Flashback

Weird dream this morning, as I drifted awake. I was at my old-old work (Roger and the gang), but my old-old work was housed in my new work, minus all the furniture. Anyway, I was wearing some sort of bizarre undergarment--a bra that came up to my chin--and running around in my undies trying to find my keys. Roger stopped me and said, "I've got to go home. I left one of my watches at home and I can't go on without having it here..." So, I started to cry as I told him, "My plumbing is leaking, I can't find my keys or my ID, my husband is leaving me, my car is somewhere in West Philly and I have to bike there to get it, but then I have no place to carry my bike, I've got no sink, and....." I went on and on with all my woes. Meanwhile, Roger went home, got his watch, returned, and looked at me disdainfully before taking off his shoes.

Then, the doorbell buzzed and I let in Watler (intentional misspelling; you'd understand if you'd been there), repeated my woe to him, and then begged him to give me a ride to West Philly so I could get the car (which, incidentally, wasn't the Ghia but rather some sort of atrocious Mini-limo, if that makes ANY sense). Watler said, "I don't drive, so I'm sorry," then fixed the broken laptop on my lap (because now I'm sitting? I don't know...).

I'm still in my undies when Seneca walks by (not this guy--an ex-coworker), and I collapse into a ball, trying to hide my undied-self. Then, I wake up.

Look for another one later this week

Necessary Madness, Jenn Crowell

While a tad too Modern Anglo for my tastes (which is hilarious since it's an English novel...), this novel still held my attention, cover to cover. I don't know if that's a testimony of a good book (it is, though, partially) or if it awakened from coma some late-teenage fantasy of writing and publishing a novel of some stature (it did, depressingly enough). Of course, there were a number of things that didn't meet my standards (I'm beginning to think that if I held friends and lovers to the same high standards I hold novels, I'd be a bitter young lady). The relationships, while nuanced, sometimes lacked dimension. The characters sometimes mimicked reality, but without effect. The grief that Gloria leads us through is tangible, but somewhat put-upon.

Much of those shortcomings can be overlooked. The scenes are typically well-crafted, if not somewhat predictable, though in the defense of authors everywhere, there are only so many believable paths a story can take before you jump genre.

I've heard that Crowell's second novel isn't as good. I'm going to judge that myself--it's on the list to read.