The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Posted on by Beth Hull

As I mentioned yesterday, I was reading The Hunger Games and LOVING it.

Scene at home on a lazy Sunday. Beth in sweats (like every day of the week) curled up reading (again, like every day of the week). Husband looking good as always, covered in toddler (like every minute that he is home and she’s awake–huge case of Daddy-worship).

Husband: Hey, Beth. (struggles to set Z down; unsuccessful)

Beth: (engrossed in book) Hmm?

Husband: There’s a huge pile of gourmet chocolate in the kitchen just waiting for you. (dances around room with Z)

Beth: Mmm-hmm.

Husband: An editor from a big-time publishing company called and wants to publish Savage Autumn. Million-dollar advance. (beckons parade of elephants through house for Z’s entertainment)

Beth: Mmm-hmm. I’m reading now, can we talk about this later?

Okay, so that’s not a real conversation. What Husband did say when he came in was, “Wow, it’s so weird to see you smile while you read.”

I usually scowl. It’s not on purpose, and usually not at all related to whatever I’m reading. Maybe I have bad eyesight, or my pensive face is more of a pissed-off look. Maybe the scowl is a defense mechanism developed over years of me wanting people to leave me alone while I read.  Whatever the reason for my usual scowl, The Hunger Games was so well-written, with such an intense and interesting plot, that I couldn’t help but smile.  I hope someday to write a novel that good–even if it never gets published, I would be thrilled. I would read it over and over again, applauding myself on an excellent selection of point-of-view character (Katniss is perfect), supporting cast, description (the sci-fi/future element isn’t in-your-face, but conveyed through very subtle clues in larger scenes). And the plot! Did Collins dream this up? It is so far out. Her imagination is incredible.

I don’t want to say more, because one of my friends hates spoilers, and I think she should be able to read it without any expectations (other than the expectation that it’s a freaky-amazing book).

Anyway, a thank-you to my friends Megan and Neda for suggesting I read it.

Haiku-oscope

Posted on by Beth Hull

a new week begins

thousand petals pushed to sky

the crocus blossoms

***

I was going to write something really cool here, but frankly, I’m reading The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins (finally) and really can’t be bothered by anything. Don’t bother me until I’m done with this book. That goes for you too, Z. I think I’ll have to hire a babysitter when I read the second book in the trilogy. SO GOOD. I can’t even handle it. Suzanne Collins is my new hero.

Slug Love

Posted on by Beth Hull

On Wednesday night I enjoyed my very first salad made with lettuce from my own garden. I felt so in touch with the earth, with nature, that I enjoyed it while watching an episode of “Bones” on hulu. In all seriousness, though, I enjoyed that salad. My hands (and my mother’s) put the seeds into tiny trays and delicately covered them with soil, then I watered them and obsessed over them like my daughter’s first breaths, counting each little seedling as it sprouted. I gloried in the leaves growing bright bright green, reaching for the sun.

I did not glory in the slugs.

Okay, so I’m the girl who cried when my brother salted snails or held a magnifying glass over ants. It just seemed cruel. I didn’t even want to hear him talking about such things. Now I find myself wondering how to take care of these garden pests. Geoff Hamilton, the author of Organic Gardening, recommends dropping these little guys into a bucket of kerosene. While probably an instant death, it also sounds A) cruel, and B) dangerous with a toddler wandering around the backyard, managing to get into everything. For awhile my compromise was to launch them over the back fence and into the yard of the empty, bank-owned house next door. Now that people actually live there, it seems wrong. Especially because those people are nice. If they were mean, I’d probably do it anyway. Okay, okay, I threw a couple of slugs over there yesterday, and I feel really bad about it, okay? I’m not going to do it anymore.

My new compromise is probably worse than the instant kerosene death or the slow torture of the salt, but I bet it makes the little suckers happy in the short run. I stick ’em in the yard waste bin. It’s full of damp, decaying vegetation. Slug’s paradise, right? Yeah, until summer when that thing heats up like a slow-cooker.

If my slug-compassion gets too intense, I can always just plant arugula next winter. Bleh. That stuff is so bitter, even the slugs don’t want to eat it.

Mood Enhancers that Do Not Come in Capsule Form

Posted on by Beth Hull

1. ice cream–the ultimate comfort food

2. learning that my mother is bffs with an editor at a big-time publishing company (I can’t speak from experience here, but I know this would cheer me up)

3. Clarkie, my cat

4. Sarah Dessen’s novels This Lullaby and The Truth About Forever

5. Pride and Prejudice on film (the BBC version…but when do I have 5 spare hours?) OR, you know, the book is okay, too

6. movie Blue Crush (I love sporty girl movies–the inspiration comes in handy for after I indulge in #1 above)

7. Louise Rennison’s book Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging

8.  movie Bend It Like Beckham (see #6 above)

9. a walk (again necessary to counteract negative effects of #1)

10. watching Z dance

11. an empty kitchen sink–no dirty dishes!

12. reading Abridged Scripts from The Editing Room

13. perusing paint swatches (see post Baby, Let’s Paint the Town Coral Expression)

14. gardening (unless there are slugs)

15. circling everything I want in the IKEA catalog

16. NAPS–mine and Z’s

17. chocolate never hurts

18. new pens and/or new diary books

19. emails from the library telling me a book I’ve been waiting for has arrived

20. having prettily-painted toenails

There are so, so many more, but rather than list them all, I think I’ll head out and enjoy some of them.

Five o’Clock Disco Breakdown

Posted on by Beth Hull

When five o’clock rolls around, it’s time to dance. “It’s five o’clock!” I shout, and you immediately start your funny shuffle, some cross between the Running Man and the Moon Walk. “Clear the dance floor!” I say, kicking books, stuffed animals, and assorted wooden puzzle pieces. I give a particularly rough kick to any toy that uses batteries and makes noise, hoping it will “accidentally” break. Then, with a good beat blasting, we dance.

You prefer to dance in my arms, face to face, bouncing your own exaggerated bounces until I give in and jump up and down. You squeal, smiling wide, letting go for a second to clap your hands. Once my back is about to give out, I finally put you down and hold your hands, or one of your hands and one of Mr. Penguin’s hands–er, wings. We dance in a circle, and I sing “Ring Around the Rosie” to a disco beat. Or we dance facing each other. I do the can-can, you kick your legs out in an approximation of the can-can that looks more like a goose-step.

It’s fun when Daddy joins us. We all spin, shake our groove thangs, and laugh a lot. The perfect end to a long day.