Two days since Thanksgiving ended. Though self had no one over, the clatter in her head can be quite deafening, a clatter the sole other occupant in this house is always happy to add to. Every day brings a new spurt of instructions, whether it’s when to mail bills or covering windows with cardboard. Mother-in-law said it best: “My son is such a character.”
Now he has stepped out, without any prior warning: A friend of his from Ateneo, Randy, came over. Self imagined both would want to watch the games. But suddenly, after she’d bought all manner of chips and snacks and drinks and ham and what-have-you, she arrived to find the two men preparing to go out. What is self going to do with all this food? She’ll send it home with Randy, probably. It’s either that or scarf on chips for days on end.
Anyhoo, after self watered a bit, she settled down in the tiny room she calls her “Office.” This has all her memorabilia, all her saved literary magazines, all her knick-knacks. Through the French doors, she can look right into the backyard:
The View From Self’s “Office”: What a Gorgeous Day!
These bookends were from a consignment store in San Carlos, whose name is eluding self. It’s on Laurel Street.
The Rabbit keeps her literary magazines upright. One Story faces out.
Now self settles down to tackle a huge pile of back issues of The New York Times Book Review. There’s a “Let’s Read About Sex” issue, and the October 20, 2013 issue, which has more than the usual number of “Women’s Literature” reviews. Self is bored reading about sex in the staid NYTBR. It would be much more fun reading books about sex if she were reading something like Rolling Stone. So she goes for the October 20, 2013 issue.
A short story collection by T. C. Boyle is reviewed in this issue. Self really loves T. C. Boyle so she is happy to read the review (and would read anything by him, regardless of whether the review was good or bad). There’s a review of a novel about the forty-ish Bridget Jones, and a review of a Scandinavian novel in which a traumatized woman is plagued by the conviction that her husband is guilty of a heinous crime (Don’cha just love those traumatized women in Scandinavian novels who are so . . . so noir-ishly fragile in temperament! After all, there can never be another Lisbeth Salander. That’s over. That’s done. Now it’s back to the Scandinavian women of an Ingmar Bergman movie)
Of the four crime novels reviewed by Marilyn Stasio in this issue (Sunday, October 20, 2013), two are set in Florence. How absolutely fabulous! That’s Florence, Italy, in case you were wondering. The third is set in Manhattan (It’s by Jeffery Deaver, who writes about Manhattan like nobody’s business). And the last one is set in a small town in Connecticut — but in 1956. Self likely won’t get to the Connecticut novel, as she is easily confused by mysteries that happen in the recent past (Mysteries about the way, waaaaay past are much easier on her nerves. At least, everything’s different, not like the ones set in the 1950s, where self keeps forgetting the decade and then wonders why she is so confused)
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.