Hey kids!
I want to hear from YOU this time. C’mon down to Polldaddy and take part in this survey on one of my favourite topics: READING!
Follow the link here, or go to my Facebook or Twitter pages.
Survey closes June 21, 2013 at 23:30.
Can’t wait to hear from you!
http://leemcbride2020.polldaddy.com/s/let-us-read-let-us-dance
Filed under Books
“Envy is the art of counting the other fellow’s blessings instead of your own.”
― Harold G. Coffin
Recently I have been exploring the differences between envy and jealousy. I was always pretty clear on the latter, but have found more than one meaning of the former.
One says that envy consists of “a feeling of discontent and resentment aroused by and in conjunction with desire for the possessions or qualities of another.” Okay. Got it. However, the second maintains that envy is “best defined as a resentful emotion that “occurs when a person lacks another’s (perceived) superior quality, achievement or possession and wishes that the other lacked it.”
Now, see, all this time, I’ve avoided using the word jealousy, because it alludes to a fear of personal loss. I used envy instead, because in most cases, I simply coveted some thing or quality possessed by someone else. That said, I don’t recall ever crossing the line and wishing the other person didn’t have it…just that I wanted it, too.
This is all blather until I put it in some kind of context. I should do that, now.
In this past year and a half, my self-esteem has taken a severe beating, for the most part self-inflicted. Due to a back injury, I was unable to work out and had to abandon a career path with a strong physical component. That was the one part I wasn’t responsible for. Then I got depressed. I mean, really depressed. The kind of depression that allows you to only be productive enough to piggle your toenails all day, drink too much and slop together a meagre meal for the fam. I stopped writing. My hair got stringy. Yoga pants became an essential part of the uniform. And thus began a vicious cycle.
In the meanwhile, though, life was toodling merrily along without my input or presence. Solipsistic Erin was first amazed, then quickly crestfallen. How can So-And-So still write so well? How can So-And-So be so clean all the time? How can So-And-So avoid drinking for a whole month? How can So-And-So be going on vacay? How can So-And-So go jogging, eat Paleo, talk professionally, meet cool people, get a job, be out in the world so confidently?
I really got envious of So-And-So, lemme tellya.
Thing is, I never wanted So-And-So to lose what she or he had to start with, I just found myself fantasizing about how lovely it would be to have those things/qualities, too. Lord knows I had intentions toward getting ’em, but I’ve been hearing bad things about intentions and now avoid them when at all possible…like corn oil or Nestlé products.
One of the only rays of sunshine in being a directionless, unemployable SAHM is that you’re available to yak to other like-situationed pals during they day, because hey, no job. One friend of mine in particular has been trying to find his groove for years. Our circumstances are quite different, however our mutual feelings about the whole mess bear a striking resemblance. Generally we commiserate and hate on the world for a bit, however this morning we really got into the guts of it. After indulging each others’ need to rant, he sent me this:
I for one have learned something about myself since 2002:
Number one: you must be honest with yourself. Life altering self-initiated changes don’t make a lot of sense when you know deep down that you’re denying yourself the opportunity be happy; it almost always ends in tears and regret.
Number two: position yourself to include all the things that you really enjoy. Denying yourself these opportunities will leave you unhappy and second-guessing your decisions. Surround yourself with what fills your soul.
Though I had come to these conclusions myself at one time or another, I think I must have thrown them in a drawer somewhere, or on top of a bookshelf, because when I went looking for them, I found them all dusty and giving off a kind of mildewy smell. Dusted them, sprayed them with Lysol, and now they’re looking – if not totally shiny and new – definitely passable.
So I’m back here, for better or worse, and have picked up an old W.P. Kinsella I haven’t read in a while. Not a bad start. In any case, today it fills my soul.
Filed under Books, Ephemera, Health and Wellness, Rants
Canadiana: Canadian things in general, but especially Canadian literature.
When it comes to Canadiana, I am un fanatique complet (us Canucks always use French when we’re trying to achieve haughty emphasis). Finding a new treasure for my already double-stacked shelves provides a rush only rivaled by the discovery I had enough foresight to buy two bottles of wine last night. Or kayaking. Pick one.
The new, Indigo/Chapters/Kobo flyer arrived the other day. Have you seen it? Oh my God, it’s gorgeous. Total bibliophile erotica, twenty-four over-sized pages dripping with earth-toned, name-dropping, lifestyle-pushing titillation. Apparently Ondaatje won the coin toss and got his name on the cover. That’s all right, though; Atwood’s been too busy these days baffling twin buffoons in Toronto to take any notice.
Thing is, buying Ondaatje’s latest alone (The Cat’s Table, $32.00) goes far beyond my monthly book-buying budget, nevermind picking up an embroidered felt loop pillow or two to lean on ($39.50 each) or a hand drawn teardrop glass lamp ($60) to romantically illuminate the pages. Fortunately for me, there is a bounty of used book sellers in this town to choose from. Value Village on Fennell at Upper Wentworth has a surprisingly well-stocked and organized selection, as does Talize on Upper James. Why, just the other day I picked up Stuart McLean’s “Extreme Vinyl Cafe” and Jann Arden’s “i’ll tell you one damn thing, and that’s all i know!” for about three bucks apiece. Take that, Indigo! Better yet – if you aren’t as paper possession-hungry as I, go to the dang library, where they apparently let you leave the premises, borrowed books in hand… for free!
My obsession with Canadian writing officially began in 1999, but there were evidences of it much earlier. However, I was fortunate enough to have a prof named Joe Zezulka who not only taught CanLit, but spoke about it so passionately you’d have to be a zombie not to be changed forever during his lectures. Plus, he refers to Atwood as ‘Peggy.’ Serious cool factor. In his class I learned the names Brand, Vanderhaege, Don McKay, Anderson-Dargatz, Marlatt, Steffler, Wiebe, and a host of others, including lesser-known works by giants of the profession. I found myself, quite literally, home.
I realize that for the most part, I’m preaching to the converted here. I mean, if you like DC Comics first and foremost, or WWII biographies, or burn the midnight oil hunched over tech manuals, then Anakin, you may just be too far gone to consider what I’m proposing here. But if you’ve always held in your heart a tangible but indescribable attachment to your home and native land, then may I suggest you give these voices a chance to bring your country to you in a way no one else can.
My humble recommendations (in no particular order) are listed below. It is nowhere close to being a complete list; think of it as Erin’s Picks, 101. Also, if I hated it or I haven’t actually read it, it ain’t here. If you prefer non-fiction or poetry, drop me a line and I’ll send you some suggestions. For you fellow fanatics, you just know I’ll have left out your favourite (I’m sure I left out some of my own). Don’t cancel our coffee date in a huff – just join the party and leave a reply with your addition(s).
Happy perusing!
The Wars – Timothy Findley (or, on a more lighthearted – sort of – note, Not Wanted On The Voyage)
The Cure for Death by Lightning – Gail Anderson-Dargatz
The Diviners – Margaret Laurence
Solomon Gursky Was Here – Mordecai Richler (I actually loved The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz more, however I realize many of you were forced to read it in school, and therefore picked another)
The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood (or if you can handle a harsher dystopia, try Oryx and Crake)
The Deptford trilogy (Fifth Business, The Manticore, World of Wonder) – Robertson Davies
The Book of Eve – Constance Beresford-Howe (a trilogy, further reading: A Population of One, The Marriage Bed)
Mercy Among The Children – David Adams Richards
The Afterlife of George Cartwright – John Steffler
Burning Water – George Bowering
Shoeless Joe – W.P. Kinsella (or, if you dig short stories, Red Wolf, Red Wolf)
Anne of Green Gables – Lucy Maud Montgomery (it ain’t just for little girls)
Farley Mowat – anything – a specific one of this guy’s novels is near-impossible to suggest. Read the back covers and choose one you like.
The Stone Diaries – Carol Shields (yeah, she was born in the US. But she’s been one of us since the 60s, so I’m claiming her).
In The Skin of a Lion – Michael Ondaatje (or for lovers of the literarily obscure, try The Collected Works of Billy the Kid)
Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town – Stephen Leacock (there’s good reason our national literary humor award has his name on it)
Fall On Your Knees – Ann-Marie MacDonald
The Englishman’s Boy – Guy Vanderhaeghe
Obasan – Joy Kogawa
The Sentimentalists – Johanna Skibsrud
Who Has Seen The Wind – W.O. Mitchell
The Outlander – Gil Adamson
Through Black Spruce – Joseph Boyden
The Book of Negroes – Lawrence Hill
Filed under Can-Lit
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