But Call Me Betsy

Finished Jane Steele last night, the book about Jane Éyre as a serial killer governess, although that's an exaggerated description from the book jacket that's meant to cause you to pick it up. She's more like Jane Éyre as Batman--she only does away with those who are nefarious and deserving of death--rapists, child abductors, mass murderers.  The first-person narrator in the contemporary version does address the reader directly, but instead of stating, "dear Reader, I married him," she writes "dear reader, I murdered him." She's not a sociopath though; she feels guilt and hates herself for these mostly random or opportunistic slayings. It's hard not to compare it to another Victorian  Gothic retelling I read recently; Pride, Prejudice and Zombies , which weaved together real text from the Austen novel and sprinkled in zombies. Not enough zombies for me and the book didn't play that up enough somehow. It also had illustrations and I could...

I won't write a blog post that explains how little dogs are better than big dogs, because I've never owned a big dog and so have no basis for comparison. I also never, ever thought I would be happy with a little dog, as they made me think of snobby older white woman on Madison Avenue who carry their Pomeranian's like accessories. Little dogs didn't seem like real dogs--real dogs are water-loving golden retrievers or bear-like huskies or thick-necked Rottweiler's. But then, because we were trying to ease Luke into the idea of owning a dog, we went with the smaller model. Also, the hypoallergenic model, which is a whole other issue altogether, because we paid for him at a puppy store that may be an abuse factory for mommy dogs, and so we cannot say, "He's a rescue." People like to say this when you ask them their breed of dog. "Oh, we don't know. We rescued him from certain death." They like to put bumper stickers on their cars that read ...

I like a routine at the gym, and I like limitations on time. I go between three or four times a week and do either 40 or 45 minute of cardio and sometimes a few sit ups and weights. But most of the time that I'm there, I'm dying for it to be over and having the same thoughts. It's not like other solitary activities--like if I'm walking or in the shower, my brain works on solving problems or maybe I think about a story or a to-do list. At the gym, maybe because my body is fully occupied, my brain can't organize itself around a set of coherent or useful thoughts. Here's basically what circulates through my brain: 1. Don't look at how much time is left. Don't look at how much time is left. Keep going, don't worry how much time is left. Oh, god, that's all I've done so far? 2. Who the hell keeps dropping the weights? He should be banned from the gym. I am going to go over there after I get off this machine and tell that guy that he's l...