I Judge You by the Company You Keep

And when I say that, I'm clearly not talking about people. I find that I tend to make snap judgments about people I don't know not really by who they surround themselves with. Rather, I find that I make snap judgments when I can see their reading material.

I'm not a flirt. And I rarely talk to men I don't know.

But. Sometimes I'm tempted to start talking to men when I see them reading.

I never do, because I've never quite figured out how to have that conversation: "Hi! Clearly, you read. And clearly, you have marvelous taste in books. I, too, read. And I also have wonderful taste in books." I mean where else can you take that sentence, except to: "So would you happen to have any good reading recommendations?"

The temptation arises any time I see a decent-looking guy holding an actual book. Sometimes the temptation falls away quickly. You're reading Clive Cussler? No, thank you. (Random confession: on my last--blind--date, when my date admitted to what he read, he listed a litany of nonfictional genres. Which was fine. But then I asked if he read fiction, and he said: "I enjoy Clive Cussler." At which point it's about 145% likely that I said something such as: "Well, I wasn't judging you based on your reading habits before. But I am now.")

But sometimes. Sometimes I see someone sitting at lunch in the Gateway, eating a sandwich and reading a book called The Art of Racing in the Rain. And I don't start talking because of that whole awkward-book-conversation thing, but also because I don't know the book. What if I make the wrong judgment?! (Incidentally, I looked the book up and it sounds pretty darned interesting. I guess that guy gave me a book recommendation without even knowing it.)

And other times. Other times, I see an attractive man a few Trax stops past mine getting on while reading The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks and I want to do all of the following, in this order:

1. Tell him he's reading one of the best things I recently read.
2. Acknowledge this means he's got really great taste in books.
3. Let him know that he won't be sorry.
4. Ask him to marry me.

What I really do is try to bestow a look of gleaming approval--you know, the sort that might come from a cute and beatific librarianlike type of person? It's highly ineffective. But safe. And my books like that look just fine.

You Are What You...Act?

Lately I've been reading a lot about white collar criminals for research purposes. And by "research purposes," I mean I'm researching identity theft issues, etc. for a novel idea that's working its way out of my head and onto the page.

But there's an extremely interesting trend to all of my reading so far: all of the people I've read about who have successfully posed as something they aren't had one thing in common--they all acted the part.

I've grown up in a culture that encourages the idea of faking it until you make it, even though I'm pretty sure this isn't what they mean. But it's still intriguing to think that if you enter the right environment and simply act as though you belong there, there's every chance the people will accept you for what you say you are.

This whole concept would work better, it seems to me, if you have a certain amount charisma: but not necessarily, from what I'm reading. Sometimes you have to affect an air of snobbery and superiority to be accepted by the snobs. And certain sets of people seems perfectly willing to believe you if you look a part and if you act a part even when you aren't the part.

Anyway. I'm fascinated by this because it assumes a certain amount of trust I would presume isn't inherent in most cultures. But maybe we want to trust people after all. Maybe we want them to be what we see.

I'm My Father's Child, Too

Toward the end of April, I sent my dad a text message asking when he'd be taking me out to lunch for his birthday. It's a move that, in any other family, might well have backfired. But not with my dad. He chuckled, I'm sure. Maybe ruefully shook his head. And then we figured out a day we could go out to lunch.

We're creatures of habit: we eat at Jason's Deli, and between the two of us, we probably rotate through roughly four or five of the items on the menu. If that. And then we sit and eat and talk, and it's pretty much a delight to know you're giving your dad firsthand information that your mother has not heard.

Just as it more or less makes his day when any of us call and say, "Hey, I was hoping to talk to you!" instead of asking for Mom.

I mock him for some of his habits of organization and tidiness, but let's face it: I inherited some of them. My DVDs are alphabetized. My books range from shortest to tallest. I have a tendency to rearrange the dishwasher and/or refrigerator and/or freezer when space isn't being well maximized.

Practically without fail, I arrive anywhere I need to be earlier than I need to be there. That's his fault. In a totally un-bad way.

And what I suppose I'm actually saying with all of this is that I'm glad he's my dad, and I'm glad that he taught me well.

This Rainy Day and Monday Might've Gotten Me...Up?

I got caught in a microburst shower on my way to the library today to drop off some highly overdue materials. (For the record, I still feel immensely guilty whenever I take things back to the library late. It's as though I'm depriving people of opportunities. Although in this case... I wasn't terribly impressed with some of what I took back. But that's a different story.)

Anyway, I love summer showers--the type where the rain falls down, but the air's still warm. And they are a delight to watch, as well. I couldn't help but pause and watch as a bunch of trees near my neighborhood were misted...along with some people too. Many of the people looked less than pleased, but oh well. It's weather. What do you do?

There's a certain feeling of insulation that comes with the rain; I tend to feel as though I'm enveloped in my own drenched bubble and that nobody can see what I see in the quite the way I see it. I suppose that's actually true of most times, but the rain just seems to accentuate the sensation.

The smell. The sight. The feeling. They all make me feel like...me. Is that strange? That was one of the most wonderfully calming walks I've had in a long, long time. So perhaps Karen was wrong: rainy days and Mondays don't always get me down.

Despite Being an Adult, I'm Still My Mother's Child

Kids have the most interesting conceptions about how the world works. To wit: tonight, my four-year-old niece kept retrieving books from the shelves, trying to find one that had my name in it. She had decided she wanted to read one of my old books. Anyway, once she found one, she said something about how my name was in the book because when her mom and I and our other siblings were little like her, we were Grandma's children.

"Wait," I said. "So we're not Grandma's children anymore?"

She gave me a funny look and said, "No, Katie, because you're BIG now."

I quickly found there was absolutely no way to reason her into believing that all of my siblings--including her mother--are, in fact, still Grandma's children. Even though we are big.

Perhaps in another ten years or so I'll explain to her that as I've grown bigger, my relationship with my mother has changed. But she has never stopped being my mother, and I have never stopped being her daughter.

When you are very, very little, it's very easy to expect your mother to take care of your needs. You don't really think about it. You're little; she's big; clearly, it's her job to take care of you since you can't do it all on your own. It doesn't mean you aren't thankful for everything she does, but you think she's required to do everything she does. If she didn't, where would that leave you?

But as the years pass by, I notice all of the ways my mother still takes care of us. Most people would probably say the things are little. Phone calls. Comforting talks after break-ups with boyfriends. Listening to someone who just needs to vent. Sending leftovers back with children. Quilts. Jewelry. Other creations. Scrabble games. Sharing recipes, with an added bonus of in-call support of the would-be chef. Jokes. Games. Sharing her washer and dryer. Baking bread. Planning birthday gatherings.

The list could go on. But I guess the point of all of it is this: she still does a lot for me, and I'm grateful. She's always been a wonderful mother. And if, as they say, I'll eventually wind up like her--I'm very much okay with that. Because she's one of the best people I know.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Anatomy of My Hugging Tendencies

The surest sign I have fully embraced a person as a friend: I will let that person hug me. And I won't even flinch.

You see, I'm not a hugger by nature. I never have been. And yes, I hug my mother. And my father. And usually my siblings (provided they don't smell bad--just kidding, none of my siblings have hygiene issues). And of course I'll hug my nephews and nieces, because hello!, who wouldn't want to hug the most adorable children on the planet.

But I've never been a Huggy McHuggerson...and thank heaven for that. To be labeled such would probably remind most people of diapers.

And yet, in the oddest turn of realization, I stumbled upon an interesting--not to mention true--thought about myself the other day. And by that, I mean that of course someone pointed something out. My good friend mentioned that I tend to hug (or want to hug) pretty much anything but humans.

I started to defend myself, then stopped when I recalled that I'd been telling her about how I'd hugged a book I'd found in the bookstore. It occurred to me she might have a point. So here, for your benefit, is a complete list of things that I have a) hugged or b) wished I could hug.

1. As mentioned, books.
2. Flowers (particularly the first hyacinths, lilacs, and tulips I've seen)
3. My DVD copy of The King's Speech
4. My laptop
5. Old poetry notebooks
6. Sunshine (yes, sunshine...the first truly sunny and warm day of the spring, I would've loved to be able to hug the sunshine)
7. The vacuum
8. My Harry Potter blanket
9. The most recent package of Bic pens I bought.
10. A load of laundry (because really...straight out of the dryer...who doesn't love to hug loads of laundry?!)
11. Blow dryer
12. Sweet potato chips
13. Sweet potato fries (clearly a wish...hugging the chips was easy, 'cause they were in a bag--since the fries weren't, I had to settle for imagining myself hugging them)
14. The mama-made quilt
15. My photo album
16. Caramel Apple Spice from Starbucks
17. Also from Starbucks: cheese danish
18. The most recent Josh Groban CD
19. Decorative pillows on my couch

Of all the things I hugged, the caramel apple spice was by far the trickiest. But I managed! And as an added bonus, it actually gave me a small measure of extra physical warmth to do it. Miraculously, no spillage occurred.

My conclusion is this: I'd be much more apt to hug people if I could somehow convince myself they shared a lot in common with my favorite inanimate objects.

Please Don't Quote THAT Tennyson

I've always worn my English nerdery on my sleeve: after all, anyone who speaks with me for more than forty-five seconds will begin to suspect anyway.

But at work, this sometimes causes people to shake their heads--when I start discoursing to them about what I'm reading (the pun book, so far, is intriguing and fascinating!) to when I defend fiction (really, people, you can learn things from novels...I swear it!!!) to when I start talking about the nebulous definition of a word like "classic" (after all, it seems odd to be able to label things "modern-day classics" when usually the idea is that the classics have stood the test of time--almost as though you're making a pre-emptive decision that says to a book: "YOU WILL LAST FOREVER IN A MEANINGFUL AND VERY PUBLIC FASHION").

By far though, the best chuckle I think I've solicited from someone at work is after (on more than one occasion) he had been questioned why we were doing something, and he said: "Ours is not to question why." I grant that it's possible I physically cringed, or twitched at the very least, and almost begged that he not quote that particular line...

...because in "Charge of the Light Brigade," it's promptly followed by "Ours is but to do and die." (Not "or" die, mind you. "And" die.)

Since I value my life, I'll continue to question why.