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These are a few of my least favourite things ...

I have been feeling pretty mad lately; its the end of the fiscal year (which is synonymous with doomsday for everyone - the one in the job and the one tackling the one in the job) and though I have had a lot of 'free' time, most of it has been going into making time for me to be able to read anything besides corporate papers in the weekdays. Either way, I am touchy right now and little things set me off. Little things like...

1. There was a not-so-battered copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire lying in the heap at the foot of a second-hand bookseller. Really ?? You had the heart to give away the book where Cedric died ? And Voldemort returned ? I am astounded (disgusted ?) at your emotional strength.

2. An acquaintance said she found Hurt Locker so boring, she walked off the theatre at interval. I am sorry the movie wasn't a musical. 

3. Another acquaintance refused to come to Les Miserables. Oh I am so sorry, there are no guns blazing in this one. Russel Crowe, Hugh Jackman and Anne Hathaway not good enough for you ?

4. Somebody (NOT me, as everyone says) misplaced the spindle of my food-processor; I can't make juices. 

5. I lost the little magnetic bookmark I had placed in my collection of Oscar Wilde poems. Now I don't remember which work's undercurrents I had last deciphered (I am not really a poetry person). 

6. Dawn of Justice turned out to be OK.

7. Recurring bad taste in the mouth from the last book I read. 

8. My uncle gifted me Mother. My Mom gifted me Silkworm. And I am two books behind schedule on either of them . Gnnnnnnhhhh !!! Plus, I can see a signed copy of The River of Smoke sitting prettily in the bookshelf, which seems to be filling up without my knowledge. 

9. A dead croton plant in the window ledge. 

The sunny side: On my Mom's recommendation to read something besides war stories and my husband's concern for my growing Mr. Mercedes-induced tetchiness, I am reading Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves and I am going to keep one. 


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The Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. This is proving to be a very empowering read, which I believe was the whole point of the book anyway. For those judge a book by its cover (which is also pretty badass), it really doesn't seem to even skirt the edges of feminism. At its crudest, it is a collection of stories and their analyses to help rediscover what it means to be a woman. If it sounds redundant, then it goes to show howo much we need this book. 
I must say, books of this kind are not up my alley. It feels too verbose (even by my standards) and the bluntness induced by my utter worldly view of things makes it really difficult for me to penetrate the exuberance of being a woman, as noted in the book. I am just three chapters down, so it wouldn't possibly be wise to quote a favourite right now, but La Loba seems very ethereal. The whole concept of some force (our own, presumably) that can join broken, littered pieces, is deeply appealing. 
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