I went to see Sapphire read from The Kid a month or so ago. I already had a copy of the book for BlogHer%20Book%20Club, but I got another one to give away on BlogHer.

Here's an excerpt from my post:

Sapphire started out as a poet, and as she read excerpts from her book, her voice changed, her meter changed, rising and lowering, now chummy, now threatening. She's a powerful performer, perhaps as powerful a performer as a writer, or maybe they are impossible to separate. She says she never cared about her poems as much as she does The Kid, though.

"It's going to take people a while to get this, but I know I have done something good, something strong," she said.

(It's a heavy, heavy dark book.)

So, if you're interested, go enter -- there are a few more days before we shut down the giveaway. I'm sorry I forgot to say anything earlier, but I was, um, on vacation. If you've read Push or The Kid, perhaps you'll join me in being somewhat amazed at the sunny nature of her autograph.

This week, some stuff happened that caused me great anxiety. As the stress washed over me, I tried to ride it out like a wave. I tried to put it in perspective. And actually, for one of the first times, it worked. Not to say I haven't gone back and forth a bit, but life is like that, and human beings aren't static -- nothing about us is static.

I talked to a few friends and family members about my reaction, which I have learned in the grand scheme of things is actually more important than the event -- the repercussions of my reactions last far longer than the crises. The general consensus seems to be that 2011 Rita is really handling things far better than 1992 Rita or even 2007 Rita. Wow, 2011 Rita, they said. You get down with your bad self.

I thought this morning as I was driving home from dropping off my girl at summer camp that great friends are like that: They are our mirrors. My friends reflect back to me not a glamorized version of myself flawlessly executing under any degree of pressure, but the real version, the version who sometimes wins and sometimes loses but is always someone they regard with love.

Because they accept me with all my flaws, it means even more when they tell me they are proud of me. Because they have seen every iteration -- in one case, every iteration since I was three years old -- they are even better judges than I am of my progress or lack thereof.

Having these people in my life -- my husband, my family and friends -- brings forth the best me, better behavior than I would exhibit left to my own devices in the depths of my psyche (which would far prefer a bag of Doritos and a stack of John Hughes movies or perhaps a baseball bat and some windows). I recognize all the time that wanting to show these people I love that I can do it keeps me moving forward most of the time.

It's weird that I was thinking all this before this latest series of events occurred when I wrote my review of Terry McMillan's Getting to Happy (it's the sequel to Waiting to Exhale) for BlogHer Book Club. Even then, I wrote:

And that's what I found with the women of Getting to Happy. You get to happy, then you get to sad, then you fight your way back to happy again. The triumphs don't last any longer than the falls, but the reverse can also be true.

Normally I would've tried to find some witty way to tie back this post to a review that I wanted to tell you all about anyway, but today it's so organic as to be shocking even to me. We are all trying to get to happy. And it, by definition, is elusive, because it, by definition, is relative.

I've been to urgent care twice and the ER once in the past week with my family. Nobody died (though Beloved's going to have a scar), but after a long stretch of no doctors, we were due.

Yesterday morning the little angel woke up clawing at her neck, which was fiery red and covered with bumps. I immediately thought she'd gotten into poison ivy down at the lake. Hydrocortizone didn't work, so I reached for the only thing that saved me from insanity when I had chiggar bites last time -- baking soda.

As we drove to the pediatrician's office for early morning walk-in hours, she complained only slightly as large clumps of baking soda fell off her neck onto her clothes.

The examination room was decorated like an ocean, just like my girl's room. There were metal crabs hanging from the walls, just like hers. I wondered where they shopped. I liked the seahorse.

The pediatrician told us it wasn't poison ivy, just some sort of bug bite -- or rather, about 35 of some sort of bug bite. Just on her neck. Totally weird. What kind of bug? Did it really matter? No.

So she prescribed some steroid cream to put on it and recommended Benadryl or Zyrtec -- which I totally could've given my girl when I first noticed the bumps on Sunday. Could've spared her a day of frantic itching.

Now, I realize this doesn't make me a bad mother. I'm not beating myself up over forgetting Benadryl. But sometimes I wonder where my common sense went. Did it get stuffed down under Internet Volume or Job Stress or Why Haven't I Heard From Those Agents Yet Worries? Is it hiding under my swimming suit? Did I sell it at the garage sale last weekend?

Why didn't I think of this completely obvious solution myself? Damn.

---

Speaking of novels, I was totally jealous of Jane Austen when I read my last BlogHer Book Club selection, A Jane Austen Education. Review (and jealousy explanation) here.

... I've been reading a ton of books for BlogHer Book Club. And I do believe I've forgotten to link some of my reviews. (swears under breath)

First! Caleb's Crossing by Geraldine Brooks. It's historical fiction about the first Native American to graduate from Harvard.

Here's an excerpt:

Bethia and Caleb reminded me a bit of Katniss and Gale in the Hunger Games trilogy, if you're familiar with that, although this is definitely literary women's fiction and not young adult fiction. But we all love a star-crossed-friendship-maybe-based-on-sexual-attraction, don't we?

Read the rest on BlogHer

Second! Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok (spoiler alert). It's literary fiction about an immigrant Chinese girl who works in a sweatshop before entering the Ivy Leagues. (Jean Kwok is my new favorite author -- and she's become a friend.)

Here's an excerpt:

Though it's eye-opening and interesting to read about the life of a new immigrant in modern America (Kimberly's friend remarks, "people don't live this way in this country!" with the shock and dismay I felt upon reading it), the strength of Girl in Translation is the force of Kimberly and her ability to see herself for what she is and what she is not.

Read the rest on BlogHer

The stack of books in my to-read pile just keeps getting bigger and bigger. This is why I can't get into Angry Birds. What if the world ends in 2012?

She perched on my lap as I pointed to the screen. Together we watched the final pieces of BlogHer Book Club come together.

"What is it?" she asked. "It's pretty."

"It's a place where women will read books and write reviews of them for you to see. Then if the book sounds good, you can buy it with these cute little buttons."

"Who's that?" She pointed to Sassymonkey.

"She's hosting the book club. She's been writing about books for years and years. Her name is Karen."

"She has red hair, too."

"Yes."

"She's pretty, too."

"Yes. But also, very smart."

She rested her head on my shoulder. "So this is part of your job?"

"Yup."

"I want to work for the San Diego Zoo when I grow up."

"Well, you just might. Hold onto that."

We launched the book club just after she ran upstairs to take a bath. When it was all said and done, I went upstairs and ousted Beloved from the book-reading spot.

"Did it go okay?" she asked, curling up to me.

"Yes. It's gorgeous."

"Good. Now read."

And I read.

Please go check out BlogHer Book Club! Our first book is Caleb's Crossing, by Geraldine Brooks. Read my review here. It is pretty awesome, even though I'm completely biased.