When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris

(A few things. So, it turns out that I am participating in Cannonball Read! Yay! Thanks, Nicole! Second, looks like it's time to bust out the "fauxblopomo" tag again because I'm a big fat failure. --K)

After closing the back cover on this book, I sat with pursed lips.

“Huh,” I said to my roommate’s cat. “David must be getting old.”

I don’t say this because of his persistent comments about his growing shrub of back hair or because his smoking habit can be counted in decades rather than years. It was the theme that permeated the soft, well-chosen words to the barking paragraphs dedicated to the subject: death. Disease, destruction, decay. Death.

“Maybe that’s what happens when you enter middle age? Is that what you think about?” I threw these statements turned questions at the cat, which turned away and began snoring. When you’re an aging feline that has survived a bout with cancer, you don’t waste your time on a human that doesn’t feed you when there’s valuable sleep to be had.

So I sat alone, sure that I had nothing in common with a man nearly forty years my senior whose thoughts have turned to death. What, exactly, does a 24 year old have to worry about anyway? I go to bed with the absolute assurance that I will wake up in the morning. I neglect to eat properly because my body will easily recover. I hop in the car with the sense of immortality that develops during the teenage years and has yet to be squashed by the realities of life. Death? Me? Pah!

Thinking back on this, however, that’s not exactly true—I do think of death. Quite often, actually. For example, I’ve already left instructions for my funeral, an amalgam of police services my father attends and the Jewish ceremonies I’ve been to (picture bagpipes and chocolate fountains.) Before my first trip to Israel, I pondered writing what amounted to my will and sealing it in an envelope to be opened upon my death. I later scrapped this idea, deeming it a little too dramatic even for me, but left my mother instructions in case they had to send my remains home in a box.

I’ve thought about the best death. It would have to be quick with a minimal amount of sheer terror. While flying to Beijing during an intense lightening storm, I decided that a plane crash was not the way to go. I similarly crossed shark attack, cholera, and gangrene off the list for various reasons. At the time of writing, I’ve settled on a quick meteor strike to the head—a quick death and one that will be a family story for generations.

With this in mind, I flipped back into Sedaris’s essays, reading them again. Suddenly, the author’s “death” takes on a capital letter. Death stalks quietly through the book, sometimes skipping essays, only to slam you with full force in others. “Memento Mori” is one in which Death truly makes his presence know. Upon a second reading, I could feel him shivering down my spine, taking up residence in my pelvis, and tingling in my marrow. Also, skeletons hanging in your bedroom? Ew.

Is When You Are Engulfed in Flames as depressing as I’ve made it out to be? No, of course not. There are plenty instances of classic Sedaris word play and self deprecation. And it could very well be that I’ve spent too much time being introspective about the whole thing. Perhaps I’ll also come to a better understanding when I reach that age. Would I read this again? Absolutely, but not as a pick-me-up.

I won’t be asking that damn cat for advice again either.

Verdict: Buy it if you have a Sedaris collection. Otherwise, break out that library card.

(PS. I have, like, 2 other books to review, but damn me if I have the time or the energy to type them up. I'll get there.)

Newly Shorn

I don't know what makes getting a haircut so exciting for me. It's a fairly regular occurrence, since my hair grows quickly and somewhat off-kilter (I've been told it's because I only sleep on one side, stunting my hair's growth, but I don't know how much of that is true). And, if I don't get at least a trim, I end up looking like I have a man's '70s era feathered hairdo. Like I don't have enough troubles.

I went to a new stylist this time around, taking advantage of my associate discount at NDS's in-store salon. That woman scrubbed my scalp like it was a bloodstain on a white sofa, but I've never felt so clean. Then cut, twist, curl, straighten. New hair!

This post is pointless, seriously. But it was the only exciting thing that happened to me today. Besides snow.

K.

"Where did you goooo? "

I received that as a comment from abz the other day and decided that I should probably answer that question.

Well, the reason I fell off the face of the Earth is due to the deep-- and frankly, ridiculous-- emotional angst that I collapsed into once I found out that I didn't get the job I was so sure I was qualified for. I didn't communicate with anyone outside of my family for days just because I didn't feel like explaining.

I call this angsty-ness "ridiculous" because there are a ton of people having a harder time of it than I am out there. I have a job, I have a home, and I have insurance-- what else to I need, really? But, at the same time, I can understand why this job-hunting thing has become a bit like scrabbling up a greased pole. As people are getting laid off, companies that are hiring are able to get experienced people quickly and easily. And that leaves those who have just graduated (me) sobbing into their pillows at night. Oh well.

I have been getting some things done, though. I'm an intern/contributor to MAPMagazine.com, which is pretty much about getting information about Madrid to tourists. Now, I've never been to Madrid (or Spain, for that matter), but I busted out my ninja-like researching skills to pull together this article. I'm pleased with myself.

So, that's where I went. That and the insane hours that I'm working now that the holiday season has started. I'm currently pulling a more-or-less stable 39.75 hours per week, which is practically full time. I'm pretty sure that I just signed on for 25 hours a week. Alas, I do my job too well.

Oh, one more thing. I agree that Hugh Jackman is a very sexy man, but I think Salon has it over People. And, at 5'8", he's pocket-sized!

Feel free to disagree with me with a above opinion, but you know that I'm right.

K.

I Did It?

Well, we all know that I had to miss a day because of my internet outage, but, judging by this badge, "doing it" means that I had to post thirty times in thirty days. And I did. One day I posted twice. Count 'em. Thus, through thorough rationalizing, I've come to realize that I deserve this badge, dammit. I worked my butt off.

So there.

K.

Things I Learned During NaBloPoMo

Save pictures on your hard drive; don't link.

Shouting "Dear G-d, why isn't this month over?!?" does not make the month end faster.

One day of the internet being gone can ruin a whole month of work.

A one sentence post is perfectly acceptable when in the throes of NaBloPoMo.

No topic is too stupid during NaBloPoMo.

No, seriously, shouting "Dear G-d, why isn't this month over?!?" really does not make the month go faster. If anything, it draws out the torture.

Have fruit flies in your apartment? There's today's post right there.

Commenting on other blogs is more fun when everybody's suffering.

Rely on memes. They are your friends.

Thirty day months are infinitely better than 31 day months.

K.

Blogs Are Fun... and International!

Geez, this month is almost over... Thank G-d.

Tomorrow, I have to do a presentation for Computers and Writing. I'm thinking that I'm going to concentrate on blogs and the international realm. All the information I've found is rather interesting. For instance, did you know that the Japanese are the biggest posters in the blogosphere? I suppose we in the English-speaking world have no idea because we can't venture into foreign language blogs and understand them.

It's pretty incredible that something as simple as this little blog here can bring something of literary freedom to countries that usually censor print media. There are so many countries that we in the United States consider third-world that can speak out via weblogs. I may be alone here in thinking it's amazing. Hmm.

K.

A Loss of Innocence With a Spider Bite

Last night, I sat up thinking about a girl I had in my bunk during my first year as a camp counselor. She was what we at camp refer to as "awkward"-- quiet, prone to odd conversations when she did open her mouth, and habits rather different from a typical 10-year old girl. She had a connection with bugs that none of us could understand. Spiders, daddy longlegs, and moths-- all would sneak into our bunk and swarm on the walls and bed legs. While the rest of us would end up stomping and swatting, she would shout at us to stop. She would then go about rescuing the insects and arachnids, cradling them in her palms as she carried them back into the great out doors.

I never really understood her. After all, I'm the girl with green bug splatters on the walls of her apartment. I don't handle bugs well. But I tried to work around her sensibilities, calling her into my counselor room whenever a spider dared to step foot on my walls. The way she cared for such insignificant lives made me feel guilty for all of the ants I squashed when I was younger, the centipedes that I directed my father to kill, and the spiders I smashed with blobs of tissues.

On the last day of the session, we were scrubbing down the bunk and packing all of our belongings. This is traditionally when the insects are flushed into the open. Well, our bug quota was met by a single gigantic spider. It looked like a bristle brush with eight hairy legs. Screams of 10 frantic girls echoed off the walls, the springs of the beds screeched as they all jumped up out of the way from the multi-eyed menace.

But not this girl. With her typical calmness and almost vacant smile, she advanced on the spider, bending down and reaching out her hand. The next thing I knew, she was screaming as loud as the rest of them, holding her hand tightly to her chest. The spider had bitten her. Hard.

As I raced her down to the infirmary, she told me tearily that it didn't hurt her so much as surprise her. I suppose she was feeling a little betrayed by an animal that she always tried to help.

I don't know why I still remember that-- it was four years ago. But whenever I watch those daytime trashy TV shows about child abuse and wild, out of control teens, I think of her. I suppose it's the loss of innocence that gets to me, how one event could change a child's outlook, even something very small.

I wish I could have smashed the spider before she had gotten to it, just so she could have avoided the disappointment.

K.

The Jewiest Christmas Ever

I'm going to have the Jewiest Christmas ever.

Some will cock their heads and ask, "Wait, wasn't the Jewiest Christmas ever the time when you had Chinese food and saw Munich in the theater?" No, that was the most depressing Christmas ever. This will be the Jewiest Christmas ever.

Because this Christmas, my friends, will be the Christmas my family and I drive down to Florida. Yes, we will snowbirds for a few days, just like my old-school aunt and uncle. Granted, we will be there for my brother's soccer tournament, but it's better than being incredibly lonely at home like most Christmases.

Huzzah!

K.

Fruit Fly Fever

I came back to my apartment and immediately became the proud owner of a flock of fruit flies. I'm not sure how they got here and I'm not sure why they stay, but this is a pet-free apartment complex, so they must go.

I've set up fruit fly traps all over, using a tempting mix of honey and strawberry jam. While I'll be sad to kill them (they're kind of cute, in a irritating sort of way), they are making a habit of landing on my nose and shoulders. A few are even settling on my ear as I write this, offering some "helpful" suggestions in grammar and wording.

So, I must get back to real life and rid myself of these busybodies. I'll be back.

K.

Idiot Food

Ever eat something that you know you'll regret, but you scarf it down with gusto anyway? Ever find yourself curled up in a ball after eating said food, moaning in pain but smiling because it tasted so damn good?

That, my friends, is what we call idiot food. In other words, it's delectable bits of whatever that turns the most sensible of us into drooling numbskulls.

My idiot food is hush puppies.

Yes, I know that I have an extremely delicate gut and that eating fried corn is never a good idea on my best of days. And, yes, I know that my stomach hasn't been up to snuff lately, so my food tolerance is way down.

But, oh G-d, hush puppies! Those little fried bits of glory! Those sweet morsels of beauty! Oh! Put a hush puppy in front of me and I'm a goner.

So excuse me while I curl up in bed, riding out the cramps, with lovely bits of hush puppy still caught on the edges of my smile.

K.

I Read; Therefore, I Am

I'm going to confess a secret. A secret that will cement my nerd status for perhaps the next ten thousand years.

I have a reading journal. That I keep on my own accord. That I am not forced to do by any class. Ever.

It's not the type of journal where I write a wee report for each chapter. No, that would be going too far. But meticulously recording the start and finish date for each book, both school and pleasure-- yeah, I do that.

I'm not sure why I embarked on this project; I suppose that I always wondered how many books I was getting through during a set period of time. Sometimes they all run together, which kind of defeats the purpose of reading all together. So I went out and bought a small notebook which, rather fittingly, is covered in shelves of tiny books. Now write little blurbs about the books I read along with the dates.

So far I've been diligently keep track of my reading habits since August 11th, which is pretty exciting for someone as perpetually distracted as I am. In that time, I have read 21 books, which I find interesting. I'm pretty excited to see how long I can keep this up.

Oh, and this site hasn't helped. I keep checking up every other day to see if I've missed any. 6.22%, woot!

Anyone else do something completely unnecessary that seems a lot like work?

K.

Peace at Last

Though I sometimes wish that my family would just go away, I don't think that there is a better feeling than sitting with them on a small Virginian island, noshing on pizza, and watching "Hunt for Red October." Even my callous little brother sighs at the tragedy of Sam Neill's wish to see Montana and dying before he gets a chance. Real family togetherness time.

Granted, my brother is busy mocking my ignorance of the movie (it's been years since I've last seen it, and more since I've picked up the book) and my parents are making silly comments to each other. I'm busy asking dumb questions and wondering where I've seen all of these actors and showing my father Tim Curry's costume in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." Yes, it's about the same as it is at home.

Still, I can poke my head out on the balcony and sniff the strangely beautiful scent of salt grass and sulfurous marsh mud, all while watching the lighthouse revolve. It's amazing how a change of location can resolve every conflict, real or otherwise.

So, from my little nest in the marsh, I wish you and your family a wonderful Thanksgiving vacation. I hope that you have some peace, even if only for a short period of time.

K.

Chevy Dreams

(Oh, wonderful, wonderful internet!)

I don't know why I was thinking about this last night, but I spent time before I went to sleep thinking about a kid I knew in elementary school. My grade school experience was unique-- I spent third through fifth grade with the same teacher and the same kids. We were "gifted," apparently. Anyway, I spent three years with this kid, but never really knew much about him other than he really liked Chevrolet.

I mean, really liked Chevrolet.

I've never seen someone so obsessed over a brand of car. His binder would be slathered with Chevy pickups and Chevy muscle cars with a sprinkling of the Chevy logo for a bit of spice. Ford, of course, was the archenemy.

There was only one way to get on this guy's nerves-- present him with a print ad for any Ford motor product and step back to watch the fireworks. Spittle would fly, dotting the brilliantly colored ad and spraying all with a fine mist. His eyes would burn with the feverish desperation of a man fighting for his life. In a strangled voice, he would begin enumerating the numerous faults of Ford and all products associated with the brand. Chevrolet would emerge as the messiah of motorized vehicles, deliverer of the American auto industry. Then he would turn back to his math book as the rest of us slunk away.

I wonder where that kid is now and I wonder how he's handling the current auto market. How can someone so dedicated to a failing American market survive the influx of reliable foreign cars? These days, if I had a choice between a Chevy and a Toyota, it would be Toyota all the way. I don't want to get into the economics of automobiles, but every time I see a commercial for Kias or Subarus or Hondas, I think about my former classmate.

I hope he owns a Chevy, waxes it daily, and kisses it goodnight. That would make me smile.

K.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Vacation! Whoo!

This is just my post if I can't find internet when I get to Chincoteague. My previous experiences have told me that the web is very scarce on the island.

K.

FauxBloPoMo

So my internet went out yesterday and it was too cold and rainy to tramp over the library to use the wireless. Therefore, I guess I lose NaBloPoMo. It seems a little unfair that I have to wait a who other year until I can try again just because my internet provider decided to drop the ball, but I guess thems the breaks.

As it is, I'm very excited to be heading on vacation tomorrow. It's just the thing to cool my nerves. Apparently, this hotel has wireless, so I will try to continue posting as if I hadn't just failed at life. :)

K.