoid opening and looking at books I've edited. I'm certain I will find mistakes and everyone will wonder what they're paying me for. I'm afraid my mistakes will show up on a list of stupid errors editors make. I've just edited a devotional at my workplace and I dread looking at it. But there's no escape since we'll be using it soon.

Bonus neurosis: I don't like getting manicures. Sometimes my worst fears come true: recently my boss sent us all off for free manicures. What I don't like is having my nails filed. I've only met one manicurist who managed it without rasping my finger tips, which makes me shiver and twitch and writhe inside. In the same vein, I can't stand rubbing my fingers across rough surfaces--not brick, plaster, the carpet, bed linen, not anything. Just thinking about it makes me feel cold and twitchy. I also can't stand to be around when someone else does it, but I sound like a freak blurting out "For heavens sake stop rubbing your hand over the carpet before I'm forced to strangle you!"

I think I'm supposed to tag 6 others. If you read this and you plan to play, leave a comment so that the fun of self-revelation can continue.

RevGals Friday Five: The Joys of Procrastination

This week we reveal our favorite procrastination techniques:

1. Blogging and surfing other blogs and websites. One site leads to another, and another.
2. Watching TV and movies. Last night I was sucked into watching a kung-fu movie about mah jong. You wouldn't think that mah jong could be so exciting, but it was smashing. And I have no idea how it's played or what any of those little tiles mean.
3. Reading fiction. Murder mysteries, if I allow them into the house, will eat every spare moment as well as those I can't spare.
4. Emailing a cheery message to my husband. That is so much more fun than my to-do list.
5. Looking through catalogues. I love catalogues. Everything from Ikea to The Oriental Trading Company. I particularly like catalogues from The Learning Store and SchoolBox. I never buy anything, but I so enjoy looking at them.

If I have a particularly undesirable task, I will even procrastinate by doing laundry. There's always plenty of it, and I can always say to myself that it needs to be done. Of course, most of the time I procrastinate doing laundry by blogging, watching TV, reading, etc.

DramaQueen Speaks Her Mind

Today Dear Husband was looking over his anataomy and physiology textbook, and because DramaQueen was sitting next to him, he started showing her parts of the body: "Here's the heart, and these are the kidneys." She showed a mild interest, asking what some organs were. Then Dear Husband turned the page to the reproductive organs. "These are the ovaries. Do you know what they do?" Then followed a very basic description of eggs and sperm meeting to make babies.

DramaQueen looked out at us with an odd expression on her face and stated calmly, "I think I've heard enough."

Bloggers in Dreamland

Have you ever had a dream in which another blogger appeared, someone you know only from the blogosphere?

And by “dream” I mean something completely innocent, so don’t get your hopes up.

I’ve been meaning to recommend some of my favorite blogs, and it just happens that one of my favorite bloggers showed up in a dream:

I was in a Medieval country, probably France, and I and my comrade were running from the royal guard. I’m not sure what we had done, if we had stolen a loaf of bread or tried to overthrow the monarchy, but whatever it was, we were in deep trouble. The guards finally cornered us, and the exit we took shot us straight into the castle dungeons, where everyone was awaiting their dinner of roasted newt. I’m not sure what a newt is, but my dream newt looked like a rat. The prison guards were doing a comedy routine for a spot of entertainment, which gave us hope that we could suborn them into helping us.

At this point Firecracker let out a wail, so I never found out if we managed to escape.

My comrade was Augustus, from Liberal Christian Front Parlor. Augustus, if you happen to read this, what do you think we did to piss off the government of France?

And fellow travelers, if you are interested in progressive Christianity, you should definitely check out his blog.

Passover

Dear Husband has a Passover Quiz on his blog. Go, talk amongst yourselves.

Cheese and Whine

Since I’m in the mood to rant about everything that irritates me, let me address a children’s book that DramaQueen is currently reading, Who Moved My Cheese for Kids. I’ll state up front that I loathe Who Moved My Cheese. I’m pretty cheesed off (ha ha ha) that the author made oodles of money out of delivering this earth-shaking message: “Change is scary but you need to get used to it and not blame other people when things change but instead you should be proactive and get off your butt.”

Wow, my life is transformed.

Basically, this is a corporate inspirational poster in book form and I bet that corporations across the country hand it out with pink slips.

Given that it’s so simplistic that even a corporate executive can digest it, you would think that it would be right on target for a kids’ book. What a kid is supposed to make of “Smell the cheese so you know how old it is” I’m not sure. Actually, I’m not sure what to make of it. Now’s the time to dump your low-wage job and move on? Now’s the time to dump your not-so-fresh low-wage employees and find fresher cheaper ones?

And then of course there’s the message “Don’t blame others for moving the cheese.” I gather that means “Don’t blame me if I had to let you go in the downsize. Life’s a bitch so deal.” It’s America and there’s always enough cheese to go around as long as you aren’t one of the lazy mice who sits around and whines when Cheese Station C runs out of cheese instead of being a forward thinking mouse and striding forward boldly in search of new cheese in foreign markets. It’ll taste even better than the old cheese, and will be cheaper, too.

I just thought of an alternate title: I Just Moved Your Cheese: So Suck It Up!

As one reviewer put it: “Spencer’s book puts the onus for adapting to change on those who have it imposed on them instead of those who impose it.” It’s good to learn early how the system works.

Sympathy for the Devil

Today someone I know mentioned that he was praying for his son to fail at his current occupation. His son is a musician. This occupation is, in his opinion, un-Christian, and the music the band plays is also awful and un-Christian. Oh, and it protests war, which is also bad for some reason. Now, if the boy was singing about God and nice Christian things, like holiness and how Jesus died for us and heaven is a cummin and playing nice wholesome venues like churches, there would be no problem.

I admit that when I heard this I was so startled I almost started crying. But no one hesitated to pray for him to be taken out of the godless environment of rock music. I prayed for his protection, which was the only thing I could think of.

I’ve listened with some astonishment to similar opinions of popular music. Some people gave up their music collections when they converted and never listed to rock music again. One person mentioned bonfires of CDs.

I. don’t. get. it.

Give up The Rolling Stones to listen to Michael Card?

I think not.

There’s more true religious feeling in Sympathy for the Devil than there will ever be in My God is Awesome. One talks about the problem of evil in an imaginative way with great musical finesse; the other is, well, self-congratulatory pious dreck from the la la land of happy shiny Christians.

I don't want to downplay the dangers of the lifestyle, which has many pitfalls I have not doubt, or the misogyny and other reprehensible sentiments found in some music, but the dismissal of incredible, fabulous, creative works of genius because they aren’t “christian” makes me so very ill.

And I’m going to stop there, because my heart is still sore for this young man but being angry, resentful, and critical doesn’t help anything.

The Real Gospel of Judas

And on a lighter note, from Gladly Suffering Fools, (be sure to stick around and read more of his posts, because he’s hilarious), I bring you:

From the Gospel of Judas, Chapter 27, Verses 19-29.19 Jesus pulled Judas aside at the gym and said unto him, "Did you tell the Romans about my plan to have you 'betray' me?" while making air quotes around the word "betray." 20 Judas replied unto him, "The other disciples are all over me like stink on lepers. I have not been able to get two freaking seconds alone."21 Then Jesus said, "What we need is a distraction." 22 And Judas said unto him, "You mean like an explosion? Or nude cheerleaders?" 23 Jesus shook his head slowly and said, "Um, no. I shall tell the other disciples to organize a celebration of the coming of springtime. 24 They shall hide colored eggs, both real and plastic, among the lilies of the field and the trees of the hills and the barbecue grills near the picnic tables.25 "All the children of the land shall look for the eggs and rejoice at the bounty contained therein. 26 And their parents shall call out, 'Lo! Remember to share! There are plenty for everybody!' and 'I think you've had enough candy for now!' 27 The disciples will be so busy running the celebration and dealing with the parents and the insurance underwriters that they won't notice you've gone to scheme with the Romans."28 Judas said, "Okay, just as long as I don't get in any trouble." 29 And Jesus said, "Relax, man. History is written by the winners."

Spiritual Doldrums

It’s Holy Week, and just about every blog I visit seems to mention it. I’ve been thinking about my lack of any spiritual community, discipline, or enthusiasm. I am not the kind of person who is filled with spiritual joy. Christianity is something I assent to because it has pursued me, but emotionally I remain distant. I cannot imagine getting teary-eyed over Christ’s sacrifice. I can’t say that I ever have. It is satisfying as a pattern, as a plan, as whatever, but I have no emotional connection to it. The world is broken, we are all broken, redemption is needed, redemption is provided. The birth of my children I can respond to—God becoming incarnate, dying, and rising again, well, He is God, after all. When anything is possible, is anything truly astounding?

RevGals Friday Five (uh, Seven): Performing Arts

This week we're talking about memorable performing arts experiences. Once I started I couldn't stop at five, but sadly these experiences have definitely tapered off since leaving New York City. I really must make more of an effort.

1. In college I saw a production of The Canterbury Tales in which the actors also served as props, becoming part of the landscape or a piece of furniture, as needed. When the action called for a river, an actor with long blond hair leaned over and her hair became the rippling water. A fiery hot poker was played by a man wearing a red sock.

2. I saw the dance troupe Mommix perform a piece called Baseball. Momix is incredible, and if they ever come to your town (or Pilobolus, a troupe that is somehow related to Momix) try to go. They do things you would not thing possible. This particular dance was funny and amazing and athletic. In one sequence they danced in full baseball regalia with bats. I also remember a naked woman dancing in a giant baseball mitt (this sounds cheesy, which it was, because it was poking fun a bit).

3. In the 90s I saw a production of ‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore at the Papp Public Theater in New York that I liked a lot. They set the story in Fascist Italy. Definitely not flawless acting, but since it is a Jacobean drama, it was violent and excessive and ran pell-mell over taboos (Giovanni falls in love with his sister Annabella, who wants to stop bonking her brother and marry, provoking violent rage in brother). I looked up the production online—it starred Val Kilmer, whose name I recognized at the time, and Jeanne Tripplehorn, whom I did not know at the time. Although I have a suspicion that someone else played the role of Annabella the night I saw it, and the phrase “Sharon Stone’s little sister” stays in my head). The final scene was memorable: Something nasty (perhaps the title) written in blood on the wall of Annabella’s bedroom.

4. I saw Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia during it’s first run in NYC. If you don’t know the play, it flips between the present and Sidley Manor in 1809, where the 18th century gardens are being transformed into a more romantic style. The main protagonist is Thomasina, a young math genius who has somehow anticipated chaos theory. I loved the way science and art bounced off each other. Thomasina’s story was haunting. She had these incredible ideas that bumped up against the limits of science (no computers), and because she was a girl, her interest in mathematics would have to give way to marriage and family. But she doesn’t even get that far, because we learn at the end that she dies in a fire the very night depicted in the last scene we see with her (she dances with her tutor).

5. This isn’t strictly speaking one of the performing arts, but I saw Jeannette Winterson give a reading. I find that a lot of readings are pretty boring. The authors go into “Public Reading” cadence (for poets, that means that each line goes dowwwwnnnnn). But you could tell that Winterson had been groomed to be an evangelical preacher. I guess she was reading from Sexing the Cherry, which had just been released at the time, but I don’t remember. It didn’t really matter what she was reading, but how she read it.

6. Recently we saw an experimental puppet show about the Epic of Gilgamesh. The show started with the actors, dressed in fatigues, singing shape note songs in the lobby. The puppeteers, who were visible at all times, also served as narrators, and sometimes as actors in the drama. They used a variety of puppetry styles from around the world. There was even puppet sex—very memorable, and rather startling I think if you were anywhere within firing range (I leave this to your imagination). One of my coworkers (who unfortunately has left and now I don’t have anyone to talk with about books who won’t get all prissy) recommended it because it engaged the Big Themes of redemption and death.

7. DramaQueen recently performed in The Foot Book for Dr. Suess Day at our local library. She was Big Feet. Or maybe Fuzzy Fuzzy Fur Feet. It’s not just me—the performers were also a little confused.