Monthly Archives: April 2017

Reading Materials: April 2017

18. The Summer Before the War, Helen Simonson. (Library) This book is, as they say, right up my Edwardian England alley. I find the society fascinating – why so-and-so can be invited to tea or not, why one man is a suitable prospect but another is Totally Unacceptable, and the plethora of unappetizing food names. It was beautifully written, well-paced, and swung effortlessly between the silliness of manners and the seriousness of war.

19. The Couple Next Door, Shari Lapena. (Library, Book Club Selection) It would be helpful for me if all books involving babies in peril came with a big warning label on the front. This was a book club selection, so I hadn’t had the chance to read about the book before I read the book. In the first chapter, a couple discovers their six-month-old baby missing, and the rest of the book deals with the how and why. I had a hard time focusing on whodunnit because I was anxious about the status of the baby. I doubt everyone has the same problem. Otherwise, this was a well-written and twisty mystery, and I enjoyed it.

20. Definitely Dead, Charlaine Harris. (hand-me-down) After Baby In Peril, I needed a palate cleanser. As always, this was a perfect fluffy sherbet of a book.

21. The Atomic Weight of Love, Elizabeth J. Church (Library, Book Club selection) I disliked this book almost to the point of loathing it. A few years ago, I finally read The Making of the Atomic Bomb, a weighty tome by Richard Rhodes – so a novel about one of the wives of a Los Alamos scientist seemed like it would be my thing. But this book had almost nothing to do with Los Alamos, and everything to do with the giant chip the main character carries on her shoulder. In short, at the age of 19, she marries a professor more than 20 years her senior, and ends up not going to graduate school – a fact she whines about for the remainder of the novel. She allows this festering resentment to consume her. AND ANOTHER THING. In the novel, at the age of 46, she is suddenly turned from a relatively serious person into a lust-crazed, boy-crazy twit – and the boy in question is 20 years her junior. I don’t buy it. Even in the 1960s.

22. The Rook, Daniel O’Malley. (Library) This book was tremendously entertaining, and it grabbed me from the first page. The main character wakes up on page one surrounded by corpses wearing latex gloves, with no memory of who she is or what happened. She finds a letter in her pocket from herself, and then we’re off on a grand supernatural adventure. I will definitely be checking out the second book in the series.

2017 Totals
Fiction: 18
Non-Fiction: 4

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We painted the dining room, and I have some thoughts on open concept houses.

The dining room was the last big room on the first floor that needed to be painted, and I was 100% sure I wanted to change the color from a tan-ish gold to something else.

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Until I wasn’t.

Until I was again.

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I waffled on the dining room color for an absurdly long amount of time. On the one hand, the room has a ton of windows and wide trim, so there isn’t a whole lot of wall – which indicated we should go with a bold color. On the other hand, there’s a lot of dark wood and art and a boldly-colored rug  – indicating maybe a subdued neutral was in order. On the third tentacle, while our house is by no means open concept (more on that in a moment!) the dining room is visible from the (green) living room and the (cream) kitchen, so I wanted the colors to flow.

I ended up choosing another color from SW’s historical collection, Calico. We freaking love it.

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It’s serene, it reflects the light beautifully, and it pulls together the whole room.

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After we put it on the walls, we started noticing the color everywhere. It’s the same gray-blue as Jason’s eyes, for example, and his car, and a sweet French Bulldog salt shaker I bought at Target several years ago. I even used some of the leftover paint on some plastic Easter eggs.

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And when I pulled out my mom’s china for Easter brunch, BEHOLD, it matched.

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I found myself grateful, once again, for the lack of open-concept-ness in our house. The color we picked is by no means bold, but it would be overwhelming in a large living/dining/kitchen area.

I would not be happy living in an open concept house – I like privacy, and doors, and retreats. That said, I have a great appreciation for the judicious deployment of an open-concept format in a renovation. I watch “Fixer Upper” with just as much excitement as the next thirtysomething female. In our former house, the kitchen had been opened to the family room, and that was great. Even in our current house, it appears that three small rooms – an entry room, a butler’s pantry, and a kitchen – were combined to make the current kitchen.

Like every other trend (although “trend” seems a bit strong of a word for a permanent change to the structure of your home!), the open concept movement is starting to see its share of vocal detractors. House Beautiful argued a few months ago, “Why We Need to Just Stop With Open Floor Plans.”  I think all their points are fair. I would add, perhaps, something I’ve noticed with televisions. Have TVs gotten bigger in response to changing design? Or has design changed in response to bigger televisions? It seems like every open concept house I’ve seen in person (as opposed to the houses staged for HGTV shows) is designed around the TV – usually in the form of a TV-shaped space above the fireplace or within a set of built-ins. The TV is visible – and audible – throughout the entire living space. This is not appealing to me, but I also recognize that I am in the minority.

 

 

 

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Sisyphus

The plan was simple. I was to take my mother to Jacksonville on Saturday for the wedding of her godson, the son of her oldest friend, and then spend the night on the same property where the wedding was being held. I felt clever enough to transport her from Point A to Point B and back in a 24-hour period. I even brought a couple of books, on the theory that I would execute my duties so competently I would have time left over to read while gazing at the ocean.

Instead, like the clever Sisyphus, I spent the weekend pushing my mother up the hill of my own hubris.

We left Tallahassee at noon. The wedding was scheduled for 5:00 at Amelia Island, a three-hour drive away. We stopped for lunch at 1:00. Mom preferred to eat at the restaurant, and I thought that with my help we could be in and out in a reasonable amount of time.

Nope.

Most people can cope with the level of stimulus generated by a busy fast-food restaurant on a Saturday afternoon. Not my mother. She was completely overwhelmed by the noises, the lights, the colors.

I pushed.

I ordered for her, helped her sit down, brought her food, filled her drink, and begged her to eat. She sat, staring in the direction of the TV without really seeing it. I had to coach her through every bite. It took over an hour.

I pushed.

Back in the car, I realized that we were now in danger of being late. We pulled up to the hotel at 4:00. Of course, check-in was in the main hotel, and our room was in a distant building.

And here’s where I made my biggest mistake. I had assumed that a normal hotel setup would be fine for mom. She walks slowly and with difficulty, but she does not use a walker or wheelchair. However, there are some very real differences between a truly accessible space and a “normal” space. At 4:20, when I pulled up to the building where our room was located, I almost cried. All I could see were stairs. There were stairs to get to the elevator, which was also located at the back of the building. There were more stairs from the elevator to our room.

I pushed.

I got her out of the car and into the room. I got both of us changed and back downstairs to catch the shuttle to the ceremony site. We arrived at 5:05, just ahead of a golf cart full of bridesmaids. The shuttle dropped us 50 yards from the seating area. The distance stretched before me like a dolly zoom shot from a Hitchcock film.

I pushed.

The ceremony was lovely, and offered me exactly 20 minutes to breathe before tackling the next challenge – another 50-yard walk over unpaved ground to the reception site. We put mom on a golf cart, a process that took three adults and 10 minutes of coaching. Once at the reception, we deposited her in a chair. She did not get up for the rest of the evening. After dinner, we wrangled her back onto the shuttle and I somehow got her up to our room, undressed, and in bed.

Sunday morning, I woke up pushing.

I got her out of bed. I packed all our things, dressed her, and loaded the car. I asked if she was ready to go.

“I’m ready to go back to bed,” she pouted.

I made her use the restroom before we left. The toilet was low, and configured such that I could not stand in front of her to help her up. The awkward angle, combined with her inability to assist, caused me to wrench my back trying to keep her from falling to the floor. I spent the drive home with increasing stiffness and soreness in my mid-back.

Yet I pushed.

I arrived home just after noon and I was a wreck. I had spent every waking moment of the last 24 hours pushing my mother, pushing her to move, pushing her to focus, pushing her to cooperate. Even when we’re at home, I have to push her to drink water, push her to use the bathroom, push her to eat, push her to bathe.

I’m glad we went. It was the right thing to do. The wedding was lovely. But the amount of work required to execute a relatively simple plan was staggering. I consider myself to be pretty smart, but I was humbled by the number of factors I failed to adequately consider. And while I would love to say, “Next time will be better!” I honestly don’t think there will be a next time.

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