Once a year I like to reflect on my hatred of party holidays, i.e. my hatred of New Years. My hatred of New Years is, like my hatred of most things, extremely illogical. That said, I will continue to hate it. This year, I chose to spend my New Years cuddlin’ on the couch with my snuggly warm pup, OMC, a lot of beer, and oh hell yes, Batman Begins.
Other than New Years, my Christmas/holiday break has gone swimmingly. I journeyed to Canada, where I waded in (no joke) four feet of snow and discovered the many wonders of Value Village, where I had the great fortune of finding a really hideous drawing of a horse and her foal (swoon). I sat in front of a wood stove reading back New Yorkers and occasionally glancing over the Ottawa River at Quebec. I had a snowball fight. OMC pushed me into like six feet of snow. I knitted lots of mittens. And some scarves. I learned how to play Guitar Hero, and subsequently learned that I am really bad at it. I read Ian Frazier’s new & hilarious Lamentations of the Father and Tom Perrotta’s Little Children (I know I say that a lot of things break my heart, but seriously, this book did it too).
That’s not all! I randomly discovered this book on my mother’s bookshelf, Ann Patchett’s memoir Truth & Beauty: a friendship, in which Patchett writes touchingly of her eternal best friendship with poet Lucy Grealy, who’d suffered from a devastating form of jaw cancer at the age of nine. It was fantastic, and Patchett’s countless mentions of the writing of Grealy, in particular her own memoir, Autobiography of a face, intrigued me so much I had to hunt Grealy’s work down too. I am most of the way done with Grealy’s memoir, and it is so good, like the kind of book that you have to take with you places and then when you have thirty seconds of sitting in the car somewhere you hurry through a paragraph because you want to read it that much. My understanding of Patchett’s memoir is that her portrayal of Grealy is rather incorrect, but I feel that upon finishing Autobiography I may hopefully be a better judge of that. Also I don’t really want to turn my readings of either of these books into criticisms–as I do seriously want to mostly reflect upon a wonderful, supportive, rare friendship between women.
Anyway, I will get back to scowling at holiday merriment from my Batman tower. Yet to come: my caffeine-fueled look at “2000GREAT.”