Love in the Time of Cholera

Only 10 pages left of Love in the Time of Cholera…

I’m geeking out so much over this book right now that I almost missed my stop this morning on the way to my internship. Unless something incredibly terrible happens in these next 10 pages—which I doubt—I think this one has now replaced Memories of my Melancholy Whores as my favorite of Gabriel García Márquez’s books so far. It is also finding a place in my favorite books of all time list, although I’m quite bitter to include a work written by a MAN among my favorites. (Kidddding.)

As soon as I finish, the movie version is getting bumped to the No.1 spot on my Netflix queue (disregarding the fact that “Volver” has been sitting on my TV for two weeks since I have no time to watch movies). It’s bound to be a disappointment, because the book is THAT GOOD, but still, I’m curious.

You have to read this. If you know Spanish—which I don’t, other than my sweet conversations with the cooks at work, which basically consist of “que pasa?”—I suggest you read it in Spanish instead of English, because I bet Márquez’s prose is even more beautiful in the original version.

This is the most fascinating love story I’ve ever read (and not one that will inspire me to say “yum” at any point, although the movie stars Javier Bardem AND Benjamin Bratt, so I’ll try to contain myself). The story centers on Fermina Daza, who rejects the lovesick Florentino Ariza when they’re young and marries Dr. Juvenal Urbina instead. Florentino never marries, but throughout the story, well, the back of the book says he “whiles away the years in 622 affairs,” but let’s just say: he has a lot of sex. Yet he remains madly in love with Fermina the entire time, and on the night of her husband’s death, 51 years after she rejected him, he declares his love for her again. (I’m not ruining anything by telling you this, I promise.)

It’s a little crazy, sure, but Márquez makes it work. The story goes back and forth in time, chronicling Fermina Daza and Florentino Ariza’s lives, and the way it’s organized is genius. On top of that, his writing is so incredibly beautiful. Please, please, do yourself a favor and read this book!

Here are two of my favorite passages to tempt you with:

“…Florentino Ariza learned what he had already experienced many times without realizing it: that one can be in love with several people at the same time, feel the same sorrow with each, and not betray any of them. Alone in the midst of the crowd on the pier, he said to himself in a flash of anger: ‘My heart has more rooms than a whorehouse.’ He wept copious tears at the grief of parting. But as soon as the ship had disappeared over the horizon, the memory of Fermina Daza once again occupied all his space.”

This next one details Fermina Daza’s early stages of grief for her husband:

“She could not avoid a profound feeling of rancor toward her husband for having left her alone in the middle of the ocean. Everything of his made her cry: his pajamas under the pillow, his slippers that had always looked to her like an invalid’s, the memory of his image in the back of the mirror as he undressed while she combed her hair before bed, the odor of his skin, which was to linger on hers for a long time after his death. She would stop in the middle of whatever she was doing and slap herself on the forehead because she suddenly remembered something she had forgotten to tell him. At every moment countless ordinary questions would come to mind that he alone could answer for her.”

The actress in the movie version is going to have to be pretty damn spectacular to try to convey all that. That might be one of the most heartbreakingly accurate descriptions of grief I’ve ever read.

Read. This. Book.

*I’m writing a book review for Feminist Review this month on the novel Picking Bones from Ash, which I’ll be reading next. I’ll try to be a little more objective with that one.

M'as-tu vu? CAN YOU SEE ME?

I was checking out Blogger's Blogs of Note and daydreaming about the day when "Chasing the end of my rainbow" has the number of followers these blogs do (334? I was excited when I hit double digits.). Shortly after that, one follower, who happens to work in publishing, offers me a book deal. Obviously my book will be a bestseller. It's going to be magical.

Anyway, one of the Blogs of Note, "Avignon in Photos," quickly put a stop to my famous blog/book deal daydream and promptly started the one where I move to France and have escapades similar to the Americans in Tender is the Night and A Moveable Feast. Beth and I got a head start last night when I called her "mon petit chou" and she thought I called her a dog. Nope, just my little cabbage. Chien, chou...French is tricky.

Some of my favorites from Avignon in Photos:

• Which way to art?
• M'as-tu vu
• Beer colours

"M'as-tu vu?" is a phrase I think of often (translating it as "can you see me?"), primarily when I'm waiting tables, apparently invisible to my customers. Seriously, can't you see me standing next to your table? Can you hear me asking if you want a drink? Quit ignoring me!

Maybe instead of just repeating myself loudly ("CHIPS, FRIES, OR VEGGIES?"; "DO YOU WANT A BEER?"), I'll just start screaming, "M'AS-TU VU?"

I need that book deal. Fast.

Standing at the punch table swallowing punch

The first time I listened to The National's "Boxer," I wasn’t too excited about it. I thought it was good, but none of the songs really grabbed me. Just kinda boring. I gave it a few more listens, and resigned it to my background writing music.

But then…obsession hit. I’m baffled. How did I not immediately love this album?

I think I’ve listened to “Slow Show” four times today.


Love these lyrics. (Is it a little 8th grade that I’m copying them here? Too bad! “My leg is sparkles, my leg is pins/I better get my shit together, better gather my shit in.” Yeah, that's right.)

Standing at the punch table swallowing punch
can’t pay attention to the sound of anyone
a little more stupid, a little more scared
every minute more unprepared

I made a mistake in my life today
everything I love gets lost in drawers
I want to start over, I want to be winning
way out of sync from the beginning

I wanna hurry home to you
put on a slow, dumb show for you
and crack you up
so you can put a blue ribbon on my brain
god I’m very, very frightening
I’ll overdo it

Looking for somewhere to stand and stay
I leaned on the wall and the wall leaned away
Can I get a minute of not being nervous
and not thinking of my dick
My leg is sparkles, my leg is pins
I better get my shit together, better gather my shit in
You could drive a car through my head in five minutes
from one side of it to the other

I wanna hurry home to you
put on a slow, dumb show for you
and crack you up
so you can put a blue ribbon on my brain
god I’m very, very frightening
I’ll overdo it

You know I dreamed about you
for twenty-nine years before I saw you
You know I dreamed about you
I missed you for
for twenty-nine years

On that note, I think I better put on some Of Montreal. It's getting a little emo-gloomy in here.

The new BK Blow Job! I mean, sandwich!

I know I'm supposed to be pissed off at Burger King’s ridiculously sexist advertising, but it’s just too hilariously stupid to get upset over. (Read Feministing’s post about it anyway.)

I mean, come on:
IT'LL BLOW YOUR MIND AWAY. Fill your desire for something long, juicy and flame-grilled with the NEW BK SUPER SEVEN INCHER. Yearn for more after you taste the mind-blowing burger that comes with a single beef patty, topped with American cheese, crispy onions and the A1 Thick and Hearty Steak Sauce.


AHHH! Nobody warned this poor woman that a gross looking, magically floating beef sandwich slathered with, errr, mayonnaise, was coming toward her open mouth! No wonder she’s terrified. Oh no, it's a SUPER SEVEN INCHER! Mind-BLOWING!

The blatant misogyny of this ad isn't even what offends me. I mean, how is it possible that the copywriter/s responsible for this MIND-BLOWING ad have a job and I don't?

Another writer’s take on the ad, via Slate:

“They got two ‘blows’ in there. Nice. The sandwich (by itself an obscenity), slathered in unnaturally ultra-white mayonnaise, is floating in the air directly across from the disturbingly pale profile of a young, gape-mouthed woman who looks frightened to death of the manly meat. Sexy!

But, now, wait a minute. Let's look at that copy again. The ad is aimed at young men, right? Of course it is. So why does it tell them to ‘fill your desire for something long,’ etc.? Is that a purposeful bit of sublimation (know your audience!) or is our cargo-pantsed copy jockey himself like one of those guys from my high school's wrestling team—that is, even more of a stereotypical frat boy than I had at first imagined?”

I’d like to say that BK’s offensive, but more importantly, STUPID, advertising is the reason why I’ve only gone to the one directly out my back door three times in the last year, but really, their food just blows.

Ha, ha. It BLOWS. Maybe I can get a job in their advertising department!

Yet another dumbass comment from a politician...

Wow. Way to go, Nixon, you dipshit.

From the NYT:

On Jan. 22, 1973, when the Supreme Court struck down laws criminalizing abortion in Roe v. Wade, President Richard M. Nixon made no public statement. But the next day, newly released tapes reveal, he privately expressed ambivalence.

Nixon worried that greater access to abortions would foster 'permissiveness,' and said that 'it breaks the family.' But he also saw a need for abortion in some cases — like interracial pregnancies, he said.

'There are times when an abortion is necessary. I know that. When you have a black and a white,' he told an aide, before adding, 'Or a rape.'

Gross. All in one breath, comparing interracial pregnancy to rape? Yeah, Nixon, children from a “black and a white” are always bad. Bad like rape.

I’d like to introduce you to our President. You know, the one that came from a black and a white.

Seriously, Newsweek?

Really, Newsweek? REALLY?

I can't even believe I read this entire article. "Like a virgin no more?" Is this a joke? Did Newsweek actually publish this silliness?

The breaking news:

"Two decades ago, when young girls wondered how brides were supposed to look and behave, they'd most likely conclude—with some prompting from Cinderella—that on their big day they'd be a princess. They'd be blushing, virginal and wrapped from head to toe in tulle and lace.

So why is it that these days, some brides seem to be taking their cues more from Jessica Rabbit than Cinderella? More vamp than virgin, they're having bachelorette parties that are as raunchy as their fiancés' sendoffs. They're selecting cleavage- or lower-back-baring bridal gowns that might get a gasp from conservative relatives."

Like, OMG! Bachelorette parties as raunchy as their fiancés'? And are women, like, working outside of the home these days, too? I didn't know we were allowed to do that!

But aside from the silly "revelations" that television characters like Murphy Brown liberated women to have "racy bachelorette parties" and that the white gown no longer symbolizes virginity—what? you mean people are having sex before marriage?!—I just DON'T CARE.

Could you please write about something a little more NEWS worthy, NEWSweek? Quit wasting my time.

Here's what my girlfriend had to say about it:

"Are we seriously supposed to be scandalized by back-bearing dresses and cheesy bachelorette parties with penis straws? Come on now. But apparently this article is less about how immodest brides are, and more about moral panic over women in general."

Newsweek has now shattered my dreams of being a princess, "blushing, virginal and wrapped from head to toe in tulle and lace" on my wedding day. Dammit. I guess I have to be a whore now.

Those are my two options, right?

Thoughts on Father’s Day, a day late

I’m sure if you’re an Obama supporter like me, his reflections on fatherhood in PARADE won’t necessarily be anything new to you.

But read it anyway. Or at least this part:

“As fathers, we need to be involved in our children’s lives not just when it’s convenient or easy, and not just when they’re doing well—but when it’s difficult and thankless, and they’re struggling. That is when they need us most.

And it’s not enough to just be physically present. Too often, especially during tough economic times like these, we are emotionally absent: distracted, consumed by what’s happening in our own lives, worried about keeping our jobs and paying our bills, unsure if we’ll be able to give our kids the same opportunities we had.

Our children can tell. They know when we’re not fully there. And that disengagement sends a clear message—whether we mean it or not—about where among our priorities they fall.

So we need to step out of our own heads and tune in. We need to turn off the television and start talking with our kids, and listening to them, and understanding what’s going on in their lives.

We need to set limits and expectations. We need to replace that video game with a book and make sure that homework gets done. We need to say to our daughters, Don’t ever let images on TV tell you what you are worth, because I expect you to dream without limit and reach for your goals. We need to tell our sons, Those songs on the radio may glorify violence, but in our house, we find glory in achievement, self-respect, and hard work.

We need to realize that we are our children’s first and best teachers. When we are selfish or inconsiderate, when we mistreat our wives or girlfriends, when we cut corners or fail to control our tempers, our children learn from that—and it’s no surprise when we see those behaviors in our schools or on our streets.”

Amen to that. I especially love how he says, “I expect you to dream without limit and reach for your goals”—maybe because it reminds me of my own dad, who has always had that sentiment, as well as the bit about “in our house, we find glory in achievement, self-respect, and hard work.”

It’s obvious that Obama is a great father, but he’s got nothing on my pops. Each year I am increasingly aware of how lucky I am to have my dad. He’s always there for me, no matter what. He didn’t tell me I was an idiot when I announced I was quitting my job and moving to Chicago. He listens to me bitch about waiting tables, even when my stories make him uncomfortable. He shines up a bike for me then hauls it up to Chicago. Believe me, I can keep going. My dad is awesome. If you’ve met him, you know. If you haven’t met him, I’ve probably told you 15 million times. He’s awesome.

This was the first Father’s Day that I can remember that I didn’t see—or even talk—to my dad. It’s been our tradition in the last several years to go to the Indy Jazz Fest on Father’s Day weekend, and then spend time together that Sunday before I’d head back to Bloomington that evening.

This year things were a little different. The Jazz Fest will be in September this year, I’m up in Chicago working like a maniac, and my Dad and Debbie were on vacation (his first in about a million years). Since D and D were just getting home yesterday and I was working all day, I sent my dad a text message and left it at that, knowing I’d call him today.

But I woke up this morning with a big ball of guilt in my stomach. I didn’t get him a gift. I didn’t talk to him. I am the worst daughter ever. It’s official. This is what’s been going through my head all day, even though I know as soon as I talk to him, he’ll say it’s no big deal.

I’m hoping that, come September, I’ll be able to buy Papa Hamm a ticket to the Jazz Fest. It might be late, but it’ll still feel like Father’s Day to me.