Mistborn

I don’t know how I missed this series!  Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn trilogy flips the paradigm of epic fantasy on its ear—heroes die, prophecies lie, and allies decry the mission.

I admire an author who isn’t afraid to let a beloved character die. It can lend a sense of reality and a depth of emotion to the story. Plus, after that, you’re never sure what will happen next. The day might not be saved, and the price tag for their dream might be too high.   

The system of magic employed by the Mistborn allomancers is unique and consistent. I love that their power doesn’t mystically come from within but rather from their ability to “burn” external metals. Everything has a consequence, and so far Sanderson hasn’t defied the parameters of his world.

This author’s deft hand with foreshadow will feed your sense of prescience by ostensibly adhering to the time-worn traditions of epic fantasy before ripping the rug out from under you. What a thrill ride!

I’ve finished two-thirds of this trilogy, and I’ve been shocked, deceived, and satisfied.

 

Fried Green Tomatoes

I will freely admit that the only reason I plant tomatoes in my garden is so that I can eat fried green tomatoes. Don’t try to reason with my palate, because I do not like red tomatoes. You can scavenge my garden, and you will not find a single red tomato there. Now, don’t laugh too hard at my foibles unless you have actually savored the crispy, buttery, yumminess of fried green tomatoes.

I love to cook because I love to eat. And there is no other flavor that can compare. Fried green tomatoes is a dish that you will have strong feelings for. You will either detest it, which is peachy for me since I will get to eat more, or your mouth will water every time you think of butter sizzling on the skillet. I haven’t met anyone who can remain blasé on the subject.

Even the fact that they are fried—yes, I said the word”fried”—can’t stop me from loving them. My arteries may not appreciate my obsession, but my mouth thanks me.

MmmmMmmm

 

The Lake

Well, summer has slinked by again. Soccer has started in full force, which means Nic is MIA if you didn’t infer that. We just got back from Deep Creek. I have to say, I want to stay at that lake for the rest of my life. It has a magical, magnetic quality that pulls our family back to its shores every summer. I can’t adequately describe the crisp mornings with mist hanging over the water or the mountains rising up like a citadel around the lake. Nic and I took some early morning kayak trips down into our cove. The sound of the water rippling under my boat and the pull of my muscles on the paddle were pure heaven.

I won’t underrate the tranquil qualities of the lake, but we also survived a few tube rides with Jason in the driver’s seat, hair on fire. At one point I was actually sure he was trying to end my life, or at least maim me in some permanent way. Visions of childhood paybacks were dancing in my head as the water flung out its tentacles to tear me off the tube. And who says slalom skiing is hard? After swallowing gallons of lake water and being dragged behind the boat, I managed to get up on one ski. But then I realized that  I had not one clue about how to maintain an upright position now that I was there. After zigzagging like a toddler on roller skates for about 5.2 seconds, I crashed.

We went running, and I discovered that, yes,  those two inches my sister has on me do matter. You’re not setting the pace next time, Jamie. We did yoga, and I discovered that my little sister is not so flexible. I have also never seen my brother in anything resembling a yoga pose before. It’s a good thing Mom got some pictures.

I’m a Bromley: water is in my blood: Deep Creek is in my blood.

I’m already counting the days until next year.

 

Off the Gerbil Wheel onto the Conveyor Belt

Who said being at home was a picnic? OK, maybe they just left out the fire ants and honeybees that are attracted to my delectable spread. Last Friday, I was editing thirty pages of redundant and convoluted logic, which made my temples drum a steady cadence. We were also dog-sitting Tiki and Maggie. No problem, except that Tiki and Maggie are not used to being in town. Chica, of course, was ecstatic that her BFF Tiki had come to visit.

First, they flew around the house yapping and fake snarling, sniffing and posturing while their tails whipped back and forth. After successfully  completing auditions for top dog in the house, Chica, Starbuck, and their passel of white puff balls set up surveillance at the downstairs window. However, I believe they skipped the Finer Points of Covert Operations lecture and attended Security Measures instead. And the fact that they collectively weigh twenty-five pounds doesn’t hinder their enthusiasm. If the incomprehensible babble on the page in front of me wasn’t enough to make my head explode, the yapping Rin Tin Tin wannabes downstairs were more than willing to trip over the detonator.

I have concluded that four dogs is too many dogs. And walking four dogs is out of the question. Nic started calling them The Entourage, which both impressed and amused me since I didn’t know that word was in his vocabulary. In addition to my ankle-biting fiends, we’ve  affectionately christened the neighbors across the alley The Screamers. They march onto their back porch and bellow commands at their pitiable half-dead dog. Their philosophy seems to be that his understanding is positively correlated with their decibel level. I haven’t seen him move to obey yet.

Still, I wouldn’t trade it. I’ll just get some bug spray for my picnic.

“By working faithfully eight hours a day, you may get to be a boss and work twelve hours a day.”

—Benjamin Franklin

 

Town and Country

I was never meant to live within the municipal limits.  My core being rebels at the uninspiring patchwork of shingles and postage stamp yards that greets me across the windowpane. Living in such proximity is somehow stifling to me, and the sound of all the cookie-cutter citizens mowing their grass in synchronous harmony annoys rather than soothes me.

The neighbors are nice enough. It’s just that they are there when I am yearning for the familiar succor of swaying hay fields and towering oaks. We don’t live in a burgeoning metropolis either, but even small town life seems oppressive now that spring is here. And knowing that this is a temporary abode doesn’t placate me. Rural roads call to me when I am driving, and longing seeps into my soul when the rolling hills unfold before me.

If home is where the heart is, then this hamlet is not it, because my heart belongs to the country.

 

Phrases Commonly Heard when Dressing a Husband or a Five-Year-Old

When imagining this scene, don’t forget the pouty lip and high-pitched whine.

“But why can’t I just wear shorts? I’ll wear the nice ones.”

“These are not as comfy as my sweat pants.”

“Does this match? Are you sure?”

“These shoes are too squeaky. Why can’t I wear the other ones?”

“This is too dressy. Look over there. He’s not dressed up.”

“Do I have to?”

“Who cares if my socks are white.”

“OK, but I’m taking my shorts with me.”

“Iron?”

“I am NOT wearing that.”

Sniff, sniff, “Yep, it’s clean.”

“I won’t get it dirty. I promise.”

“Why do I have to wear this?”

And don’t neglect the ubiquitous response: “Because I said so.”

 

The Bounty Hunter–Barred Bust

Mom and I have become disillusioned with  chick flicks lately. Yesterday, while spending some much-needed girltime together, we decided to watch The Bounty Hunter. We were thinking of seeing Clash of the Titans, which I probably would have preferred, but Mom prefers heartrending romances. We decided to give Jennifer Aniston one more chance to impress us with her, usually absent, acting skills. It didn’t happen. We have decreed that she is now done. No more. We will not throw another dollar toward one of her unentertaining films.

We decided that her co-star, Gerard Butler, was not all that appealing either. Half-way through the movie I concluded that his character had no redeeming qualities, and if he chewed one more piece of food with his mouth gaping open, I was going to scream. For an action romance, there was not a whole lot going on. I wanted there to be some excitement, yet I was looking at my watch throughout the entire film. Apparently. Jennifer Aniston is only capable of playing Rachel from Friends, which makes me wonder if Rachel is not really just the real Jennifer Aniston. I suspect that she doesn’t possess a smidgen of talent. Maybe that was harsh, but I’m tired of paying money to see poorly written, poorly acted movies that do not fulfill their sole purpose–to entertain.

The movie was cliched right down to the impossibly stupid heavies, who couldn’t get out of their own way, let alone cause the hero more than a passing annoyance. I like to see formidable enemies. Otherwise, you’re left congratulating the hero for merely outwitting imbeciles. The dialogue seemed forced and flat as did their relationship, which lacked the passionate hate that would’ve convinced me they’d actually loved each other at one time. Also absent was the oblique flirting that brings most romances to life.

My Recommendation: Don’t waste your time on The Bounty Hunter.

 

Blind as a Bat with Broken Sonar

Everything today has warning labels and pointless directions–like the cheese packages that say “open here.” How long will it be before books have a small white rectangle on the back cover enclosing the message “Warning: indulging in this product for extended periods of time may cause irreparable damage to your vision”? OK, so maybe it isn’t irreparable, but insurance companies should really just hang out a sign that reads “Arms and Legs Now Accepted as Down Payment.”  Hmm, is that a good trade for functioning eyes?

As a child, I thought that swapping my vision for unlimited time between the covers of a book was a great idea. Now, however, I feel that it might not be so. Contacts inevitably irritate my sensitive corneas, and I hate wearing glasses all the time. Everyone knows I’m a nerd. Do I have to feed the image as well?

Unfortunately, my bad vision has put me in a pickle before. When I was a teen, I babysat for a family in our church. The dad was a truck driver and often away, so I had to report to their house by 5 AM so the mom could leave for work. As I prepared for bed the night before, I squinted at the clock while setting my alarm.

The next morning, I thought nothing of the fact that it was pitch-black while driving to their house because it was always pitch-black. However, when I arrived, the house was dark and locked.  Unusual. I knocked on the door and hoped it was the right day. Finally, the mom came to the door with one foot still in dreamland. She looked at me a little funny, then told me it was the right day, but that it was only 4 AM. Apparently, I woke up at 3 AM that morning. Never, never set your alarm without your glasses on.

 

Grumblings of a Lab Rat

It’s official. Four days is all it takes for me to get so far behind that I’m paddling after the boat. Unfortunately, I think the current is running against me. Let’s hope the boat will wait for me at the next port.

I spent one of those misplaced days being a Guinea pig for my sister. Jamie is in the dental hygiene program and has been shamelessly petitioning her family members to come and play little white lab rat. So I gritted my teeth–unintended pun– and took the eight-hour plunge, hoping my fate would be different than that of most white rodents.

First, I was seated in a reclining chair and my blood pressure, pulse, and respiration were taken just to be sure I was healthy enough for torture. Then, to provide comfort, they gave me safety goggles. I don’t know about you, but being asked to wear safety goggles while getting my teeth cleaned by an amateur wielding sharp tools left me shifting in my seat. Were they afraid she might chip a tooth and fling a shard into my eye, or were they afraid she might actually put my eye out with one of her little instruments of torture?

The first two hours were spent answering ridiculous questions that no dentist has ever asked me and re-learning how to brush my teeth. Did I miss something when I was five? And don’t forget the head exam. Maybe I did need my head examined, but somehow I doubt that she could fix my problems. So there I sat, my sister rubbing down my head, and all I can hear is the crackling of plastic gloves that look like something the lunch lady would wear. She continues to give me commands–open your mouth, close your mouth, look away–except I can’t hear her over the crunching plastic in my ear. Did I mention this went on for two hours?

After this, I get delightful red dye stains on my lips and teeth to show me how inept I am at brushing. Now that I look like a five-year-old after a tootsie pop, and a coven of instructors have debated how to classify my teeth, we can finally get down to business. Out come the sharp instruments, on go the safety glasses, and back goes the chair. Since I was being discussed in the third person all day, I wasn’t sure if I was permitted to take part in the conversation, or if I would get scowled at for being sentient. And what is with those lights? Not only did it resemble an alien cyclops, but Jamie seemed unable to tame its wild swings, which never failed to blast my pupils with interrogation-strength rays. I guess it builds on the comfy torture chamber ambiance.

So there I sat, or lay rather, six hours into my voluntary lab testing, blood rushing to my head from the incline, death rays piercing my eyes, tiny mirror cutting into the corners of my mouth. The sacrificial lamb offered on the alter of my sister’s education. Honestly, I think she was remembering the time I threw all of her stuff out of our bedroom and put a line of tape down the middle of the floor. Was that a reflection or a malicious glint in her eyes? In the end, however, I survived the ordeal with a mild headache, gleaming teeth, and a renewed respect for Guinea pigs.

Thanks Jamie, for allowing me to poke fun at you: it’s my wages for being a test subject.

 

On Worms and Salamanders

Birds can most assuredly tell time. Every morning when I wake up, they are already chirping away while the sun hasn’t even wiped the sleep from her eyes yet. In fact, if I wake up before the alarm goes off, I use this as an indicator for whether or not I can go back to sleep. Tweeting birds equal no more sleep. I suppose they are out trying to catch the proverbial worm, and they do seem tickled pink about it. Personally I don’t think I want any worms. I suppose they make good fish food, aerate the soil, and eat poo and produce more poo (seems a little circular, but go figure).

I used to like to play with worms when I was little. They were squishy and slippery. I might have been an odd girl. I liked slimy things: frogs, salamanders, worms. My fingers would glide over their chilled, lubricated skin. Salamanders were my favorite, but they’re so elusive. I used to stretch out on my stomach on our dock and stare down through the cracks into the algae. Sometimes I could spot a salamander frozen, seemingly in mid-stride, under the surface. Maybe salamanders enjoy freeze tag.

In all honesty, I have no idea how we got to this point in the conversation. Worms can lead to such riveting dialogue. But I’ve lost my original train of thought, and I don’t remember its destination anyway. It probably wasn’t headed toward Lizard Lane. So, I will leave you to contemplate the slithery things in life.