The Art of Writing Suckily.

One of the first dates my husband and I went on was the US Formula One Grand Prix in Indianapolis. This was...2004? Jeebus. He is a mega F1 fan. I have learned to appreciate racing[1] to a degree. Mostly for me it's about the individual drivers and who I decide I like, who I don't like, who I want to see win...that kind of a thing.

My mom has learned some of their names, and can also 'appreciate' it. She found this book and lent it to me. It's called The Art of Racing in the Rain. She assumed I would like it because it a) is told from the standpoint of a dog, and b) it has lots of F1 racing references.

I've never written a book review, so I'm not sure where to start. Especially considering I read this several months ago. Especially since (if you couldn't guess)...I hated it.

I don't know what the author thought he was doing. The whole premise is that the main human character is a substitute race-car driver who is especially good at racing in the rain, much like his idol, Michael Schumacher. Schumi is, for those of you unversed in F1, arguably one of the greatest drivers of all time. He's won 7 world championships, which is a lot. Enzo (as in Enzo Ferrari) is the dog. He tells the story.

Basically, Enzo and the dude start out really happy. Then he gets married, she and Enzo aren't BFF, they have a kid and Enzo swears to protect her, then all sorts of bad stuff happens. Racing, especially racing in the rain is supposed to be metaphorical...but he loses. It's like he threw that bit in there as some sort of plot device, but it could have just as easily been called The Art of Baking a Cake with a Crappy Oven or The Art of Riding a Bike on Gravel. I don't know if he was trying to make people interested in the sport, or what. But I found the references (and explanations to the references) unnecessary.

There was also some metaphorical bit about a crazy zebra. And how there's a murderous zebra in all of us. Or something.

I get that the story is told from a dog, and Enzo explains to us that he is a very special dog, and hopes to be reincarnated as a person. But really? REALLY? I love my dog. She is awesome. But she is a dog. She needs love and attention, food and water, shelter and a comfy bed. Or elbow, like right now. Other than a few choice words, she does not understand English. Obviously, she would make a terrible narrator.

So if you get rid of the doggy narrator, can the cheesy racing references, you're left with a very crappy story. Personal preference, I suppose. But this is one of those stories where EVERYTHING bad happens, but then resolves itself before the book ends. There really wasn't so much a plot to the book as there was a premise. Perhaps I've been spoiled by thrilling books with twists and turns, but it is all so predictable.

Oh, and then the dog dies at the end. I'm not giving anything away...the whole story is a flashback and if you read I think the very first page that ending will be obvious. My beef about that? It was specifically designed to tug at my heartstrings and make me cry. There is little I hate more[2] than being manipulated by a crappy book/movie into crying. Crying at a good book can be almost a pleasurable experience; cathartic, really. In this case, however, I was simply reminded of my own dog's mortality, and as she is 3 years old and my first dog ever I am not quite ready to think about her getting old. And thus the waterworks.

Now after seeing how much I hated this book but seeing how many other people seem to think it's magnificent, Tjett has decided to write his own sappy dog-based novel.

Anyway, that's all I've got. If you like predictable, manipulative books with details that are supposed to make the book somehow interesting, I bet you'd love it. Otherwise, stay away. You want a good dog-based book? Try James Herriot, or decide on a different species and re-read The Black Stallion or Black Beauty. You want a racing book? Steve Matchett. A predictable and sappy book about love and circumstances? I'm positive there are better ones[3].

[1]I'll watch the races. I'll nap in the middle. I'll not feel bad about doing either.
[2] Such as Nickelback.
[3] Or maybe it turns out I just hate the genre. Yep, that could be it too. OH except I didn't hate Bridges of Madison County. That's a good one.

ETA: You want a good dog-story that makes tears run down your face? Allie over at Hyperbole and a Half just (finally!) posted another winner. Go here.

Surgery Post IV: Things I was blatantly LIED TO about

It's been awhile since I've posted anything about my surgery. This was what I really, really wanted to write, but have been putting off. Granted, a month and a half after the fact I'm a little less super-raged about this, but I felt it should still be shared before I forget.

• "You can wear plastic jewelry in your piercings." When I scheduled my surgery, a month or two before it even happened, one of the nurses was going over my instructions for the day-of. "Wear comfortable clothing, no make-up, no jewelry--" "What about piercings?" I asked. "No piercings...but if you want to keep some holes open you can wear plastic jewelry." "What about quartz?" "What's that?" "Glass..." "No, it has to be plastic." "Ok." So you see, I did not just imagine being told that I could wear plastic jewelry in my piercings. So then I proceeded to order some plastic jewelry on interwebs, but then I waited too long and was afraid it wouldn't come in time, so then I bought some more from Hot Topic and the body jewelry cart in the mall. Overall, not a huge financial setback, but one I'd rather not have made in vain. When I went into surgery, the nurse there went over the same questions. "No makeup?" "No." "No jewelry?" "Only plastic." "...That still needs to come out..." And we chatted. She leafed through their rule book, and even called the nurse at the front. Who, apparently, was so irritated that I had been lied to that she wanted to know the girl's name who told me this. I didn't know it. But anyway, they gave me a denture cup to put my ugly, plastic, non-returnable jewelry into. It took me about a week to get everything[1] back in, but thankfully, I was at least able to.

• "The worst part of the nerve block will be that it feel really weird when we make your foot move and you aren't doing it." BULL. SHIT. Maybe if it hadn't been the first time the anesthesiologist had done this particular type of nerve block, that would have been true. But it HURT. It took a REALLY long time (15-20 minutes?) of this douche-nozzle[2] poking and digging around in my thigh until he was about to give up, and miraculously as he was pulling the electrode out he FINALLY hit my nerve. Which leads me to my next, and very related point:

• "We're giving you something so that you won't remember this." GO FUCK YOURSELVES. I feel like that if I remember being said this to, and I remember my jag-off anesthesiologist telling the nurse to give me more of whatever this magic Roofie was supposed to be, they did their job wrong. Especially considering that, oh, I do remember just how bad it was. My friend Emily who is a nurse tells me that they tried to 'Twilight' me. Apparently, it didn't take. Also, not anything I suppose I was lied to about, but the insertion site of this thing was ridiculously painful, which made getting remotely comfortable later on almost impossible. I'm seriously considering not getting another one if I have to get my other foot done.

• "It's just a little mosquito bite, and it doesn't hurt at all." Earlier, I mentioned that I was not told that, oh BTW, you're going to have to give yourself a shot every day for the next 10 days. I understand the importance of these shots. My family has a history of blood clots[3] and I'm on birth control[4] so apparently I'm at high risk. I'm a pretty 'big-girl' about shots. I don't usually mind them too much. But I can't say I was looking forward to this at all. I was comforted, however, by the fact that both my nursing student, her nursing teacher, and my friend Emily had told me that this shot was no big deal. A teeny, tiny little needle. A mosquito bite. Deep breath. Ok. Let's do this. The stick itself wasn't too bad. But the injection was HORRIBLE. It hurt SO BAD. The worst part though? No one believed me! A combination of being tired, hungry, in pain, knowing I'd have to put myself in pain, and not having anyone believe that I was in pain, and I burst into tears. After telling me for the twelfth time, 'that's a little baby shot! It doesn't hurt!' my wonderful nurse, Jayme, finally thought maybe I was telling the truth. She looked at the injection site...and I had a big rash emanating from it. Whoops! But then, the 5 other nurses that Jayme had brought in to figure out why I was in so much pain decided that clearly I was allergic to the alcohol swab. Yeah, no. Definitely, I'm allergic to Lovenox, which apparently almost no one is. Due to the fact that no, I couldn't have just taken an aspirin and a shot of vodka every day instead, and the other formulation is not yet generic, not covered by insurance, and therefore cost about a month's salary, I ended up taking the damn Lovenox, but with an ice pack and Benedryl beforehand.

[1] It's not like I have a hundred. But I do have a few I was worried about closing up...

[2] He actually seemed like a pretty nice guy, before I hated him more than Nickelback. Especially considering that he came to check up on me afterward and went almost PROUDLY into detail about how hard it was to find my nerve and how he had to dig around in there for so long...

[3] Thanks, Grandma! I also appreciate the tiny boobs and lazy eye. (No really, I love her very very much!)

[4] Woooo!