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Snowday Surprise

It’s been so long since I’ve read a book. As an English teacher, stereotypes seem to dispense the idea that I read for pleasure on a regular basis. I wish this rumor were true.

Over Winter Break, a miracle happened. I had the time to read a book.

Then, we went back to school. For a day. There was a big snowstorm, and we had today off. I read the second Hunger Games book, and then my appetite couldn’t be satiated. So I read the final book of the trilogy.


I’m still crying as I write this, a combination of happiness and pain, a battle between satisfaction and anguish and despair.

Like the character Katniss Everdeen, I find myself wanting to sacrifice for those I love…. only my love in this case is that of reading.

Simply put, I really need to make more time for myself to read.

Ten Minute Musings #2 (20 minutes)


20 minutes of musings

My devilishly awesome 2 year old self, enjoying life as an only child

There is a certain hiding spot that is my childhood. It never had a definitive location, but it always had definitive characteristics. It would be cool, dark, and away from whatever noises I was trying to escape. At my house, it would be in my bedroom, directly behind my closed bedroom door. If it was a particularly nice day out, it would be on the third platform of the playset, in the shade of the “stink berry tree,” right above the long yellow slide. If it was a Tuesday or Sunday afternoon and I was at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, I could be found in the corner of the rec room, either on the cool, yellow and black checked floor or on one of grandma’s chairs she couldn’t bare to throw out. In the summer, if Grandpa had set it up on the side of the house, I could be found in the camper, sprawled out on the itchy polyester cushion that once served as a bed, hiding behind the zipped-shut windows. If I was in one of these spots, one thing was certain: I probably had a book with me. Usually, it was a Boxcar Children or Babysitter’s Club book, but sometimes I’d be adventurous and read an unknown book from the Bookmobile that came to our house, or from the shelf of science fiction books that I didn’t understand in my Aunt Barb’s old room in Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I was always the oddball out growing up. I was the oldest of three kids, and the oldest of seven cousins until I was about eleven years old. Then the next round of cousins were born, and I became the built in babysitter. I could lie and say I always got along well with my brother and sister, but that didn’t happen until we had all experienced puberty. I am three years older than my brother, and five years older than my sister. I was always the super duper girly girl princess growing up. I insisted on always wearing big floppy bows or hats adorned with fake flowers or ribbons even if I was just sitting around in the house watching Power Rangers. Until my sister was born, it was just my brother and me. I would make him play pretend with me, and he was subjected to my constant diva bossing around. (Afterall, I had been an only child until he was born.) When my sister was born, my brother got a bit of leniency from me, as my sister was a lot more fun to dress up. (Plus, I thought it was weird that my brother’s underwear had a hole in it for him to pee from. Boys were weird to me.) My baby sis was someone to play with dolls, a reason point out all the frilly dresses I wanted her to wear, and the cute adorable baby sister all of my friends were jealous of.

As we got older, there was an obvious divide between my siblings and I. We would hold meeting of “The Cool Kids Club” and Broface and sis would pair off against me. Even though I was obviously in charge because I was oldest and smartest, they would outnumber me and refuse to listen. When we would go to family gatherings like Christmas and Easter, they would each have cousins their own age to play with; I was alone. I was stuck in this weird position of “not wanting to play with the babies” a la Angelica Pickles, but not being quite old enough to understand the conversations the adults were having or fit in with them.

As a result of this dichotomy, I found my escape in books. Everyone would jokingly call me the bookworm, and when my younger siblings and cousins wanted to know what I was doing, I would end up playing school and teaching them about my books. However, sometimes I just wanted to escape. That’s when I found the definitive hiding spots of my childhood: somewhere quiet, peaceful, away from the rest of the world, and the possessing the ability to let me hide in between pages of a book. Books were my childhood.

Book Sex

My current bedside companions

Earlier today, I went to go see my friend, Liz, and discuss poetry and eat boob cupcakes with her. (I made the boob cupcakes for the end of Women’s History Month… or at least that’s what I’m claiming.) As I walked over to her office, I started thinking about how excited I was to be getting ready to have intellectually stimulating conversation with someone.

Since I first discovered book sex when I was 17, I’ve been in love with it. I distinctly remember having a conversation with my one friend about Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse and she said, “Sometimes I just wish I could have booksex with Ms. Smith* and discuss literature, themes, and motifs all day long!” We proceeded to discuss how our ideal afternoon would consist of going to a coffeeshop and discussing book after book over flavored lattes.

As I grew older and entered the realm of college, I had more and more booksex. Being an English major fulfilled my desires to have intellectually stimulating conversations about novels, plays, and even poems! I’ve spent much of the past four years having my brain explode with satisfaction over intellectually stimulating conversation. I really have been blessed with discovering a major that excites me on a regular basis.

Unfortunately, I find the availability of those willing to have booksex dying down. People no longer read for pleasure. Instead, they go on Facebook, watch mindless tv, and eat. I’m guilty of doing all of these things, and it saddens me that I rarely read for pleasure. This past weekend, as result of a combination of being housebound and saddened by Adrienne Rich’s death, I spent a lot of time reading poetry and submerging myself in an art crafted by so many wonderful people. Reading so much poetry reminded me of the Poetry Nights I used to partake in a few years ago, and I began to miss that camaraderie so, so much. My poetry group friends and I would gather at someone’s apartment, play tranquil music, drink wine, eat baked goods, and recite either our own poetry or poems that we admired. It was a bookclub for poets, and it was magical. Reliving even just a bit of that today really helped me feel alive again, and I am so, so glad to have rediscovered the beauty of reading and discussing poetry with someone else who appreciates the art.

Please, do me a favor– get off your computer. Stop reading my blog. Go to your bookshelf, library, used bookstore, whatever, and pick up a book of any sort. Read it, cover to cover, and escape for a few hours in the literary world. If you really feel like doing something amazing, discuss it with someone after you finish. It’ll change your life for the better.