It's been that kind of day

I kept trying to write the word "viral" today.  But instead I wrote "vile."  And then I wrote "virile."

I love it when things go all virile.  Don't you?

Book lists!

The other day I was thinking about a few of the books that have meant the most to me and le voila!  The idea for a column magically appeared.

I love magic.

I would also love to read lists of books that have mattered to you.

You know why I'm blogging right now?

To avoid the writing I'm supposed to do today.  Gah!  I hate it when I'm like this.  I blocked out the morning to work on a Trib books piece due Wednesday and instead I have done the following--

1.  did laps at the pool
2.  mopped the kitchen floor
3.  vacuumed the entire downstairs
4.  drank several Dr. Peppers
5.  ate half an apricot
6.  called my mother-in-law
7.  made multiple trips to the recycling bin
8.  called Vikki and made an appointment to have my hair trimmed
9.  ate a piece of watermelon well past its prime
10. called TRQ

TIME TO STOP THIS PROCRASTINATION MADNESS!

I'm getting to work now, people.  I promise.

Also! Quinoa!

And this just in!

My interview with Tiffany Beveridge who has just published a wicked parody of living life with a precocious (albeit imaginary) child.

What baseball can teach you about life

Yeah.  That's what I wrote about in this week's column, which I forgot to post earlier in the week.  Meanwhile!  Friday!  Celebrate!

Happy (Quiet) Pioneer Day

It's been quiet here.

Kathy and I strolled down to South Temple early to watch the runners.  Afterwards I went home and made potato salad for lunch at noon, which also turned out to be a quiet affair.  Then I took Al and his family to the pool which we had to ourselves, so yeah.  Things were kind of quiet there, too.

When did quiet become the new noisy at our house?

All the Light We Cannot See

This is the gorgeous title of a gorgeous new book by Anthony Doerr.  I finished reading it on my way home from Houston and I felt transformed by the experience.

When you love a book as much as I loved that one, it's hard not to put on a white shirt, a tie, a pair of shiny Swedish knit pants from Mr. Mac's, and a nametag in order to proselytize the reading public so that they, too, can partake in the rapture.  (Right.  I'm mixing religious metaphors here.)  This, of course, can be a dangerous thing because maybe I just read this book at exactly, exactly the right time so that it spoke to me on a cellular level, which would make me a problematic judge.  Is the book as stunning as I think it is?

I don't know.  But I lived a life apart every time I opened it.  I could taste it.  It's been a long time since I've felt this way about a novel.

Incidentally (and not that it matters), four of my all-time favorite books are set against the backdrop of WWII--

The Madonnas of Leningrad  (Debra Dean)
Prince of the Clouds (Gianni Riotta)
The Lost Garden (Helen Humphreys)

And now this.