Reading Diary for 2008

Last year I started keeping a record of the books I was reading on my BookCrossing.com home page. After a couple of months, I gave it up; I figured, "Who cares"?

As it turns out, I do. Comes the end of the year and on the particular BookCrossing Yahoo group that I belong to, everyone lists their favourite reads of the year, what challenges they met, how many books they read, and so on. But I didn't keep records, so I had a hard time participating. I'd been on a roll, too. I was reading 12+ books a month at the beginning of the year.

I did my best with my favourites. I figured if I could remember them, they must be my favourites. But, of course, that isn't true. My memory of what I ate for breakfast this morning is pretty sketchy, let alone what I read, when I read it, and did I love it.

I certainly don't know how many books I've read. Mt.Toobie (my To Be Read accumulation) continues to fill two shelves, no matter how much I read. I buy books, but I also participate in BookCrossing and BookMooch exchanges.

And I get RABCKs -- Random Acts of BookCrossing Kindness -- in the form of more books. And NSS gifts: gift exchanges organised for Christmas (NSSFC -- Father Christmas; NSSH -- Halloween; NSSSS -- Summer Solstice; and other occasions that BookCrossers are good at dreaming up. And there are the twofer and threefer or other special offers from BookMoochers that keep my shelves filled.

I signed up for the BookMooch To Be Read Support Group. You may have read some of my reviews here. Every month I am supposed to designate two books from Mt. Toobie that I promise to read and review on the blog. I have been somewhat remiss lately.

So this year I'm getting organised! I've set up a Google document entitled What I Am Reading. (One day I must really do a post on how much I love Google.) You'll find a link to the left, under Books. I plan to list each book I've read and write a capsule -- or other -- review here. Then I can then use these reviews for my BookCrossing journal entries and my posts on the BookMooch blog.

Is that organised or what?

We'll see.

Christmas is a'coming. . .

There's dancing tonight! Salsa, to be exact.

I tell you, retirement is hard! There just isn't time enough in the day to get everything done.

First thing you do when you retire is join more groups, because now you have time to pursue your interests and learn about stuff. In my case, Yahoo Groups, killing two birds with one stone: While pursuing my interests, I get to play with the computer. Even more. So now I spend more time reading all the posts in all my Yahoo groups and answering them. If you're good about it, participate, and are faithful, the next thing you know you're a group moderator. I'm a group moderator.

I belong to one group about feeding your dogs. (Raw meat and bones, in general, but we're liberal.) The group also discusses things like dog well-being, health and behaviour. So the next thing you know, I'm all excited about training my dog.

Now I have to fit dog-training into my schedule.

We tend to get personal on the lists I belong to, so they're pretty high traffic. We chat. One consequence of this is that, being a firm believer in exercise, whether I do it or not, I have become a running coach -- well, more like a cheerleader. But that makes me feel guilty about not running, myself, so I have had to start running, again. Starting seriously after 15 years of "It's December; can I get in shape before ski season?" while doing B&B with evening meals is hard. So I got a new running book to help me. Which I have to read, one chapter at a time, before each running session, and practice the exercises.

Besides that, a real person (not someone on my groups) whom, in the beginning of my retirement I had time to visit occasionally, showed me the book she bought on strength training. I looked at the pictures of osteoporotic bones and quickly ordered the book and weights. Professional weights. Now I do strength training.

Someone else, whom I have to time visit occasionally, suckered me into to going with her to an introductory class for salsa. Hmm, my back feels better. I sign up.

Somewhere, dog training got lost in the shuffle, so we have just instituted a new system. Van-Ly and I go out before I run, but after I am in my running clothes, and practice. We take Nala with us, since Nala is afraid we're going walkies without her.

And, of course, there is walkies. On running days, we squeeze walkies in between runs. What I mean is that I run, usually toward the village, with or without Van-Ly. Nick drives to the village with a dog or two. We meet on the place. We walk the dogs. Nick runs back to the house and I drive the dogs. Notice that I have got my husband running, again, too. He doesn't have to read the books, though. He can run.

We usually manage this just before lunch, but that is supposed to be our coffee-at-the-bar time, which is getting harder to squeeze in. Coffee-at-the-bar is important because otherwise you don't know what's going on in the village. Or where you can get a new gearbox cheap. Or who can fix your broken refrigerator shelf. Or sign up for Irish night.

On non-running days, we do dog-walking after lunch. This doesn't count as exercise. Nala's pace barely counts as breathing.

I also have to make time to read the training book, one chapter at a time, do the exercises and review before each training session. This would be less time-consuming if I didn't have a mind like a sieve.

Oh, yes, Nala's baths. She has allergies and needs bathing every week. It started as twice a week, but we are, fortunately, down to once a week.

I've got it all scheduled, though. My Google Calendar shows Running in red, every other day, Weights in green on the alternate days, and Salsa on Tuesday evenings. It works out that one week calls for four days of running and three of strength training plus Salsa. The following week has four days of weights and three of running plus Salsa. In the weeks with four days of running, one of the running days falls on Tuesday (Salsa), so I skip running. If strength training falls on Tuesday, I do it. If we have to go somewhere during the day and I don't get to exercise, that's all right for one day of the week. It becomes my rest day. I try to make it a weights days because the book says two days a week is O.K. Oh, yes, we do dog training even if we're not running because we still have walkies.

Do you have all that?

Thank Google for Google calendars. And you wonder why I don't blog more.

By the way, our "dance" recital is this Saturday at the village Christmas market. We follow the children.

R.I.P. Postal

Some Sundays are better than others.

I never even got around to describing how the latest kittens came to be with us and, already, I'm writing an obit.

Sometime in September we were walking the dogs in the village when two little girls came along with a box. You just knew it held kittens and so it did, four of them. One was a short-haired grey tiger, one short-haired and solid black, one a medium-long calico and one a long-haired marmalade (ginger). When I asked how old they were, the little owner said 2 months. I said, "How about three weeks and they're too young to be taken from their mother." She didn't deny the three weeks, but insisted the mother, just a kitten herself, had rejected them.

Life with nature in the French countryside is . . . educational. Animal birth control consists of drowning the newborns. Knowing what was in store for these, we took three of them. The other child took the fourth.

Nick wasn't thrilled, but I made a deal with him: He wouldn't complain about the animals I bring home and I wouldn't complain about his complaining. As my previous post shows, he gets over it.

We brought them home, bought bottles and formula and started feeding them. There is a trick to feeding three kittens with one bottle. Loudest kitten gets to suck for half a minute or so. The bottle is then passed to No. 2 Noise. Both assuaged for the moment, you feed the third and start the rotation, again. Amazing to remember that I could hold all three in one hand.

They thrived, they began to eat their raw meat, and after 3 or 4 weeks, they rejected the milk.

I waited for them to tell me their names. After a couple of misunderstandings on my part, the tiger was Mr. Pibbs (or Pibbles, named after a group of Pit Bulls), the ginger tom Postal (because he was as sickly cute as a postal card), and Miosa, after a friend. (She forgave me.)

Eventually, I let them go outside for limited periods. They still got locked up if we left the house and at night. Still, Mr. Pibbs developped an unhealthy interest in cars, so when some cat-lovers came to look at our house, we sent him away with them. Mio and Postal didn't seem to notice.

Maybe I sent the wrong kitten away. Today, just as Nick and I were opening the gates to go running, Postal got hit by a car. He convulsed and died on the way to the vet, but I doubt the vet could have saved him. We came home and Nick dug a grave in the field and I put Postal in it.

I've never wanted to touch one of my dead pets before, but somehow I wanted to today. It felt more like a proper goodbye.

Then we went for the run we'd been going to have before the accident. Running soothes the mind and spirit, at least enough so I could write this.

No, the car didn't stop.

R.I.P. my big, beautiful, huggable boy.

Sunday

I have a cold and a sore throat; woke up late and grumpy.
My tea was cold. I went downstairs to get some more.
Watched from the kitchen window, waiting for the tea.

Nick came into view with the washing.
Van-Ly arrived, wagging her tail, nuzzling him.
He gave her a massage/scratch around the neck.

Mr. Pibbs and Postal wrestled in the rock garden.
Mr. Pibbs left off wrestling and went to Nick.
Nick scratched both, one hand for each.

Nala arrived, plopped down two meters away, wagging her tail.
Nick went over and gave her a scratch.

Van-Ly followed. Me, too! Me, too!
One-handed scratch for each.

Miosa jumped into the laundry basket to play.
Nick removed her from the clean laundry.

Van-Ly chased Mr. Pibbs.

Postal played in the rock garden.

The sun is shining.
All's right with the world.

Funny Review Day

One of my home pages is Arts & Letters Daily. where a couple of guys troll magazines and newspapers around the world to find new books, articles of note, essays and opinion pieces. I have always been a sucker for essays. And reviews. The site, itself, is a literary gem; the lead-ins to the links are miniature works of art.

Anyway, I thought I'd pass along one of the links I read recently. It's just the sort of thing that brightens my life, now that Dorothy Parker is no longer with us. Actually, Dorothy Parker has not been with us since I was a child, but I miss her all the same. It was Parker who, in a 1934 review of "The Lake" (uh, before I was born), wrote of Katherine Hepburn that "she delivered a striking performance that ran the gamut of emotions, from A to B." (If you are not American, this is not as funny as if you are American, because "A to B" doesn't rhyme with "A to Zed." )

Today's book item from Arts & Letters Daily is right up there with Miss Parker. It reads thus: In her first assault on Hollywood, Joan Collins slept with so many men she was known as the British Open... more»

Clicking on the link will take you to The Daily Telegraph in the U.K., where you can read the full review.

Following the book review, you might care to head to the Music Review section for their take on Il Divo, "not a boyband."

Well, it amused me.

The Fitness Test

Continuing in the spirit of letting nothing go to waste, here is an article I wrote back in (mumble, mumble) for our jogging club newsletter.

* * * * *

I don't read self-improvement articles any more. After the first flush of enthusiasm, one can never live up to the expectations of the author and why be despised by strangers when you have friends? At any rate, my eye was caught by The Sunday Times ABC Bodyplan, an eight-week program designed to make you slim, fit and energetic.

It was the energetic part I liked. I remember a fellow Burnham Jogger saying that he, too, is always tired. "Either I'm running or I'm tired," said Jeff. Well, I'd reached the point where I was running and tired.

Another thing in its favour, the Bodyplan didn't require you to go on a diet. To me, not dieting is the whole point of jogging. The plan required that you jog (or walk or swim or cycle or keep-fit) and I was already doing that, so, I thought, what a snap this will be. I'll just go on doing what I'm doing, although in a more disciplined fashion, and in eight weeks, I'll have energy. But the real carrot was: The Fitness Test.

So I volunteered, fully expecting, however, to be rejected as too fit for the purposes of the study. After all, I eat sensibly and I've been jogging for nigh on three and a half years. But, who knows? Maybe they needed a control group.

Eventually my acceptance letter and instructions came back along with a brief medical history to complete and a phone number to ring so that I could make an appointment for a preliminary heart and lung check. Nobody said anything about my previous jogging experience. To save the embarrassment of being thrown out of the hospital with all the other volunteers jeering, I thought I'd better ring and make sure they understood. Jackie took my call.

"I already jog," I said, "is that going to be all right"? "That's fine," said Jackie, "just keep it up until you work up to the levels we recommend." I don't think you understand," said I, "I already jog about twice the number of miles per week you finish with." "Oh," she said, "I'll ask the doctor."

"The doctor says it's all right," said Jackie. "When would like your first appointment"?

The first trip to the hospital was brief and allowed me to get a look at my fellow testees. There were a couple of fat people, but most of the participants appeared lean and fit. The ever-informative technicians told me that most people had the same idea as I: this was a means not to get fit, but to get a fitness test. In fact, the response to the program had been so great that the government had provided funds for extra testing equipment, which had allowed the hospital to set up the fitness clinic.

I filled out another short questionnaire ("When you exercise, what gets the most tired: muscles/lungs"? Answer: "Both."), and provided a urine specimen. A doctor examined my heart and lungs and opined that I'd probably make it through the program. I made an appointment to return for my first fitness test and promised not to start the plan until after the test.

On my second visit, I changed into shorts and T-shirt and reported to the technicians. First I was measured (5' 4¾") and weighed (none of your business). Then I had to blow into a tube – hard. In my entire life, I have never managed to blow hard enough into tubes to satisfy the medical personnel, so off to a slightly depressing start.

Next I was measured -- they pinched my upper arm in a metal instrument to measure the fat – and photographed. The photograph resulted in a contour map, a marginally obscene black and white composition that looked as if someone had been finger-painting circles over my naked body. The technician said it was a shame I wasn't fatter. The fatter you are, the more bizarre the result and the more contrast you can hope to see at the end of the program. Provided, of course, that you are not as fat at the end of the program as you were in the beginning.

Then we get down to it: the bicycle. In a curtained cubicle I stripped to the waist and electrodes were attached to most inches of my upper body. Then I put my bra back on so the technicians had a place to tether all the wires. (I wonder what they do when testing the men?) I removed my earrings and a clamp was attached to my earlobe (to measure my pulse I later discovered) and the breathing tube stuck in my mouth again. At length I was given the signal to start pedalling.

Har! I'm from Chicago – flatland. I've spent my life on a bicycle. I pedal. It's pretty easy, but my jaws get tired clamping the breathing tube tightly between my teeth. After a couple of minutes, the resistance on the pedals is increased. Still not bad; after all, I am fit. My jaws ache, though. Resistance increases, again. Have to start to work a little now. More resistance. Take hands off handlebars and hold breathing tube so my jaws don't have to do so much work. More resistance. Starting to sweat. More. Thinking about quitting now, but I'm a Burnham Jogger. "Quit" is not in our vocabulary. Boy, do my jaws ache! More resistance. Huff! Puff! We keep up this sado-masochistic cycling until, finally, I raise my arm: the signal to stop. Been at it a long time, though. I feel fairly pleased with myself.

The technicians unwire me and let me get dressed while they fiddle with the computer. They tell me that, after I've been on the Bodyplan for the full eight weeks, I will return for another assessment. The results from all the volunteers will be collated, and the doctor will give me a report on my condition and progress. Meanwhile, "Want to know how you did"? one asks. What am here for? Of course I do. "You did about average," she says.

Average? What does that mean: average? "Well, she explains, “take 100 people off the street and, for your height, weight and age, you're average." Average? Average!? I've been jogging for three and a half years and I've worked myself all the way up to average? What I have to show for three and a half years of pounding the roads in fair weather and foul (mostly foul; this is England) is a dirty picture? In black and white?

The suicidal depression lifted in two or three days. I've resigned myself to a life of average. But it still hurts. I never really forget. And I'm not likely to as long as my friend, Bob, keeps referring to me as Ms. Average.

* * * * *

Post script: We were on vacation a few years later and Hong Kong had been waiting for me. We took the normal tourist photographs and a special one for Bob.

The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama

This book made me feel so good. Obama always makes me feel good. He is positive and optimistic without being unrealistic. He can explain the great divide in American politics and how it came to be, and make you understand that it's not just meanness of spirit that has brought us to this pass. He talks about values without making you feel that there are quote marks around the word. He discusses the constitution with love and intelligence as might be expected from a professor of constitutional law. He talks of race and religion without making you feel threatened by either. There are chapters on Family, Politics, The World. He identifies problems without malice and lays out ideas for solving them; ideas that are down to earth, practicable and appeal to the common sense of most Americans.

Vote for who you want, but read this book. You can feel good, too.