Outside, the Muslim Girls Training and General Civilization Class installed silkworm trays. They worked in silence, daydreaming of various things. Ruby James was thinking about how handsome John 2X had looked that morning, and wondered if they would get married someday. Darlene Wood was beginning to get miffed because all the brothers had gotten rid of their slave names but Minister Fard hadn’t gotten around to the girls yet, so here she was, still Darlene Wood. Lily Hale was thinking almost entirely about the spit curl hairdo she had hidden up under her headscarf and how tonight she was going to stick her head out her bedroom window, pretending to check the weather, so that Lubbock T. Hass next door could see. Betty Smith was thinking, Praise Allah Praise Allah Praise Allah. Millie Little wanted gum.
Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in “sadness,” “joy,” or “regret.” Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, “the happiness that attends disaster.” Or: “the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy.” I’d like to show how “intimidations of mortality brought on by aging family members” connects with “the hatred of mirrors that begins with middle age.” I’d like to have a word for “the sadness inspired by failing restaurants” as well as for “the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.”
This is a little belated since I only have 50 pages left, but I am enjoying the hell out of Jeffery Eugenides’ Middlesex.
Lately Sarah (Justin’s BFF’s wife) and I have been trading books like crazy. She owns all the books I’ve ever considered reading and vice versa. It’s amazing and the boys get a huge kick out it. The other night we had a double date at Monarch, and while Sarah and I were gushing about The Virgin Suicides, Brent pointed out that we were both sitting the exact same way: hugging ourselves with our right hands under our chins, like little girls madly in love. In all fairness, we were.
Up next: Ken Follet’s The Pillars of the Earth, which is also my current TV marathon thanks to Jen, Ron, and the bomb-ass breakfast for dinner that Ron made us last night (with farm fresh eggs from Moon Dance!).
Justin and I are in the midst of a new TV club: Six Feet Under and Breaking Bad. It’s no Buffy/Wire, but we’re still having a lot of fun.
Tomorrow night: Melancholia with my work friends Ben and Jim!
I should note that I’ve also been working my ass off at the Y. I’m a sucker for their incentive programs where I win a t-shirt just for working out. This will be my fourth! Plus: I’ve been rocking a standing desk at work. So, uh, not a total sloth. Just like 70%.
Secretly Stephie 