My Novel

Untitled

Tova — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 08:35:31 GMT

It is 10:04 in Reno a Tuesday, my hair is still wet and my nose is still wet and my throat is dry, and I'm here to soak up the pools of knowledge and to stir up the stagnant books with missing pages and missing ideas I haven't written yet but there is time, I tell myself, and tremble at the speed, the momentum, the inertia of it all because it is 10:08 in Reno a Tuesday and even the clock is advancing.

Without Time for a Room of One's Own

Tova — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 02:15:06 GMT

Back when “A Room of One's Own” was first delivered to a rare and privileged group of university girls, Virginia Woolf’s advice – that a woman wishing to write fiction should earn 500 pounds a year and have her own writing room – was attainable, but certainly not common. Today, it is unusual to find an aspiring female writer without these necessities. Today, on the contrary, if a woman possesses talent, ambition and other outstanding qualities, poverty is not the trap that will keep her from writing; it is rather the trap of achievement. The pressure put on a modern woman to maximize her independence and opportunity impedes her ability to reach the mental state required to write great fiction – what Woolf describes as the “Incandescent Mind.” Particularly if she is vibrant and talented, a modern woman comes under extraordinary pressure to become a Superwoman – a woman who works outside the home, nurtures her family, keeps the house, participates in civic life, taxies the children, volunteers, exercises, and who – at a moment’s notice – counsels her husband through his stress and challenges. The exact list of activities is variation on a theme. The Superwoman is not my work of fiction; statistics cited in Guidance & Counseling Journal show 50% of American women work outside the home, and most of them still shoulder 75-80% of housekeeping duties. The Superwoman simmers constantly, and I fear will continue until she reduces to a thick paste and all her talents have evaporated. That the Superwoman cannot write great fiction is not because she is too busy, but because her creative channel is clogged with responsibility, stress and guilt. If it were a matter of scheduling, the Superwoman could arrange for the children to carpool to school, so she could eek in a half-an-hour of writing before she has to leave for work. It is ludicrous to imagine that, in a breath in the morning’s routine, she could achieve the calm and unimpeded state of a writer, the elusive Incandescent Mind. The Incandescent Mind is not merely bright or even luminous. It leaves “no obstacle in it, no foreign matter unconsumed." When the writer shuts the door to her study, she must leave her daily life outside. Wailing children, ringing phones, demanding bosses, and brooding husbands – all distractions must wait, and the heat of her creativity should burn up any guilt that might follow her to her desk. Once she is settled in that room, the author’s passion for life is entirely for the life of her characters, and only their troubles are worth her attention. In critical terms, we can link the Incandescent Mind to Keats’s concept of “Negative Capability,” which can be described as the poet’s ability not to be. The author must be void of her own being, allowing the world of her fiction exist instead. A talent in this state is capable of staggering genius. Not wanting to mince words, both Woolf and Keats are describing the genius of Shakespeare. The Superwoman will not be our next Shakespeare. She is convinced she has no room or right to ignore her obligations. By nature, the Superwoman is willing to make sacrifices, but she cannot ask the same from her husband or children. The children need her affection, her guidance, and if she doesn’t drive them to piano lessons then isn’t she denying them the chance to be creative? Nor can she withhold herself from her husband, who genuinely needs and loves her. Besides, for all his obliviousness, he really does encourage her to succeed. Giving up her career or her education is not an option either. Modern Society now affords women many, many opportunities to utilize their independence; and it will not suffer the insult of women choosing to pass up those opportunities. The withered hands of our oppressed foremothers pried open those doors of opportunity, and how ungrateful and ignorant is the girl who would rather not walk through them. No, she cannot give up her career because it would be a tragedy if a woman with her potential were “just a housewife.” So what does she do? I do not know the answer; Superwoman is a title I myself wear with pride and exhaustion. It would take a prodigious effort for a Superwoman to overcome her own nature. She would have to believe that writing validates her more than the reliance of others. She would have to give up her career, replace it with her career as a writer, and if anyone accuses her of being “just a housewife,” she would smile at her undone laundry and dirty floors and reply, “Oh, not a housewife, but a writer.” Above all, she would have to trust that her completed masterpiece gives her children, her husband and the thousands who read it the strength and courage to strive for greatness in their own lives. These thoughts would carry her through her daily life and ease her guilt, so that when she sits down to write, she has the freedom to be completely lost to her fiction. Back when Woolf first delivered “A Room of One's Own,” she introduced her audience to “Judith”, Shakespeare’s imaginary sister. She was a girl with talent and ambition that lived and died in poverty and obscurity, denied the opportunity to earn an income or develop her skills. Woolf challenged that the spirit of Judith still lived, and that when the circumstances were right, she would be born again into a world where her opportunity matched her potential. It seems to me that that time should be now, but where is our Judith Shakespeare? She lives - I don’t doubt it for a second - but she is very busy and very tired. She plays so many roles for so many people that she no longer has a voice of her own.

Tova's Training Update 2

Tova — Fri, 25 May 2007 17:55:23 GMT

This week, training is is sucky. I'm frustrated and pouty. Every workout I get slower and weaker, after my workouts I'm sick, and frankly it's humilitating. I completely BLEW UP during the run practice this week. Got about 1.5mi in and detonated - couldn't breathe, couldn't see, certainly couldn't run. I'm sure everybody's advice is correct: Too fast-too soon, dehydration, not enough carbs, overtraining - aggh! I knew I was going to have to train my body, push past pain and weakness, but I wasn't expecting this to require so much mental training. I'm going to have to completely rewire my head. And if it only weren't so easy for HER. SHE (who is actually really lovely, smart, and supportive) is just so good! God - I hate it when someone makes it look so easy. So there you have it. I'm a competative, spoiled brat, who is totally on the glory hunt. I'm sure those of you who know me aren't surprised. Those of you who think you know me need to wise up to the act.

Tova's Training Update 1

Tova — Wed, 23 May 2007 19:20:27 GMT

Hey there! My mom and I raced the Moms On The Run 5k on Mother's Day to raise money for breast cancer patients. I got two friends to join the run at the last minute - that's $160 for Northern Nevada breast cancer patients! Go Team! We all did well and had a great time. My mom got 2nd place for her age group (she had a bum ankle and wasn't even trying). I finished 17th for my age group and only a minute ahead of my mother. If anybody asks, the cape caused some drag and hurt my time. Remember superheros - no capes! "Capes? Superheroes?" Well, it was also a costumed event. Attached is a picture of me during the costume contest, showing off for the crowd. The lovely Fairy Godmother next to me is my girlfriend Jill; she was dusting everyone with Cure Sparkles (the finish line was covered in fairy droppings - really funny). I lost the contest to a little girl dressed as a Boo-Bee (a bee with the word "Boo" written all over her costume). It was a pretty sweet way to spend Mother's Day. Big thanks to Lisa Andrews for staying up with me 'til 2am finishing the costume (note for the next race: Get a full night's sleep). This was my very first race, but I'll be racking them up as I train for the Pacific Grove Triathlon in September. I'm entering that event to raise money for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society, so don't be surprised when I ask you for a donation of support. I plan to keep you in the loop with lots of cool pictures of me suffering and sweating, so stay tuned. Greetings to all, Tova "Wonder Woman" Ramos

You Eat What You Are

Tova — Tue, 20 Mar 2007 05:13:23 GMT

I had the most flavor bursting, hard working, hunger smothering granola bar today. It came out of the same box of bars I dip into every day, but this little snack had something to prove. Did they enact some new quality-control standards at the Quaker Oats factory? Did they switch to an organic, grown with love, grain supplier? Could my chewey comrade sense my insatiable hunger? Was the bar infected with a noxious bacteria that caused the raisins and almonds to swell to delicious proportions? Or was it my perception - my point of view at that moment - and my intention to see the the wholesome goodness in everything? I may never know, but I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Why is being good so hard?

Tova — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 06:07:18 GMT

We were sitting next to each other, singing song after song, and it felt good. I don't sing much, but he kept waving me on, and we kept laughing and singing. After one particularly smooth batch of tunes, I piped up, “Hey man, what’s your name?” He reached is Pabst Blue Ribbon over the guitar and toasted a greeting with me, “Ted, and you’re Tova.” “Yup,” I nodded. “I’m Tova.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw his hand move. I thought he was reaching to swat a bug off my jeans, but he swerved and nudged my finger…he nudged my wedding ring. “And you are totally taken.” “Totally,” I laughed, for the first time noticing his lips, which could probably do more than just sing. “Well, next time leave that at home.”

If you were inside my worries,

Tova — Thu, 15 Mar 2007 03:01:17 GMT

You'ld think I had never partied in a hotel room before. I don' t know what were all so worked up about. I know that at some motel room get togethers, I have thrashed about Way wilder than I'm planning on getting at DadaMotel. Slight correction - at DadaMotel I'm planning on thrashing about creatively like you all have never seen before. I'll be the Guns-n-Roses of mental motel mischief.

Babble

Tova — Wed, 14 Mar 2007 05:50:39 GMT

OOOh suculata-soculato. OOOoh skutsolada dadamump... bushquash bushquash, borabesabum. mooshmash mooshmash puterliderahm.

No Title

Tova — Mon, 19 Feb 2007 07:07:32 GMT

Will I ever see you again? It's been, G-d, ten years this March. I always thought how funny. I always thought what a great joke. You never saw it coming - they say the left side of your body was pristine. But that's just like you. You never needed to know where we were going. You touched my wrist and looked at me instead. I cried. I've never cried like that again, but I've faked it a couple of times. I miss you so much baby. How can you really be gone? I never read your book. I never read your book. I know how it ends - our lake, our child. I know how it ends, and I'll never be satisfied with another ending. How shallow I've become without you. I don't keep anything; I'll throw it all away eventually. I say I'm not sentimental, that I don't keep dead chi around, but the truth is I can't see the magic in it anymore. And I can't bear the guilt that they didn't mean anything to me. And when this chapter is done, I'll say it was a good read, but I have late fees to pay at the library. He's nothing like you and that tears at me. But he loves me like only you could have; I'll never be able to leave that hunger.

In case you didn't know, I'm political

Tova — Tue, 13 Feb 2007 09:18:33 GMT

http://www.corpse.org/issue_14/new_economics/leary.html

It's like a fairytale

Tova — Wed, 07 Feb 2007 07:19:32 GMT

Ok, this shit never happens. It's a cute picture and all (although the dude looks like he's about to explode), but this never happens. I want to see the next picture, after the dude's back gives out and he jerks his head up and breaks his girlfriend's nose. And she's all "Oh my God, Oh my God," and he's kind of catching the blood in his hands cause he's too afraid to touch her, and both of their pure, white outfits are soaked though with red. Put tht in your pipe and smoke it. Hippie.

So is she, like, your friend?

Tova — Sat, 27 Jan 2007 08:57:46 GMT

This is so weird to me, even though I probably do the same thing myself. Jeff and I are working on the Dada Motel together, and with many other of Reno's permier artists, but for the sake of this entry we'll say together. People keep wanting to put us Together, as in sucking face or somthing. Now pardoning the fact that Jeff has a kick-ass-hot-mama girlfriend and that I'm feaking married - they didn't know the facts and are forgiven - is it so unbelievable that he and I could just be really good friends who enjoy collaborating with each other? This is not the first time the question has been raised. "So is she, like, your girlfriend?" It seems so odd to me that people are looking for this kind of relationship. If we were both men, or both women, they would be less likely to usher us into carnal partnership. This isn't so much of a rant - it was a simple mistake. It just seems so culturally interesting that the mistake is repeated with such regularity. Are we conditioned to assign coupledom to those around us? Is the idea of the unchaperoned female still rare and demanding of explaination? Can men and women really be just friends? Do all those asking secretly want to bed down either Jeff or me and are simply sniffing out for competition? One of THE most beautiful sights I have ever seen happened in the barbeque aisle of a hardware store. Two young boys, maybe 7 yrs old, were walking down the aisle with their arms laced over each other's shoulders. They were deep in super-secret best-friend plotting-conversation and never raised their heads up to look at the suede barbeque aprons and the stainless-steel accessories. Their pure, unashamed, completely unaware gesture of trust and imagination choked me, and all the contraptions and dreams my childself had created became logded in my throat. The blockage cut off oxygen flow to my brain and I have been partially impaired ever since, but my physical therapy is going well. I am able to execute the motions and perhaps someday regain feeling in my internal extremities.

I'm just thinking publicly, please don't take me too seriously

Tova — Sun, 21 Jan 2007 02:02:14 GMT

Sometimes I get worried about the Dada Motel show, even though it's still so new and unformed that there's nothing to worry about yet. It's like when I worry that my kid is going to grow up to be selfish punk who picks on the elderly even though I'm not pregnant and have no desire to breed. School starts up again on Mon. I'm only taking two classes, but I throw myself into school like an extreme athlete with no regard for my physical health. I'll be able to do it all though; I always do. Besides, I don't care if people see me as successful - I just hope they see me as thin. So my unfounded worries about the Dada Motel show. I worry about the artists being too spread out. I imagine a really talented artist who I coerced into coughing up $150 he doesn't have, sitting in a motel room, alone with his art, while the viewing public parties on the East end of 4th street because that's where the bars are. On that note, I encourage visual artists to exhibit in more than one motel (share rooms with others - $25 here, $25 there) so that their work will be seen by more than one group of people. I also worry that motels will not cooperate, but I know of at least one motel that is about it, so others must be willing too. The question comes up, "what incentive do the motels have to rent to us?" Money. Cooperating motels stand to make a good deal of money. I walked west 4th St. yesterday, and every motel I saw had a vacancy sign. I mean, if this thing gets big enough, we could fill up almost every available motel room in Reno. And I do think that having the festivities spread out will make it more palatable, no one motel will have to endure all of Reno's flavor in one sitting. Sometimes I worry that nobody will want to participate. Everyone will assume that someone else will do it, and in the end there won't really be a show. But that's not fair to the work ethic of the artists I've spoken with. Maybe I'm just afraid that I won't do anything, that nobody will visit my room, and that if they do they'll be underwhelmed. Yeah, that seems more like my ride.

One night only at the Dada Motel

Tova — Thu, 04 Jan 2007 07:10:03 GMT

June 30, 2007 - Save the date. The Dada Motel staff had their first orientation meeting tonight. A lot of good ideas were stacked around. THe FIRST thing we need is a venue. We need motel rooms or a warehouse (4th Street is a must), and everything else will follow. I heard a lot tonight about how LA does it, or what they're doing over in Europe; the only way I care about is how they do it in RENO. Think local, act local.

Give this one a think

Tova — Sat, 02 Dec 2006 06:49:30 GMT

So I had a little light bulb moment today: I am working on a group project for school, and I arranged for a male member of the group to do some research at the courthouse. I called the department; they knew he was coming; they knew what he wanted - it was all arranged. For some reason, he wasn't granted access to the files he needed. When he called to tell me that he was unsuccessful he said, "They wouldn't let me in, but I bet they'll let you in on Mon. You're a lot cuter than I am." This comment struck me because people (men) actually say it to me a lot: "Oh, they'll do it for you; you're cuter than I am." "Oh send Tova. She's cute; she'll get it done." I used to never think anything of this, but today it hit me. Perhaps the secret is not that I'm cute. Perhaps (humor me here), perhaps I am intelligent and polite, and I know how to operate a system. Perhaps I listen to instructions, read the fine print, and am willing to compromise. I don't want to sound like someone who hears sexism everywhere she goes, but always tossing off my success as my being cute seriously undermines the effort and perseverance it put into my work. And some of the shit I've pulled off...well, I ain't THAT cute.

Where I'm From

Tova — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 04:13:29 GMT

Where I'm from sounds like hairdryers, lawnmowers on Tuesday morning, and the shudder of trucks from under the overpass. Like birds nesting in the chimney, metal spoons against ceramic mugs, and cautiously opened doors. Where I'm from tastes like coffee & cocoa, babyfood, and arroz con pollo. Like black beans & onions, pressed turkey, and apricot cholent. Like red wine & cooking sherry, challah & salt, and apples & honey. Where I'm from looks like it could give you splinters. Like a brochure with wrought iron gates. Like Boardwalk & Parkplace. It also looks like piles of laundry, clippings of paper, and grease stains. Where I'm from smells like toothpaste & christmas, bug spray & sweat, wet vitamins, hairspray, epoxy, resin, dust, chalk, coffee, ointment, and babypowder. Where I'm from feels like the space between the couch and the wall, a heavy blanket, oily skin, mother's bones, father's beard, a grimey floor, and the hollow of my bed that knows me.

"Female Chauvinist Pigs" by Ariel Levy

Tova — Fri, 03 Mar 2006 23:35:50 GMT

This is a great book! I reccomend to everyone - female, male, or other. I've written a summary to pique your interest: In order to become truly liberated, women need to realize that being a “busty exhibitionist” is not the only way to express female power and sexuality. This is the message that Ariel Levy delivers in her first book, Female Chauvinist Pigs: Woman and the Rise of Raunch Culture. The prolific magazine writer asserts that our popular culture has become hypersexual - glorifying porn stars and strippers – as a knee-jerk reaction to the conservative agenda of the Bush administration and its supporters. To prove how “sexually liberated” we are, our culture has chosen a blow-up-doll stereotype to represent female empowerment, but for many this image is anything but liberating. The sad reality is that sex - particularly regarding women - is an explosive and complex arena, and the stereotype helps simplify it into a controllable form. In many ways our culture is still uncomfortable with expressions of womanhood that don’t involve gloss and implants, as well as expressions of female power that don’t involve the bedroom. Even if the sex kitten persona satisfies some women, all women are different, and all are entitled to their own interpretation of sexiness. Not only does endorsing only one version of femininity pervert what the women’s movement of the 60’s and 70’s stood for, it undermines the struggle for equality that is synonymous with that era. Acting like a porn star, or acting “like a man” is not what will empower women. A true, lasting liberation will only come as women gain confidence in themselves as individuals.

Certain Tomatoes...

Tova — Sun, 26 Feb 2006 05:14:06 GMT

I have a special communion with tomatoes. At the supermarket, my mother used to drop me off in the produce section knowing that I would talk quietly with the tomatoes until she was ready to check out. I’d let my hand pass over the red pyramid like a metal detector until one called out to me. Then, I’d hold it next to my ear and listen. Certain tomatoes, like people, want to nourish others. In a low repetition, they urge you to take care of yourself. The opportunity to grow my own tomatoes was in Hal’s backyard. Hal was my mother’s new boyfriend. He lived across town in a freshly built subdivision, one of the first to climb out of the valley and into the foothills. His backyard was untamed Nevada desert with a fence built around it. We were all going to help Hal clean up his yard and get to know each other in the process. Getting to know each other involved weeding out the sagebrush, choking on dust, staining his deck, battling spiders, building a planter box, and tweezing splinters. I would have hated it, but Hal had an easygoing way of making the chores…not so bad. At the end of each day, he always praised how much we had accomplished and raved about how close we were to planting time. It is not easy to grow tomatoes in Nevada. “Nothing like the Midwest,” Hal always said. There, he simply planted the tomatoes and returned to harvest the fruit. Nevada’s climate was merciless. He had even gone so far as to take a tomato-growing course at the local nursery. Timidly, I told Hal that a tomato plant has to want to live, or else it will give up and die; he must take the time to listen to the will of the plant. I insisted that Hal use my powers and let me pick out the tomato plants. He did not believe me, rolling his eyes at the idea of a talking fruit, but he listened. Hal picked me up at my house on a Saturday morning. We had a lot of work to do that day. We drove to the Home Depot, speaking very little the whole way. I realized that this was the first time I had ever been alone with any of my mother’s boyfriends. I kept looking over at Hal, checking his face for any sort of reaction. I had never seen a stick-shift car before. Later in our relationship, Hal would let me shift while he operated the clutch, but at the time, I kept my hands pressed to my sides, afraid of getting in his way. We pulled up to the nursery department of the Home Depot and parked. Following behind Hal, I advanced through the orange doorway and into the largest gathering of plants I had ever seen. Hal said something, but I couldn’t hear him over the birdsong of the plants. The air was thick with humidity, and the smell of moist soil settled on my forehead. He tapped me on the shoulder, pointing toward the tomatoes. I rushed over to the table and wrapped my arms around plant after plant. I personally interviewed every tomato plant in the nursery. I asked the roots if they were happy. I felt along the branches, shaking hands. I unwound tangled stems and turned the small leaves toward the sun. I was a mother listening to her children tell what they wanted to be when they grew up. I sat among them for what felt like hours, looking to adopt the perfect plants. Eventually, Hal looked at his watch. We had to go now if we were going to get the planting done today. I cradled my babies in my arms, letting the leaves brush against my cheeks. I sat in the backseat all the way to Hal’s house, holding the plants from tipping over. My mom was waiting for us. She had been waiting for some time, but her annoyance was worth it. I had my tomato plants. That night – before the roots had settled into the new soil and before the leaves had adjusted to the new climate – a late frost hit. The tender shoots of spring shrieked and withered. Gardens were ruined all over the city. All of Hal’s plants died; only my three tomato plants survived. I had talked to them, and they weren’t going to give up on me. Hal never brought up that day or my powers, but he has always listened.

Truckee voices

Tova — Fri, 04 Nov 2005 19:14:36 GMT

"You don't have a heart. You have a tomato pumping Kool-Aid." -Sweet, construction flagger

I have no Dewlap

Tova — Fri, 04 Nov 2005 07:34:05 GMT

I have no dewlap, none at all- The dewlap that fixes me in a captivated gaze. And when I am captivated, straining on a hook, When I am hooked and struggling on the line, Then how could I look At the twisted paleness of my plain-jane? And how should I respond?

No Moleste

Tova — Tue, 01 Nov 2005 02:46:24 GMT

I'm sitting in the computer lab at my school, tribing instead of driving home. Sigh. Today was curiously hostile for me. For various reasons, I've grown highly aware of a face I make when I am frustrated with another person. The extremely sour nature of this face was pointed out to me by a well-meaning co-worker. She has never been on the receiving end of this face, but she has keenly noticed it's effect on others. It's hard to describe, this face - what it says is more important than how it looks anyway. This face calmly acknowledges that "your worthless little opinion has been noted, thankyou." It says "I am right, but I will grant you the space to prove how wrong you are, thankyou." My old employers brought up this face once: "Tova, we think you were a little condesending during that argument." "Oh, really? I thought I was hiding my comtempt very well!" So now I am highly aware of this face. That's the new thing lately. One doesn't have to actually address his or her behavior, simply being aware of it is sufficient.

Prussian Blue

Tova — Sun, 30 Oct 2005 05:29:03 GMT

I am totally fascinated with these “Prussian Blue” girls. I research them with the disturbed affection of people watching videos of accidents, repeatedly. (Oh shit, Dude! Fuck; rewind that.) They are beautiful little girls. I wouldn’t call them good, but if they stuck with music, the act might be worth noticing in a few years. Unfortunately, my attraction to them is not their talent, but their ignorance. Prussian Blue (“Prussian Blue” is a White Nationalist singing duo - -thirteen year old twin sisters) Oh, look at the cookies! Oh, look at the cookies! What would you like? I want a ladybug! I want a ladybug! There you go, and there you go. Thank you! Thank you! Oh, no charge. I can't take your money. Why not? Why not? Please. The cookies are a gift, but I don’t do business with people of your beliefs. It’s my right to free-speech! It’s my right to free-speech! I have the right to refuse business to anyone. I want to pay! I want to pay! I want your love, not your money. Keep the cookie! Keep the cookie! There will be cookies, and ice cream and all the love I have, waiting for when you return.

Tova's Back

Tova — Sat, 29 Oct 2005 21:51:18 GMT

(a response to Mary) I guess I'm back. I'm back to reading. That has been a huge change in my lifestyle. Reading used to be the solace of my childhood. All of my best ideas, my best actions, have grown from the nurturing soil of beautiful books. Well, best so far. I spent so much time when I was younger burried in books. I never learned how to ride a bike properly. I never learned any sports or skills. My books were my friends and my heros. At about 17 I got a grip on how this whole socialization thing works. After that, whew, I reached for every tangible experience I could. If I could smell it, climb it, smoke it, hump it, jump off of it - I did it all. I regret nothing except that I set down the books for too long. I discovered that a whirlwind of sensations means very little without a quite time to remember them. Reading provides that for me, and when I read of the "wine dark sea" or "those vanilla thighs," I now have my own experiences to relive.

A Janitor's Lovesong

Tova — Sat, 29 Oct 2005 03:53:22 GMT

Mopping down the hallway where you walked today. I unlock your office, and to the waste bin I pray: May the path always before you, shine like your smile- This thought keeps me happy for a while.

For the observant lover

Tova — Thu, 27 Oct 2005 19:38:05 GMT

I've always wanted to know what the deal is with primly manicured nails. Truthfully, since going back to school, I've had to quit guitar lessons, and I also haven't made the time to practise. Slowly, the callouses on my finger tips softened and my nails overtook my fingers. I decided to embrace this as a form of "personal growth," instantly transforming those stubby popsicle sticks from sorry reminders of my inactivity to glittery declarations of femininity. I have been very keen not to spend any money on this experiment, only using the small arsenal of products every woman accumulates throughout her travels. If I had money to throw around, I would still be taking guitar lessons. At first I was really enjoying myself. I made starting marks on my nails so they could race. The right pinkey was the unriveled winner. I've used two polishes: diamonds and blood. Surprisingly, menfolk noticed and commented on the red nails. I found that for making love, they took the physical experience of touch to a visual experience. I noticed my hands more, and they created a sort of dotted line over the contours of my husband's body, dramatically emphasizing his physique. They also contributed a sense of role play. I reccomend this experiment for the observant lover. It's been a little more than a month, and my enthusiasm is waning. These little buggers take a lot of upkeep. Ultimately, my lifestyle is too hands-on to tolerate ten fragile tea cups leading every action. And I miss my guitar.