Self-Aggrandizement Disguised as Self-Deprecation

Recently, for a book club, I read a couple of books I would not normally select: first-person narrative journals by two female authors. Both books include heightened religious experiences, rocky interpersonal relations, and an over-abundance of introspection.

Obviously, I came at these books with a bias: I do not suffer easily the overblown melodramatic whining of others, particularly when it includes hand-on-forehead descriptions of the emotional traumas of romances gone awry. I just want to slap these women and say, "Get over yourselves!" Well, maybe not literally, but my tone would carry the figurative slap.

The women write at great length about every aspect of their angst-ridden lives. Neither author has suffered deprivation or abuse. Each is a successful author. And for some reason, each woman seems hell-bent on using self-deprecation as a clever ploy in her writing: a way to appear modest and even surprised at any of her success as a writer, when in reality her writing drips of self-aggrandizement. It all reminds me of my favorite Muppets joke.

Kermit: "Miss Piggy, you're pretentious."

Miss Piggy: "Pretentious? Moi??"

My two authors are like Miss Piggy, feigning innocence while exuding egotism.

Publishing essays online for over twelve years has certainly stroked my ego, but I have no false sense of importance or modesty. I know that I can write basic essays and that occasionally they can be entertaining or insightful. I also know that most of my essays are mundane. My publishing is vanity press. What irks me about these books is that they're the real deal: these authors have been paid well for their work. Readers deserve better. Of course, I have some comfort in knowing that I didn't add to their coffers; I get my books from the public library.

I Really Don't Want to See More Snow

I faced fresh snow this morning with about as much enthusiasm as I face the latest news of our economy. Bah. I am not a fan of snow, have never been much for winter sports (except ice-skating as a child growing up in the Midwest), and I truly believe that January 31 should officially mark the end of snowfalls. Yes, it is already nearly all gone, and no, the schools didn't close (just late starts), but I'm sorry: the sight of this much white out my window at 7 AM was more than I could take. They have predicted more possible snow this week. Double bah. I have never wanted to live in a warm climate, but I do take umbrage with these continuous assaults on our temperate zone. Enough.

Let's Get Stimulating

This brief post comes on the heels of several days of stewing about the state of our economy. In a nutshell, it stinks. The situation reminds me of medical emergencies in the Middle Ages.

The economic health of the U.S. is much like the physical health of a sickly nobleman in days of yore. The guy keeps getting worse and worse, but all the old traditional experts keep recommending the same therapy: leeches (read "tax cuts"). Newer, innovative minds suggest alternatives. Some might fail, some might have unexpected results, and all involve taking risks, but at least they are not the same old same old: bleed him with leeches.

Folks, we have tried leeches. In years when the economy stayed healthy, the leeches didn't do as much harm, but for the last eight years those suckers have failed, and they have pushed us further into the abyss. Let's try the change we voted for; let's get stimulating, Senators.

The Luck of the Draw

I am a lucky person. I might not be in the stratosphere of those mentioned in "Outliers," but I do know that because of circumstances, I am a luckier person than many. Naturally, I'd love to have the kind of luck that garners big payouts on the slots or at the race track, but considering how averse I am to gambling, I doubt I would ever be aware of such luck even if it existed.

My luck tends to be the type that increases the intrinsic value of my life. My incredible husband and children, my wonderful friends, and my sense of comfort and security all make my life rich and full. It may sound corny, but I cannot take for granted all the positive aspects of my life: I am lucky.

Of course, even though I have a natural aversion to gambling (not for any moral reasons; I simply hate losing money just to play games), I still consider it my philanthropic duty to contribute to raffles. As long as it's for a good cause and a legitimate non-profit group, I'll shell out the few dollars it takes to buy the tickets for that fabulous:

a)pink and green hand-crocheted afghan
b)3-day stay in a Wenatchee time-share
c)basket of assorted jams and jellies
d)wine-tasting party for four
e)whatever

I do not win these raffles. I never do, and quite frankly, most times I am glad. Today, however, was different. At the Retired Teachers' Association luncheon and meeting I plunked down my $5 for 6 chances and truly wished to win. The basket contained St. Michelle wine and several other equally nice goodies, and I figured this could finally be my lucky day. The guest speaker drew a ticket and I didn't win. BUT WAIT! There was a second lesser prize, and another ticket was drawn: MINE! Of course, this means I have used up my allotment of luck for gambling, and I will have to be content with my one and only "big score" being a large, heart-shaped box of Russell Stover's Valentine chocolates. Not exactly what my figure needs, but hey, I was lucky!