Bookworm

Change of address

2006-05-30T17:18:00.000-04:00

Blogger's been fun, but it's time to move on. My new blog address is www.bookworm.pilcrow.biz. Thanks for stopping by, and I'll see you there!

Cheers,

Julie

Lately

2006-05-22T06:44:00.000-04:00

This is the reason I've been able to get so much reading done lately. Can you tell? It's a sandbox filled with water. My god, it keeps him happy for hours at a time. Hours, I said. On nice days, anyway. So I just get out a lawn chair and sit there with my book while he splashes and digs and fills and empties and swirls.

So, next on the list of Penguin Classics is Esther, by Henry Adams. While I'm waiting for an inter-library loan copy I've been browsing the shelves near the thingy in the new library building. Next time we go I will try to remember to bring the camera so you can see this incredible thingy for yourself. You may recall from a previous post that the library designers had the wonderful foresight to place this Contraption That Is Toddler Heaven right smack in the middle of the adult area, thus enabling me to browse happily while my toddler plays happily.

The shelf that is closest to the contraption -- where I need to be if there are other toddlers around because, I'm sorry to say, Daniel requires a bit of supervision when he's not by himself -- is between the end of the mystery section and the beginning of the regular adult section. This explains why I recently read that dumb mystery by Jennifer Weiner. (Can't find the post to link to my one-sentence scathing review, can't remember the title, the book was stupid, trust me.) This explains why I recently read something by T.C. Boyle. And a few more -- you'll notice the alphabetical pattern, I'm sure.

The Red Tent, by Anita Diamant. Disappointing, to say the least. I expected great things from this book that's been hyped up so much. Let's just say . . . if you haven't outgrown your adolescent passion for The Mists of Avalon you'll probably love this, too.

My Life as a Fake, by Peter Carey. I'm not very far into it (several days in a row of rain) but I like it so far. I loved The True Adventures of the Ned Kelly Gang, which I understand is being made into a movie. This one appears to fall into the same genre as Loitering With Intent, for all you Muriel Spark fans out there: it's a novel about authors, the nature of fiction, writing, etc. It's a beautiful book, by the way. Alfred A. Knopf. Slightly unusual page size: narrow, for its height. I love Alfred A. Knopf.

Ship Fever, by Andrea Barrett. A foray into the world of short stories. Ordinarily not my favorite place, but this just looked too good. Believe it or not, these stories all revolve around eighteenth- and nineteenth-century scientists. Story number one -- hold on to your hats, ladies! -- features Gregor Mendel. Be still, my heart! Carl Linnaeus features prominently, too. Did you know he believed that swallows spent the winter under water? And other naturalists of the time believed they wintered over on the moon? Here's a brief quote from the beginning of the first story, which sets the tone for the whole book:

When Richard reached this point, he would look toward the back of the room and catch my eye and smile. He knew that I knew what was in store for the students at the end of the semester. After they'd read the paper and survived the labs where fruit flies bred in tubes and displayed the principles of Mendelian inheritance, Richard would tell them the other Mendel story. The one I told him, in which Mendel is led astray by a condescending fellow scientist and the behavior of the hawkweeds. The one in which science is not just unappreciated, but bent by loneliness and longing.

Science, bent by loneliness and longing. Wow!

Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood. Actually, this is sort of funny. I got the idea to read it because I saw it at the library, though the copy I read was one I had at home. It's from the U-Mich library, and my dad checked it out for me (can't remember why) ten years ago. Ten years ago! The reason I know this is because that was before the barcode days. It has an actual flap with a date stamp. Every few years Bookworm Dad calls me up and asks me about it. He's a prof, so no overdue fines, just polite reminders. And every time he asks I tell him I haven't read it yet. Well, Pops, I finally read it, and I'll bring it when I come for lunch next Thursday. :)

Cat's Eye was a good read, and it had several elements designed to warm my bookwormy heart. I liked the structure of the novel: middle-aged woman artist is getting ready for her first "retrospective" show. Scenes of her coming to town to get ready for the show are interspersed with memories of her unhappy childhood and adolescence. So, it's a retrospective on two levels. Nice! Even better, there are plenty of descriptions of her paintings, which are attempts to understand and resolve her childhood experiences -- the third level of retrospective. Nice! What's Bred in the Bone by Robertson Davies is my high watermark for "writing about painting," and Cat's Eye is almost as good in that respect. What I didn't like? Well, I didn't really like any of the characters. The childhood scenes were painful to read. The adult scenes of this woman who worries so deeply what others think of her (what should she wear to the opening? ack!) were equally painful.

Brought to you by Green Turtle.

Bookworm goes to a show

2006-05-13T06:39:00.000-04:00

It's May and that means it's time for the annual high school musical. Our high school -- and this is not only the high school where my husband teaches, but also the one we both graduated from -- has a pretty amazing music program. Not to brag or anything, but this year the orchestra won a Grammy award for being the best in the entire country. I said, the best in the entire country! And let's just say their musical theatre program is not too shabby either. They did a great job with Hair last year, and before that there was a truly amazing production of Little Shop of Horrors. This year: Tommy.

Ok, before I tell you about the show I have to give a bit of slightly embarrassing self-disclosure. When I was an angst-ridden teenager, The Who was my favorite group. I own every last one of their albums, including some bootlegs, Keith Moon's awful solo album, the movie soundtrack of Tommy, etc. I don't even know how many midnight showings of The Kids Are Alright I saw. Now, The Who are not exactly your typical teen heart throbs. But what were the other choices in the early '80s? Rush? Oh ha ha, Styx? Flock of (can hardly type for laughing) Seagulls??? I don't think so! Clearly there was something about The Who's self-absorbed, pretentious, misanthropic, edgy music that struck a chord, if you will, with Teenage Bookworm.

All my Who records have twenty years' worth of dust on them now. Nevertheless, I couldn't miss Tommy, even though we couldn't get a babysitter. (My sister graciously allowed me to tag along with her and her friend -- thanks again, Sissy!) The production was great. As I mentioned, there are some incredibly talented kids at our school. The kid who played Tommy, my god, what a beautiful, sweet voice he had. Two of the weakest songs on the original album, "Amazing Journey" and "I'm a Sensation" were positively transformed coming from this kid. (Though even he couldn't do much with "Welcome," the dorkiest pop song of all time. Why they left it in the show, I will never understand. Shudder.)

In case you're not familiar, here's a brief outline of the plot. Mrs. Walker, believing her husband killed in the war, hooks up with another guy. Captain Walker comes home, finds Mrs. W. with the other guy, and kills him. Their young son, Tommy, is present during the murder, though his mom turns him away so that what he sees is his own reflection in a mirror. Captain & Mrs. cover up the evidence, instructing Tommy that he didn't hear it, didn't see it, and will never tell what he knows is the truth. This is so traumatic that Tommy becomes psychosomatically deaf, dumb & blind, as well as obsessed with his reflection in the mirror, which he can see. He suffers abuse by various family members, is poked and prodded by many doctors, learns to play pinball, etc. Finally, in a fit of anger his mother smashes the mirror and lo! he is cured. Not just cured, but mystically enlightened. He becomes a pop icon, with screaming fans who want to be just like him. He tries to help them become enlightened like him, but they don't want to suffer his pain and they rebel against him. Then Tommy reconciles with his family. The end.

Tommy affected me very differently from way than it used to. As a teen, I responded mainly to the music. And I can't deny that I loved hearing that familiar music performed live last night. But even more, I responded to the parenting bits. "What About the Boy" had me in tears. And, god, "Smash the Mirror" practically gave me an anxiety attack right there in the theater. What mother hasn't been there before? Felt that intense anger and frustration with her beloved offspring? And in this story, when the mother expresses her feelings by smashing the mirror -- Tommy is cured! There must be a lesson in there somewhere.

When I got home, Steve had just finished putting the kids to bed, and as an antidote to Tommy we watched a bit of the best rock 'n roll movie of all time, The Last Waltz. Why I love The Band, and why they've withstood the test of time for me while The Who have not, is a subject for another day.

Flatland

2006-05-11T14:54:00.000-04:00

My first foray into the wonderful world of Penguin Classics: Flatland, A Romance of Many Dimensions, by A. Square (Edwin A. Abbott), first published in 1884.

This was an odd little . . . volume. I can't really call it a novel, although it's certainly novel. It takes place in a world where -- well, A. Square describes it better than I can:

Imagine a vast sheet of paper on which straight Lines, Triangles, Squares, Pentagons, Hexagons, and other figures, instead of remaining fixed in their places, move freely about, on or in the surface, but without the power of rising above or sinking below it, very much like shadows -- only hard and with luminous edges -- and you will then have a pretty correct notion of my country and countrymen.

That is, it's a world with only two dimensions. The first half of the book (60 pages) consists of the description of this world. It's written like a treatise. No dialogue, all exposition. It covers everything from the floor plans of their houses to the details of their sexist, classist society. Abbott intended this to be a satire of Victorian society, and it is so extremely scathing that it's actually painful to read. The Flatland class hierarchy is based on the number of sides a person has -- the more the better, with Circles at the very top (infinite sides). The wider your angles, the more intelligent you are. Bottom of the heap are Isosceles Triangles, who suffer the added indignity of not having all their sides the same length. They make up the very lowest class, and are considered to be disposable, expendable -- the red-shirts, if you will. And women? They're Straight Lines. No angles at all! Which of course makes them lower than the lowest Isosceles. 'Nuff said!

The second, more interesting, half of the book (58 pages) is also treatise-like, but now the subjects are math and philosophy. A. Square discovers Lineland, a world of only one dimension, and then a three-dimensional entity -- a sphere -- discovers him. There are some funny moments here, such as this bit of dialogue:

"Pardon me," said I, "O Thou Whom I must no longer address as the Perfection of all Beauty; but let me beg thee to vouchsafe thy servant a sight of thine interior.

SPHERE. My what?

I. Thine interior: thy stomach, thy intestines.

SPHERE. Whence this ill-timed impertinent request?

A. Square initially considers the sphere to be the Perfection, etc., because a sphere comprises an infinite number of circles, and Circles are the pinnacle of Flatland society. But it occurs to him that if there are worlds of one, two and three dimensions, couldn't there also be worlds of four, five, or six? And wouldn't a four-dimensional being comprising an infinite number of spheres be even more perfectly beautiful than a mere three-dimensional sphere? Ad infinitum? And the most interesting part of the whole book is the Sphere's reaction to this idea: even though the Sphere is well aware that there are worlds of one and two dimensions, he is so angered by A. Square's assertion that he evicts him out of Spaceland forever. Is this a wry comment on the way we humans cannot see ourselves as anything less than the crown of creation?

One of the strangest things about this book is its half-and-half structure. Stories are supposed to be divided in thirds, not halves. Beginning, middle, end. Just two feels unstable, unfinished. I liked the math, though. I actually found myself awake in the middle of the night after I finished it, pondering geometry. I tried to remember the formula for calculating the measurements of the angles of regular polygons. I came up with this: if n is the number of angles (or sides), the measurement of each angle is (n-2) times 180, all divided by n. Then I attempted some calculations in my head . . . and soon drifted off to sleep.

This reminds me, too, that I have another anecdote about Cousin Ward. (Please click on the link to refresh your memory about Cousin Ward; he's well worth the effort.) Anyway, I'm sitting next to him at Easter dinner. Conversation with him is awkward because he's a mathematician, but I do my best. I ask him how his grandkids in Pittsburgh are doing. They are well. The older one is, what? 8? 9? Neither of us can remember.

"It's hard to tell them apart at that age," says Ward.

"Very true," I agree, going off into a little reverie about kids getting older. When they're babies, a difference of three months seems insurmountable, but the older they get the less it matters. My train of thought is heading toward Maudlin.

"Because, you know," he continues, "one is two to the power of three and the other is three to the power of two."

I love this guy. Betcha he's read Flatland.

Bookstore anecdote

2006-05-07T20:15:00.000-04:00

Laura's comment on my earlier post, "I was at Borders looking for something new . . . I browsed and browsed, getting more and more frustrated," reminded me of a little anecdote. Here in Ann Arbor we are blessed with a couple of really good independent bookstores, so we're not stuck supporting the big corporate stores (perish the thought!).

A couple of weeks ago, my mother-in-law, Mary, went birthday shopping for Steve. Because his wish list included books, she went to Nicola's Books. However, his descriptions were pretty vague -- like "that book by the NYT science correspondent about genetics and evolution." So she went directly to the customer service desk, pulled out the printout of his emailed wish list and asked for that book by the NYT science correspondent, etc. Nicola said that that was the second time that day that someone had requested that book by the NYT science correspondent, etc. Mary showed her the printout, and Nicola affirmed that she'd already seen that exact same list. She then told Mary what (it turned out) Steve's brother- and sister-in-law had already bought, so Mary got him something different. Would that -- could that -- have happened at Borders or Barnes & Noble? I think not.

When worlds collide . . .

2006-05-07T16:59:00.000-04:00

Drop City, by T. Coraghessan Boyle. In 1970, a bunch of turned-on, tuned-in, dropped-out hippies living in a commune called Drop City decide to move up north. Up north, that is, all the way to the heart of the Alaskan wilderness, miles from nowhere, inaccessible except by boat (summer) or mushing (winter). The story of these inept, ridiculous, pathetic hippies alternates with the story of the people who are already living in the wilderness, the guys & gals who know how to survive the minus-sixty degree winters and even enjoy doing it.

Boyle does a great job of building tension and suspense as he alternates between the two groups. He doesn't just trade viewpoints with alternating chapters, which would feel cheap; he gives you maybe 100 pages of one before switching to the other. So there's this slow build-up -- and you just know that when these people meet each other it's going to be baaaaaad!

I don't know if this is his intent, but Boyle also does a great job of making wilderness survival seem tawdry and unappealing, rather than the glamorous romantic thing I've always envisioned. Here's a sample from the life of the real survivalists:

[S]he dragged the bear's hide out to the picnic table and sat in the sun working the flesh off it with the ulu Sess had given her for a birthday present. The ulu was an Inuit tool, a bone handle attached to a crescent-shaped blade, and it was ideal for scraping hides, a task she guessed she would be performing pretty regularly as the winter months came on and her husband brought her the stiffened corpses of whatever he'd managed to kill out there in the secret recesses of the country. And how did she feel about that -- how did she feel about this, about this stinking, flea-and-tick-ridden hide under the knife right here and now in a hurricane of flies and the blood and grease worked up under her nails and into every least crease and line of her hands so that she'd never get the smell out? . . . She slapped a mosquito on her upper arm and the imprint of her hand was painted there in bear's blood. She flicked flies out of her face.

Nice, huh? And here's how it is on the hippie side:

People were scattered around the room in a funk of unwashed clothes and matted hair, down, dejected, disheveled, the energy level hovering around zero -- they didn't even look as if they'd be able to lift the forks to their mouths come dinner, and Star had a brief fantasy of feeding them all by hand, then changing their diapers and putting them to bed one after the other. It was depressing. When they spoke, it was in a whisper, as if nobody really wanted to express their thoughts aloud, and the cramped space of the meeting hall buzzed with an insectoid rasp of timbreless voices sawing away at the fabric of the afternoon.

This book was simultaneously fascinating and painful to read. The characters were, for the most part, stagnant. Star, the hippie female protagonist, grew and learned a little bit through her travails, but not enough to make it really worthwhile. Pamela, Star's survivalist counterpart -- and the book is neatly organized with good guy-bad guy and romantic couple mirror-images on both sides -- is just not believable. Both good guys have uncontrolled tempers (at times) that made me want to slap them. Both bad guys both were classic cases of borderline personality disorder. Yuk.

In short: this book definitely held my attention. I found myself rushing for it any time I had five minutes to spare. The pacing was perfect, and Boyle can spin a good yarn. But I'm not sure I'll be running to the library for all his other novels. At least, not any time soon.

* * *

I will, however, be running to the library first thing tomorrow morning to pick up the three books I have on hold: Flatland, and the two Muriel Spark novels. The responses to my proposed reading plan have been interesting. Honestly, I highly doubt I'll read more than a couple of those Penguin classics. Or -- I'll read more than a couple, perhaps, but not consecutively. Don't fence me in!

On choosing

2006-05-03T11:28:00.000-04:00

My book club met last night to discuss Bittersweet by Nevada Barr. As always, it was a treat to get out of the house, hang out with friends, consume wine and cheese, and talk about books. The book, however, left much to be desired.

Bittersweet sounded like a good idea: lesbian lovers out west in the late 19th century search for social acceptance. But the plot was pat, the prose clunky, the characters undeveloped, the coincidences improbable. In short: don't bother reading this one.

I've read several clunkers in a row now. Bittersweet was no one's fault -- Doulicia heard about it at work -- how were we to know?

I'm thinking I need to change my method of choosing books.

Method? Do I have a method?

My current method is to take the Tempestuous Toddler to the brand-new Pittsfield Branch of the dear old Ann Arbor District Library. The new building has this . . . contraption . . . that lets you shoot a ball high up a chute, and then it comes back down, around and around and around, thereby illustrating some property of physics. Toddler heaven. And bless their hearts, the library designers placed this contraption smack in the middle of the adult area. So I can browse while Daniel operates the contraption. The only problem is, if there is another child present (and there always is) I have to keep half my attention on Daniel because he tends to get rather territorial. This is how I ended up with Goodnight Nobody a few weeks ago. It's how I ended up with Drop City, which I am enjoying to a certain extent, though hippie communes are not my number one choice of subject matter. So, perhaps this isn't the ideal way to choose books.

I used to subscribe to the New York Times Book Review. However, I rarely if ever felt inspired to read any of the books they reviewed. In fact, the opposite was true. First of all, I got a little tired of the word "luminous." Why is it that all the best books have "luminous" prose? Second, the reviews give away way too much plot. Third, don't even get me started on their reviews of biographies -- which tell all about the subject and nothing about the biography qua biography. Fourth, it comes too often. If it was a monthly I could keep up, but every week? No way. So that's out.

Another possibility: go down the list of Pulitzer, Booker, etc. award winners.

Or do what Ella's doing: read the Modern Library.

Here's another idea: we have a copy of the complete annotated list of all the Penguin Classics currently in print. I've been studying this list (okay, we keep it in the downstairs bathroom). What I like about the list is that it's in alphabetical order by author, which lends it an appealing randomness. If I did this, A to Z, I would have to start with Flatland, by Edward Abbott and end with Thérèse Raquin, by Émile Zola. If the titles were in chronological order I wouldn't even consider it.

There are some drawbacks to this plan. First, and this is huge, I hate Penguin Classics. They just aren't very nice books to hold in your hand. Margins and leading: way too small. (For those not in the know, leading is the white space between the lines. In olden times the typesetters used strips of lead to make the spaces even and uniform. It rhymes with sledding, not bleeding.) Font: ugly and too small. Contrast: too low. The second drawback is that this isn't just a list of novels here. There is No Way I'm going to spend my precious reading time on, say, The Portable Machiavelli, even if it is an "essential collection" and even if I am married to a history teacher. I'm. Just. Not. But I could skip over the philosophy, economics, poetry, plays and short stories. Novels only. I'm prejudiced that way.

I think I'll give it a try. Flatland, here I come!

The Virginian

2006-04-29T21:54:00.000-04:00

A huge thank you to Ella for choosing The Virginian as this month's selection for the Slaves of Golconda. Thank you, because it never would have occurred to me to read this book otherwise. It was terrific!

The Virginian is a Western. The plot outline sounds stupid and generic: Tenderfoot Nameless First Person Narrator goes out west and meets Handsome Strong Silent Hero Who Lives By A Perfect Code of Honor And Therefore Must Occasionally Take The Law Into His Own Hands (aka "The Virginian"). Tenderfoot also meets Beautiful Young Schoolteacher Who Loves Hero But Fears Her Family Won't Accept Him Because His Lineage And Manners Aren't As Classy As Hers. Oh yes, and there's also Mean Drunken Yellow-bellied Bad Guy Who Makes Things Difficult For Hero.

How does this book rise above these generic plot elements? Well, for one, it has a bit of humor. One of my favorite parts is Schoolteacher's first appearance in the book. She's written a letter inquiring about the teaching position, and Tenderfoot, Virginian, and Minor Character are discussing it. The letter is hilarious: she inquires whether she could sue if the Wyoming climate ruins her complexion, she comments that she may be unsuited for teaching because she leaves out the "u" in "honor," and finally she signs it "your very sincere spinster." Though Minor Character "over whose not highly civilized head certain portions of the letter had highly passed" takes the letter at face value ("I guess that means she's forty"), The Virginian immediately susses that she couldn't be more than twenty, and thus "the seed of love" is sown.

For another, it is so much about the land. Here's The Virginian and Schoolteacher on their honeymoon:

They passed through the gates of the foot-hills, following the stream up among them. The outstretching fences and the widely trodden dust were no more. Now and then they rose again into view of the fields and houses down in the plain below. But as the sum of the miles and hours grew, they were glad to see the road less worn with travel, and the traces of men passing from sight. The ploughed and planted country, that quilt of many-colored harvests which they had watched yesterday, lay in another world which they had watched yesterday, lay in another world from this where they rode now. No hand but nature's had sown these crops of yellow flowers, these willow thickets and tall cottonwoods. Somewhere in a passage of red rocks the last sign of wagon wheels was lost, and after this the trail became a wild mountain trail. . . . Full solitude was around them now, so that their words grew scarce, and when they spoke it was with low voices.

Sigh! This book was written almost at the time that it takes place (first published in 1902). Owen Wister was really there. The characters may be idealized heroic/romantic stereotypes, but Wyoming -- that's what he really saw!

The Virginian is not without flaws. The worst, in my opinion, is that for much of the book Tenderfoot is narrating events, conversations, thoughts, and feelings that he wasn't privy to. Once or twice his deep friendship with Schoolteacher is briefly alluded to, and we must assume she told him "everything" -- but it doesn't quite work. And Tenderfoot is not a well-defined character. Why is he even in Wyoming? Maybe Wister didn't want to delve too deeply into Tenderfoot's character for, ahem, other reasons, such as the fact that Tenderfoot's first description of The Virginian is "a slim young giant, more beautiful than pictures."

Another thing I didn't like was that although it's mentioned many times that The Virginian must take matters into his own hands because the judicial system is so corrupt, we don't really see the corruption. I would have liked the corruption to be more integral to the plot since it's so integral to The Virginian's motivations.

Still and all, I love Westerns, and I love idealized romantic heroes. This one was a page-turner. I was so worried that The Virginian might not live through the final showdown with Bad Guy that I actually flipped ahead to check -- something I normally would never, never do.

Thanks again, Ella!

Happy Birthday

2006-04-25T18:53:00.000-04:00

It's hard to believe, but . . . I'm married to a forty-year-old! Happy Birthday, dear Steve!

He's not finding this a big deal at all. In fact, he mistakenly thought he was turning forty last year. I, however, am thinking about it a lot. I'm turning forty this year, too, though not until December. How on earth did this happen? Just yesterday I was ten!

So, do you think it's wrong for me to let a 2yo lick the bowl when the birthday cake batter contains not only four raw eggs but also an eighth of a cup of Meyer's Dark Rum? Personally, I think I'd be derelict in my duty if I didn't let him. After all, he should get some recompense for the five seconds he spent stirring.

* * *

I had a couple of days earlier this week where I was really afraid that I wouldn't be able to deliver what I'd rashly promised my client: a website that she would be able to update herself, almost as easily as posting to Blogger. But I stubbornly persisted like a true INTJ, and after a couple of days I figured out the content management system. I think I'm going to be able to make good on my promise after all. Phew! Now I've got most of the structure down and it's just a question of inserting the content from the old site into the new one. The process is tedious, yet so satisfying. Tedious because the only way I know of to get rid of all the old <font> tags and other unnecessary crap is to do it by hand. Yet so satisfying! I love nothing better than pruning. And when I'm done the site will be clean, crisp, and simple. Yesssss!!

But surely, you ask, you're not spending every minute of the day pruning old <font> tags? Yes, that's true. I could've been blogging . . . except that I was reading. Finally I managed to get with the Slaves of Golconda program, and I've been reading The Virginian. We're not supposed to post about it until April 30, so I will just say for now that I. Couldn't. Put. It. Down.

Now I'm in the process of whipping through two Orson Scott Card novels before getting into my next book club book, Bittersweet. So Orson Scott Card, in case you don't know, is a once-great science fiction writer who now just seems to write the same one novel over and over again. Literally! Ender's Game was one of the best sci-fi books of all time. A great read, satisfying on many levels. Likewise great is its sequel, Speaker for the Dead, which takes place hundreds of years after the events in the first novel and has almost no relation to it. A striking, original story. But Card is one of those writers who just can't leave well enough alone. No, he continued the series with a couple more books after Speaker that are just cheesy and formulaic. And if that's not enough, he then went back to Ender's Game and rewrote it from the point of view of another character, calling it a "parallel" novel. Okay, that's a cool idea -- in fact, I'm a sucker for stories that tell the same event through the eyes of different characters -- and that book, Ender's Shadow, turned out all right. But now he's written three more books that come after Shadow, again, cheesy and formulaic. Why do I helplessly keep reading them? I do not know.

Enough, already!

2006-04-14T19:07:00.000-04:00

**WARNING: Once again I go on and on about Patrick O'Brian. If you're sick of reading about my teeny-bopper adulation please feel free to skip this post.

One of the things that continues to amaze me about Patrick O'Brian is that he managed to churn out no less than twenty books with the same characters and the same adventures, and somehow these books never feel stale or repetitive. I mean, let's face it. A naval battle is a naval battle. How much variation can there be?

Well, one of the (many) reasons he never grows stale is that he uses a huge variety of literary conventions or techniques to convey the action. For example, say the chapter ends with the lookout sighting an enemy ship. You turn the page to find out the result of the battle (because Captain Aubrey doesn't always win). Turn the page and you might find:

A detailed description of the engagement, manoeuvres, etc.
Captain Aubrey writing his log book entry: a very abbreviated version of the battle.
Captain Aubrey writing the official letter to his superiors: a detailed, stilted description bound to contain one or two solecisms.
Captain Aubrey struggling to write a description of the battle to his wife minus any references to violence whatsoever, so as not to alarm her.
Captain Aubrey visiting the sick bay.
Captain Aubrey handing out the prize money.
Dr. Maturin railing against the evils of war while eating toasted cheese with Captain Aubrey in the great cabin.
Captain Aubrey et al. having dinner with the captain and officers of the captured ship, because of course they are all gentlemen with no personal grudge against each other.
Captain Aubrey, back home six months later, defending his actions in a court-martial proceeding.
Captain Aubrey, back home six months later, receiving congratulations and huzzahs from all & sundry.
Dr. Maturin, back home six months later, debriefing with the Head of Naval Intelligence.

Whichever way, the end result is the same: you learn the outcome of the battle.

Busy bee

2006-04-13T10:05:00.000-04:00

In the last few days I sent out drafts of three brochures, a website, a flyer, and half of a newsletter. I went to a marketing committee meeting where I made deeply insightful comments about the virtues of using plain text rather than html for electronic newsletters. And I got hired for a big website that I am very excited about! Woo-hoo!

I made a potato-veggie kugel and my famous spicy carrot salad to bring to my parents' seder.

I read a book, Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner, which I highly recommend to anyone who loves ridiculous plot coincidences and/or one-dimensional stock characters of which none are the least bit sympathetic or interesting.

To get the taste of that out of my mouth I went back to the old tried-and-true you-know-who. The Far Side of the World happened to be closest at hand this time. Right now we're just getting out of the doldrums, thank God, and pretty soon the bad thing that happens as a result of the love triangle between Mr. Horner (the impotent gunner) and Mr. Hollar (the down-and-out midshipman, possibly a Jonah, but boy can he sing exquisitely) and Mr. Horner's wife (who will wash her smalls in the fresh water that's needed for steeping the salt meat and mixing the grog), is going to happen. And Dr. Maturin and Mr. Martin, bless their hearts, are presently going to see some blue-faced boobies.

And wouldn't you know it, Steve recently discovered that there are TWO seasons of Six Feet Under at the video store that we haven't seen. You know what that means: shuffling the kids off to bed as early as we decently can, and then gluing ourselves to the tv to watch three or four episodes per night. Night after bleary night until we're done. We can't help ourselves. This is why we don't have regular tv (no reception at all). At least with videos we only do this a few times a year. Other shows we've watched: CSI Las Vegas, Sopranos, and 24. Though we're not planning to continue with 24, not after the last season where the show's right-wing agenda became so painfully apparent. Six Feet Under, if nothing else, is a good antidote for that.

Dream sequence

2006-04-08T18:30:00.000-04:00

Most of the time I dread having to listen to other people tell their dreams. Why is it so tedious? I dunno, but it sure is. However, I have one friend -- a very dear friend, whom I've known since age 10, through thick and thin, etc., etc. -- who has the most amazingly fertile and hilarious imagination. Whenever she starts a conversation with the words "I had the weirdest dream last night" I settle down happily 'cause I know I'm in for a treat.

The other day I got this email from her. She wrote:

So yesterday, in Evanston, Ed woke me up out of dream by handing the phone to me. It was [our friend] Tom, who, after listening to me babble for a moment, asked me what my dream was. In this way I actually remembered it.

I dreamed that you, Julie, were the editor of a private investigators' weekly newspaper. You used standard black and white print but with banners of neon green. In the paper you had a weekly dating column; however, the only couple you ever featured was you guys. The text went something like: "This week our leading lady is this paper's own Julie Hathaway! And who's the lucky guy who sweeps her off her feet? It's her husband, Steve!"

Julie, you were represented in the paper by a neon green pince-nez.

Steve, you were represented by a neon green block letter H.

So thanks, you guys, for providing me with a very amusing dream. We'll have to work out the symbolism of your respective representations :) .

Oh ha ha! And to think that her dream about me included typography! My influence is deeper than I'd realized . . . [gleefully rubbing hands together] bwa ha ha ha . . . !

An astonishing discovery

2006-04-04T12:45:00.000-04:00

Plot, plot, plot. Of course I read for plot. Who doesn't? All I'm saying is, I do recognize that there can be more to a book than just plot. I will probably pick up The Plot Against America again some time. I'm sure it's a great book. Maybe it was just bad timing. Have you ever had it happen that you don't like a perfectly good book just because it clashes with the book you just finished? I might have liked Kite Runner if I hadn't just read Atonement, for example. Anyway, enough of that. Movin' right along . . . .

I made an astonishing -- astonishing! -- discovery yesterday. I can't stop grinning over this. Last month's book group selection was The Beak of the Finch by Jonathan Weiner. I absolutely loved this book, even though I only read half of it. If you think evolutionary theory is the most beautiful thing ever, and if Darwin happens to be your personal hero, you will love, love, love this book. And if you also happen to be an absolute sucker for scientists who spend months and months on a desert island measuring millimeter differences in the size of finch beaks, well, you will love this book even more. This book was selected for our "community reads" program, and the actual scientists are giving a talk right here in town tomorrow evening. I am so there!

Anyway, my discovery. Yesterday afternoon as I was whipping through the last bit of the book my eye happened to light upon a quote by Darwin. Sez he: ". . . I cannot admit that man's rudimentary mammae, bladder drained as if he went on all four legs, and pug-nose were designed." Isn't this EXACTLY what I've been saying? And even threatening to make a bumper sticker out of? If we're so intelligently designed, why do men have nipples? And Darwin said. The. Exact. Same. Thing. Ok, he called them rudimentary mammae, but still. Pride goeth before a fall, I know, but I'm just so chuffed that Charles Darwin and I independently arrived at the same exact thought. Wow.

A mortal insult

2006-03-29T13:00:00.000-05:00

Recently a certain member of my family who shall remain nameless because I at least don't want to hurt his feelings made a grave accusation against me. I said I didn't bother to finish The Plot Against America because I felt that after two or three chapters I got the author's point, and perhaps it should have been a short story.

"I think the problem is that you just read for plot," said he.

Can you believe it? My own ~~father~~ unnamed family member?? Steve, honey, will you be my second? Because we're meeting tomorrow at dawn.

Sad news

2006-03-27T19:58:00.000-05:00

Stanislaw Lem died today.

For those not in the know, he's a Polish sci-fi writer. His stories, the ones I've read anyway, are fairly straightforward spaceshippy stuff, but his style is literary and, well, inimitable. Here's a taste to whet your appetite, the opening lines of the short story "Pirx's Tale."

Sci-fi? Sure, I like it, but only the trashy stuff. Not so much trashy as phony. The kind I can dip into between shifts, read a few pages at a time, and then drop. Oh, I read good books too, but only Earthside. Why that is, I don't really know. Never stopped to analyze it. Good books tell the truth even when they're about things that never have been and never will be. They're truthful in a different way. When they talk about outer space, they make you feel the silence, so unlike the Earthly kind -- and the lifelessness. Whatever the adventures, the message is always the same: humans will never feel at home out there. Earth has something random fickle about it -- here a tree, there a wall or garden, over the horizon another horizon, beyond the mountain a valley . . . but not out there.

As soon as the kids are in bed I think I'll cuddle up on the couch and read the rest. Yum!

A new meme

2006-03-23T13:51:00.000-05:00

I don't know if Ella realizes this, but she made up a new meme. Here it is:

Words that always look misspelled to me:
pendant
Schuylkill

Words that look nicer in italics:
Julia
words with lowercase f's.

Words I enjoy saying:
brouhaha
chutney
clarinet

Words I enjoy hearing:
tuppence
Cecchetti

Abbreviations I dislike:
"My bad" (ok, that's not an abbreviation, but I still detest it)

Proper nouns I enjoy:
Conshohocken
Psarianos
Clementine

Words I associate with happiness:
Rare
Dovecote
Serendipity
Prairie
Eiderdown

Words I always misspell:
Well [cough, cough] . . . there really aren't any. But I always have to check myself on parsley. Or is it parsely?

Words I enjoy spelling correctly, every time:
Accommodate
Supersede
Necessary
Broccoli
a lot

Those were Ella's categories. I'll add one of my own --

Words that, though I love their meaning, I'm too embarrassed to say out loud:
paella

Laura Ingalls Wilder slaps me in the face

2006-03-22T22:03:00.000-05:00

As you probably know, I'm pretty outspoken on the topic of censorship. I believe it's my job and no one else's to decide what my kids should or shouldn't be allowed to read. So when Lena received a copy of Farmer Boy for her birthday a few weeks ago, of course I had to stick to my principles and read it first. ;-)

Wow, was it good! I thought I had read all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books when I was a kid, even though I wasn't a huge fan at the time. Apparently I missed this one, though. Whoops!

I was totally unprepared for the magnitude of the emotional response I had to this book. Weeks later, I'm still thinking about it. Just to give you a quick recap, at the end of the book 10yo Almanzo is given the choice of becoming apprentice to a shopkeeper (a nice shopkeeper who likes the boy, has integrity, etc.) or staying home to follow in his father's farmer footsteps. Father advises him that if he becomes a shopkeeper he'll have a nice, soft, cushy life . . . but he'll have to depend on others for the very food on his table and clothes on his back. If he stays a farmer he'll work every day from dawn till dusk, but he'll be beholden to no one. He'll be self-sufficient -- growing, raising, slaughtering, preserving, tanning, milking, weaving, etc., etc. -- producing for himself everything he needs.

I find this independent, self-sufficient, beholden-to-nobody thing extremely compelling. I always have. This is why I love wilderness survival books, especially Clan of the Cave Bear. That book is stupid in so many ways, but I've practically got it memorized. And there's more than a bit of that in Patrick O'Brian: the ship is self-sufficient. I admire medieval hermits, too.

So, when Almanzo (of course) turned down the apprenticeship offer it was hard not to take it personally. I am so dependent on others. I don't even know how to grow vegetables in my sunny, south-facing back yard. Clearly, Laura Ingalls Wilder would not approve.

Who was I kidding?

2006-03-20T17:54:00.000-05:00

What ever made me think I could go four months without blogging?

It's been five weeks and withdrawal has been severe. Unlike some bloggers, I've never had trouble thinking of "what to write." The only trouble I've ever had is finding the time to write it. And finding the time to visit my blogroll. A lot has happened in the last five weeks, and not writing about it was painful. Here are some highlights.

Daniel is (mostly) potty trained. Parenting tip: when toddler asks to wear diaper, assent enthusiastically. "Sure, honey! You can wear one at bedtime."

Lena lost her first tooth and has advanced from "Twinkle, Twinkle" to "Lightly Row" on her little violin. (For those not in the know, "Lightly" is the second song in Book One of the Suzuki Method. A very big deal.)

Joey is . . . still his usual, inimitable self. After his martial arts class we are standing by the front desk in the "pro" shop and he suddenly says to me: "Hey, mom! You know Baskerville Old Style? Doesn't it have an interesting uppercase J?" Oh, how my typography-loving heart swelled with pride. May you all experience the joy of knowing that you have successfully passed along your most deeply-held values to your children.

Business is going well. It must be. The reason I know this is because yesterday in the mail I received a 350-page catalog from this company, addressed to my business name. Oh ha ha! Steve and I had a jolly old time riffling through the catalog. Hey, we could purchase and install an industrial-strength GOJO dispenser in the downstairs bathroom! I could get a back support belt for the times when Daniel demands to be carried! We could buy Chinese Takeout Containers -- thousands of them -- for storing leftovers! Oh ha ha!

I've also read some interesting books, which I think I'll write about separately. Stay tuned.

Dang, it's good to be home.

On sabbatical

2006-02-12T08:53:00.000-05:00

There just aren't enough hours in my day, especially as my business continues to grow, and I'm getting all stressed out worrying about it. Am I offending my friends if I don't visit them regularly? Am I losing readers because I don't post regularly? And worst of all: is it totally narcissistic of me to worry like this?

Blogging is supposed to be fun, not stressful. So, reluctantly, I've decided to take a leave of absence until June. I will check in with my blogroll periodically, but I probably won't be posting. Come summer, I will have lots of time since my teacher-husband will be on vacation, and next fall Tempestuous Toddler will be in preschool [huge sigh of relief!].

Best regards to you all, and I'll see you in June!

Self-torture 2

2006-01-31T17:02:00.000-05:00

I watched Little Women last night. The 1994 version with Winona Rider. I saw it once before, when it first came out.

Why do I do this to myself? That movie is . . . dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. I don't even know where to begin. The casting of Eric Stolz as Mr. Brooke [sputtering with indignation]? The outrageous and totally pointless liberties they took with the plot [further sputtering]? Winona Rider's portrayal of Jo as a goody-two-shoes [even more sputtering]? The fact that not one actual line from the book was used in the movie except as a corny voice-over when Jo was writing her novel [really angry now]?

I did like their house, though. The exterior is spookily similar to the way I've imagined it all these years. And Laurie. I liked Laurie.

Self-torture

2006-01-27T17:50:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what masochistic impulse led me to check out a copy of Banned in the USA: A Reference Guide to Book Censorship in Schools and Public Libraries. The "parent shelf" in the youth department is cleverly situated right next to a floor-to-ceiling world map that has buttons you can press to light up various countries and regions. The buttons, of course, are a small-child magnet. I've never seen anyone use the map who was actually old enough to understand its purpose.

So, anyway, Temptestuous Toddler gleefully pressed the buttons while I browsed the parent shelf and came across this doggie-downer of a book. It gives a pretty good overview of the topic, including (these are chapter titles) A Survey of Major Bookbanning Incidents; The Law on Bookbanning; Voices of Banned Authors (Judy Blume, Robert Cormier, etc.); and The Most Frequently Banned Books of the 1990s (including plot synopses and summaries of the banning attempts).

This book hooked me in like a mass of maggots. It's totally revolting, but I can't tear myself away.

Listen to this quote regarding Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, by Alvin Schwartz: "The parent rejected the option of noting on her child's library file those books that her child was not allowed to read, insisting that no other child be allowed to read them either."

And this parental objection to A Wrinkle in Time: among other things, it "encourages one to believe in make-believe." Huh?

I was especially interested in what they said about How to Eat Fried Worms, which was required reading for Joey last year. Heh, heh, turns out that it contains the phrase "enormous pigeon-breasted middle-age woman."

I'm wishing I'd found this book a month or two ago, because I would have had some great gift ideas for Joey. I'm sure he'd love those Scary Stories, not to mention Eve Merriam's Halloween ABC and Roald Dahl's Revolting Rhymes. It gives me some measure of satisfaction to view the list of banned books as recommendations.

On anonymity

2006-01-23T21:09:00.000-05:00

Many bloggers don't like to use their real names. Some get wonderfully creative with the descriptive nicknames they come up with for their family members. I sometimes think I should refer to Daniel as, say, Tempestuous Toddler. If I told a story about Tempestuous Toddler's desire to bring a bowl of grapes to bed, you'd know exactly what I was talking about. But if I brag that Daniel was actually gentle with the kitty today, you might think, big deal. Which one's Daniel, anyway? The 10yo? The 2yo?

I saw Kate at the pool today. At least, I thought I did. I was almost positive it was her. I did meet her once before, a long time ago, pre-blog, at a playground where my sister introduced us. But, unlike most people, I'm terrible with faces though good at names. Plus, I was peering through wet glasses, and trying to keep an eye on ~~Daniel~~ Tempestuous Toddler at the same time. I kept sneaking peeks, though, wondering if it was her, trying to remember if she'd ever blogged about belonging to the Y. I waited and waited, and finally I heard her calling to her kids, Ian and Fiona. Yesss! Definitely her!

If you met a person in real life who looked familiar, and after a little conversation you established that you'd once met at a playground a year and a half ago . . . do you think the very first topic of conversation after that would be "so what are you reading"? Not likely. But because of our blogs, we didn't have to bother with all the cheesy getting-to-know-you stuff. Right away we slipped into conversation about Very Important Matters such as judging books by their covers. It was great!

In conclusion, I would like to say that although anonymous nicknames like Tempestuous Toddler can aid the reader in keeping track of who's who, I strongly urge you to consider using real names. You never know what charming blogger you might be able to recognize, even when you're wearing wet glasses.

Conclusive proof that virtue is its own reward

2006-01-20T14:33:00.000-05:00

If I had realized in advance that I would be taking a two-week break from blogging I would have posted something to let you all know. But every day that I didn't blog, I thought to myself, "Well, tomorrow I'll post. Tomorrow I'll visit my blog friends, whom I've missed very much." And tomorrow was as busy as today.

Anyway, my conclusive proof regarding virtue is the great joy I got from following my New Year's resolution.

My resolution this year was to read the Atlantic Monthly magazine from cover to cover every month. We already subscribe; it's just a question of actually reading it. The Jan/Feb issue arrived yesterday. Of course I haven't read it cover-to-cover yet, but I did flip open to the table of contents, where something instantly caught my eye: "The Anthem: If famous poets had written 'The Star-Spangled Banner,'" by Garrison Keillor. Oh ha ha ha!

Want a sample? Here's Emily Dickinson, complete with em-dashes:

The Banner—that we watched in Air
So Proudly as it Gleamed
Was Proven by the Rocket Glare
Or so to us it Seemed—

And so we waited for the Dawn
To see if it still flew
Or if—in Tatters—it is Gone—
As happened once—with You.

I woke up—at the Matin Bell—
A vast and empty Bed—
The Pillow bore—the slightest smell
Of Oil—from your Head.

A fleeting Phantasy—perhaps—
The Ghost of—Not to be—
And Postmen—in their Crimson Caps—
Aim their Artillery.

And here's e.e.cummings:

She being brand
New he threw
A flag over h
Er & began
The bombard
Ment & was soon
Rocketing
A (long) & feeling
Braveandfreeand(proudly)perilous
Can you see? Said he
Oui oui, said she
And it was love and it was
Spring and roses and it was
Dawn &
He
B
U
R
S
T
Into song.

And what the heck, here's William Carlos Williams:

This is just to say
I have taken
The flag
That was
Flying

And which
You probably expected
To see
This morning

Forgive me
It was beautiful
So free
And so brave

I'm not going to type up the whole long Robert Frost version; suffice it to say that the first line is "Whose flag this is I think I know" and it's very very funny. Also featured: Walt Whitman, Gary Snyder, Billy Collins.

Heh, heh, would anyone like to contribute one? I bet Shakespeare would've written a doozy!

Patrick O'Brian . . . again!

2006-01-09T13:47:00.000-05:00

Since I made it to the, um, final rounds in the BoB thingy I feel under a little pressure to come up with a super-literary post. Luckily, I have a perfect topic. Not only is it, you know, literary, but also it gives me yet another opportunity to blab about my favorite author, Patrick O'Brian, and perhaps entice new readers to give him a try.

I just started reading his new biography, Patrick O'Brian: The Making of the Novelist, 1914-1949, by Nikolai Tolstoy. As you may recall, O'Brian came under some scrutiny and negative criticism in the late '90s when it was revealed that in his youth he had deserted his (first) wife and their severely disabled child, changed his name from Russ to O'Brian, and acted as though his previous life had never happened. He allowed people to believe he was born and educated in Ireland (he wasn't), and had very little contact with his family of origin. He remarried, moved to France, and churned out no less than twenty amazing novels about the British Royal Navy in the Napoleonic era, co-starring Captain Jack Aubrey and Doctor Stephen Maturin.

O'Brian led the life of the Reclusive Author and as far as I know he didn't dignify his detractors with a response to these base accusations. But his stepson (his second wife's son) has done so in this new tell-all biography. Wooo-hooo!

I haven't gotten very far -- ok, I'm only on page 11 -- but since when have I ever waited to finish a book before reviewing it? It's a very bad habit, I know, but I have a hard time keeping quiet while I'm reading. And what I've read so far doesn't bode well, unfortunately. Here's a sample:

Jessie bore her uxorious husband nine children in fifteen years. After living for some time in successive London homes, in 1908 Charles established his growing family in a handsome country house situated in what was then an unspoiled rural backwater in the valley of the little River Misbourn, between Chalfont St Peter and Gerrards Cross in south-east Buckinghamshire.

Well, I'm sorry to be so snarky, but first of all, isn't it already obvious that her husband must have been pretty ~~randy~~ uxorious if she bore him nine children in fifteen years? Adding the word uxorious just sounds like he's showing off. And what about successive? What else could the houses have been but successive? Concurrent? What he meant was "a succession of." And let's not even get into how clunky and un-mellifluous is the rest of that sentence.

And what makes this so painful is that Patrick O'Brian's writing is truly exquisite, on every level. Take out your mental magnifying glass and go word by word: not one is out of place. The rhythm and flow of his writing is perfect. And the bigger picture: character, setting, plot, structure. Wonderful. The mix of humor and drama, the pacing of the action, the incredibly three-dimensional characters, the vivid descriptions of shipboard life, all come together for a reading experience like no other.

My husband's favorite aspect of the series is the naval battles. He's a history teacher, and he especially loves military history, tactics, strategy, etc. So he really grooves on the battle scenes. To me? These books are about true friendship and good manners. (Can you have one without the other?) I really like 19th century manners, at least as they are portrayed in fiction. I agree wholeheartedly with Dr. Maturin's pet peeve that question-and-answer as a form of conversation is extremely rude. I would like it very much if we asked permission to use each other's first names. (Cf. the O'Brian novel, I forget which one, where Stephen absentmindedly signs a letter to Sir Joseph with his first name only, and Sir Joseph -- the head of Naval intelligence -- writes back how honored he is to be on a first-name basis with him.)

Patrick O'Brian was big on 19th century manners too. Of course he didn't dignify his detractors with a response! But I will keep slogging away at this biography and when I find out what really happened I'll let you know.

Life cycle

2006-01-05T11:02:00.000-05:00

Last summer Lena started asking for violin lessons. My first reaction was no way! She was about to start first grade and no way was I going to add something as intense as violin lessons into the mix. I do not understand why so many music teachers expect new students to start in September. As if kids didn't already have enough new things to adjust to! But Lena continued to beg for violin lessons. Joey takes piano, so she understands about weekly lessons and daily practice, and finally we agreed that she could start taking in January.

Round about the middle of December I suddenly realized I better get on the ball or I was going to have one very disappointed little daughter. Luckily I was able to find a teacher who had an opening in January -- a woman whom I remembered from high school, when she'd been concertmistress of the school orchestra. She gave us advice about where to rent a violin, and that's what we did yesterday.

We went to this fabulous place called Psarianos. (Say it out loud: Sah-ree-AH-nos! Isn't that marvelous?) It's a tiny shop, hours by appointment only. They have another store outside Detroit that's bigger, and please click the link to check out their beautiful showroom. Though their site doesn't show the Ann Arbor store, it does give a good feeling for the Dickensian atmosphere: deep brown instruments, soft incandescent lighting, and the smell of old wood. Some day I must write a whole post on the smell of old musical instruments. There's nothing like it.

Anyway, Lena and I go in and the first person to walk out from the back room and greet us is none other than the famous Mr. Long. He's a beloved local legend, a now-retired school orchestra conductor. My husband had him through middle school, and so did Lena's new violin teacher. I went to a different middle school, but I had him for All-City Orchestra in 6th grade, and I think also in 8th or 9th grade as well. The music wing of the middle school where he taught is now named after him. And if that's not enough: my sister is very close friends with his daughter, who still lives in town, my niece and nephew play with his little granddaughter every week, and his son-in-law is the attorney who drew up the paperwork for my desktop publishing company. Laurie Psariano looked on with a big grin as Mr. Long and I exclaimed over it all. This kind of thing doesn't happen in her Detroit store! Let's face it -- we may think we're super-cosmopolitan, but Ann Arbor is a small town.

Mr. Long was so kind to Lena. She was very shy at first, but Mr. Long kept at her, gentle yet relentless, until finally they were chatting away like old friends. And Laurie was extremely deferential and respectful, telling Lena how lucky she was that he happened to be there, encouraging Mr. Long to be the one to show her how to hold the instrument, rosin the bow, etc. Which he did. Oh, I wish you could have been there to see it!

I vividly remember the time leading up to my first clarinet lesson. I had been fascinated by the instrument for quite a while. The dad next door had a clarinet which he always kept out on a stand in his study. I remember going over there and sneaking peaks at it. I couldn't keep away from it. Even the word -- clarinet! -- had such a ring to it. My aunt played the clarinet in high school, and she gave me hers. Before I ever had my first lesson I used to open the case and stare at it, smell it (yes, the smell of old musical instruments!), gingerly touch the keys, and ponder. How in the world would this strangely beautiful object produce music?

Lena's there right now. She's got that violin up in her room. She keeps going in to visit it. She listens to her new cd all the time, and has a favorite piece (Shubert's Serenade, bless her heart). She's staring at those four strings and the bow, wondering how in the world this strangely beautiful object could be made to produce music.

And there was our very own Mr. Long, starting her along that path.

Inkheart

2006-01-05T08:09:00.000-05:00

Joey gave me a copy of Inkheart for my birthday.

That was quite a Mommy Moment, let me tell you! My child read a book on his own that he reasonably thought I would like. Which means that his reading level is -- okay, not quite adult, but getting there. And also means that he realizes we share certain tastes in books.

Inkheart also happens to be the book he reviewed here.

I haven't told him yet, but I'm having trouble getting through it. I will finish it because my darling child gave it to me, but honestly I could easily put it down right now (halfway through) and never pick it up again. It's strange. I have no problem reading kids' books if I've been rereading them regularly since childhood, and I have no problem with books new to me but written for a younger age group, and heaven knows there are picture books I adore. But every time I've tried a young adult book (I guess that's what they are) I find myself getting impatient and annoyed. Maybe they're not "deep" enough?

However, Inkheart does have some interesting elements. In fact it is reminding me a lot of another book, Shadow of the Wind, which was my book club's inaugural choice. Here are some similarities:

1. The title of the book is also the title of a book in the story.

2. Bad guys are trying to rid the world of the book. Intrigue, suspense, and book burnings occur in the attempt.

3. What's written in the book subsequently happens in real life. Sort of.

4. The novel was originally written in another language and takes place very much in Europe.

5. One of the characters is quite appealing, in a ruffian, vagabond, thief -ish way.

I don't particularly recommend Shadow of the Wind, by the way. A lot of things bugged me about it, and my book club's review was very mixed. Though as you might imagine from the list above, it does have some interesting elements and ideas. If only the author had dug into them a bit deeper!

Meanwhile, I'll keep plugging away at Inkheart.

Run, run, as fast as you can . . .

2006-01-04T07:46:00.000-05:00

. . . to the nearest library and get yourself a copy of Parnassus on Wheels.

We discussed it last night at book club, though there's really not much to discuss. We just went around the room going "I loved it!" "Me too!" "Me too!"

I'm not sure I've ever been so insanely jealous of a fictional character in my life as I am of the main character in this one. She's a frumpy middle-aged spinster living on a farm with her brother, who happens to be a very successful author as well as a farmer. The brother frequently goes on jaunts around the countryside to gather material for his next book, leaving her behind to keep up the farm. Helen chafes at the drudgery and the unfairness of it all, but it's 1917 and she doesn't have many options.

One day -- not a spoiler; this is all in the first few pages -- a strange peddlar comes calling at the farm. He's a travelling salesman and his line is books. His horse-drawn caravan, the Parnassus on Wheels, is both his living quarters and his shop. The description of this caravan brought tears of delight to my eyes. Inside there's a little folding table, a chair, cookstove, a place for everything and everything in its place. No inch of space left unused, and all of it clean and neat. Not to mention all the books, which are on the outside, held in by flaps. When he comes to a farm or village he just lifts the flaps and starts selling books. And not just any old books, by the way. His mission is to bring fine literature to rural New England, and he tailors his sales pitches to his audience. There is one farmer to whom he refuses to sell Shakespeare because he's "not ready" for it yet. He is no huckster; he cares deeply about books and people.

The long and the short of it -- again, not a spoiler; this is still in the first few pages -- is that on impulse, Helen purchases the Parnassus, leaves a note for her brother, and goes off clip-clopping around the countryside selling books. Can you think of a more right livelihood than that?

Just in case I haven't convinced you yet, I'll give you a little taste. Here's the opening paragraph:

I wonder if there isn't a lot of bunkum in higher education? I never found that people who were learned in logarithms and other kinds of poetry were any quicker in washing dishes or darning socks. I've done a good deal of reading when I could, and I don't want to "admit impediments" to the love of books, but I've also seen lots of good, practical folk spoiled by too much fine print. Reading sonnets always gives me hiccups, too.

Hiccups! Isn't she marvelous? Thank you Quillhill and Kate S., who brought this charming book to my attention.

Happy New Year

2006-01-01T20:06:00.000-05:00

Jan. 1, 2006 isn't just New Year's Day. It's also the tenth anniversary of the day I became a mom. Yes, that's right. My firstborn child is ten years old today. As a result I'm feeling just a bit ~~maudlin~~ introspective.

Martha tagged me with the "ten weird, random facts about yourself" meme. I think instead I'm going to list ten things I've learned in the last ten years. Martha, I hope you don't mind.

1. My parents love me more than I love them. I realized this instantly in the very first second that I gazed upon my newborn child's face. There is no way this child could possibly love me as much as I love him. The nature of the mother's love for her child is very different from the love the child feels for its mother. It's a biological fact that the child's job is to grow away from the mother, whereas it's the mother's job to make sure that child grows up safely.

2. It's hard to become a mother, even when you want nothing more. Joey was a wanted child, a planned pregnancy. I was 29 years old when he was born, and I and my husband were very ready to start a family. Conception was effortless. Pregnancy was nine months of dreamy delight. Even so, I remember throughout that first year of motherhood, and after, I would frequently give myself mental "pinches," trying to make myself comprehend that this was not a dream, not a babysitting job, but something forever and ever. The word "irrevocable" kept popping into my mind. Eventually I did get used to the idea, and it's been a long time since I last thought "I can't believe this is me!" as I push the stroller or go to the PTO meeting. But it took a good long while.

3. Don't be judgmental about other parents. I mean the other parents you see at the playground or the grocery store, the impatient, ineffective parents with the rude, whiny, obnoxious kids. Before I had kids of my own I was all eye-rolling and sheesh! I knew my kids would never . . . !

4. If you must have expectations at all, keep them low. I learned this by accident. Although I always knew I wanted kids, I never particularly wanted babies or toddlers. I wanted school-aged kids. I expected those early years to be dismal. I planned to just grit my teeth and get through them somehow while waiting for the real fun to start once they got to be five or so. And you know what? My expectations were so low that I could only be pleasantly surprised. The pleasure of the cute and happy baby times was magnified tenfold because I honestly didn't expect them.

5. Keeping expectations low is easier said than done. This is one I really struggle over. I try not to be ego-involved with my children, not to gloat over their successes or dwell on their failures as a reflection of myself. I try to avoid power struggles, use "logical consequences," and teach my kids to be responsible for their own behavior not only because it's good for them, but also because those strategies remind me not to take things so personally.

6. Dress for success. This is a parenting strategy I made up all by myself. On those really really bad days, when the toddler is sick and cranky, and you're premenstrual and sleep-deprived, and you've been indoors all week because of the pouring rain? Dress up your kids in their VERY CUTEST clothes. That way you'll be able to stand the sight of them.

7. This might just be a rationalization, but I'm pretty sure it's okay to be a little selfish. I believe that Mommy has to be as sane as possible in order to do a good job. In my case, that means spending as much time doing my own thing -- away from my kids -- as possible. And I go to great lengths to get away from my kids, even if it's just disappearing to the bathroom with a book. I can NOT give all of myself to my kids, which is why I do not consider myself an attachment parent. I could not be with my kids all day long and then sleep with them at night, for example. I need a little separation. And I believe that's best for my kids. Not that separation per se is best, but a sane mommy surely is.

8. Perfect communication between two human beings is possible. Joey's mind works just like mine. It's really uncanny. I always know what he's thinking. I interrupt him all the time because I know what he's going to say. This can be frustrating. We are so much alike that we push each others' buttons in ways that no one else can. But it's also reassuring. In some ways, I will never have to worry about him. And at times, during some conversations, it's simply amazing. I do believe there are times when we achieve perfect communication.

9. Having a child changed my perspective on everything. It also turned me into a sentimental fool. I never used to cry. Ever. Now anything having remotely to do with parents, children, life, death, sickness, health, infancy, old age, you name it . . . turns me into a puddle of tears.

10. I'm the luckiest woman in the world.

Why I dread Hanukah

2005-12-29T12:52:00.000-05:00

Part of the Hanukah ritual includes singing a Hebrew song, Maoz Tsur. It's a beautiful song, and some of the members of my family (not I) have really lovely singing voices and the ability to make up harmonies as we go. The problem is, the last verse contains the word fart. Of course, it's Hebrew, so it doesn't mean fart. But it's unmistakeable.

I'm sure you can picture it. My sister and I, staring fixedly at the floor as the verse approaches, struggling to keep our composure, pretending to be unaware of our parents' baleful glares, trying our damnedest not to set a bad example for our kids, who by now are old enough to get it. At best, we merely fall silent when the word comes; at worst, we snicker and chortle uncontrollably.

How could this still be comical after thirty-odd years? Shouldn't we have gotten past this by now?

This year I planned in advance that I would think of something really, really, really sad. In fact -- this is so sick -- I planned in advance that I would think about the story of Sadako and the Thousand Cranes while I sang, so that I wouldn't laugh at the word fart.

It didn't work.

A perfect number

2005-12-27T07:02:00.000-05:00

After Christmas dinner with my husband's family a year ago I wrote a post about mathematical knitting, courtesy of retired mathematician Grandma Joan. That post is the most popular one I've ever written, according to my site meter, and it continues to get Google hits on a regular basis. Therefore I am sure the blogosphere will be delighted to know that I've returned from Christmas dinner with some more math for you. This time it comes courtesy of retired mathematician Cousin Ward.

Can you picture the scene? Imagine the cozy living room, fire crackling merrily, cousins playing happily at one end, Ward and I ensconced in a fabulous leather sofa at the other. "So," I say to him conversationally, "Tell me some more about perfect numbers." Being a mathematician, conversation is not his strong point and I have to do most of the work, though being an introverted bookworm, conversation is not my strong point either. But I am thinking that perfect numbers would make a great blog post, not only because they are interesting in themselves but also because the topic is a perfect way for me to casually let slip that my birthday is tomorrow -- on the TWENTY-EIGHTH of December.

In fact, I first learned about perfect numbers at a long-ago family dinner when I confessed to Ward my life-long fascination with the number 28. He could not have made me happier than when he told me that mathematically speaking 28 is a rare bird -- a "perfect" number. Six is a perfect number too. And the next one after 28 is four-hundred-and-something.

A perfect number is one that equals the sum of its factors. Factors of 6 = 1, 2, 3. Factors of 28 = 1, 2, 4, 7, 14. Factors of four-hundred-and-something? Um. This would make a much better post if I knew four-hundred-and-what, which is why I ask Ward: "Four-hundred-and-what?" Suddenly he is staring off into space, lips moving slightly. I stare at his skull, wondering what's going on inside.

"Well," he says finally, "What's 31 x 16? Whatever is 31 x 16, that's a perfect number." By this time Uncle Brad is listening too, and the three of us attempt to multiply 31 x 16 in our heads. Of course Ward comes up with the answer first: 496. There is some joking about whether he'd get the same answer in subsequent attempts, but -- check it yourself -- he was right.

Meanwhile, I am astounded. What does 31 x 16 have to do with anything? I press Ward for details and he tells me that there's a formula for finding perfect numbers. He tells me the formula but I have trouble hearing because Daniel is busily drilling my knee with a fairly loud toy electric drill. But this is too good to let go. "Hold that thought," I say to Ward. I push Daniel away, and run off to find my dear hubby. And of course he has pen and paper on hand, because he is Steve. So I run back to Ward with pen and paper, and here it is:

A perfect number equals (2^p-1)(2^p-1), where p is a prime number.

So if p=3 you get 2³ = 8, minus 1 is 7, and 2² = 4. And voilà! 7 x 4 = 28! And when p = 5 you get 31 x 16.

I ask Ward whether perfect numbers are, you know, useful. Do they have any practical application?

Ward laughs. "None whatsoever."

Faux pas

2005-12-23T13:37:00.000-05:00

Some years ago my dad bought a cd as a birthday gift for one of his daughters. Before wrapping and presenting the cd, he opened it, tape-recorded the music, and gave the cassette tape to his other daughter. We still tease him about this weird lapse of gift-giving judgment, though of course we appreciate the good intention. At least I do; I got the tape. Maybe Eva feels different.

Anyway, I am now guilty of a similar offense. I bought Joan Aiken's A Necklace of Raindrops for Lena and I have been unable to resist the temptation of dipping into it. Not to sound too smug or anything, but I am SO pleased with myself for thinking of this book. Most of her books are written for a middle-school or older audience, this is the only one I know of that's still in print that's written for younger elementary readers. It's a book of short stories, and they are truly marvelous and unique and beautiful and poetic.

"In that case," said the North Wind, "I will be the baby's godfather. My birthday present to her will be this necklace of raindrops."

From under his gray cloak he pulled out a fine silver chain. On the chain were three bright, shining drops.

"You must put it around the baby's neck," he said. "The raindrops will not wet her, and they will not come off. Every year, on her birthday, I will bring her another drop. When she has four drops she will stay dry, even if she goes out in the hardest rainstorm. And when she has five drops no thunder or lightning can harm her. And when she has six drops she will not be blown away, even by the strongest wind. And when she has seven raindrops she will be able to swim the deepest river. And when she has eight raindrops she will be able to swim the widest sea. And when she has nine raindrops she will be able to make the rain stop raining if she claps her hands. And when she has ten raindrops she will be able to make it start raining if she blows her nose."

"Stop, stop!" cried Mr. Jones. "That is quite enough for one little girl."

"I was going to stop anyway," said the North Wind.

I guess I'll go wrap it now before she gets home from school.

This CAN'T be true!

2005-12-22T07:30:00.000-05:00

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Via Mimilou.

Slaves of Golconda

2005-12-20T12:50:00.001-05:00

When Quillhill asked me if I'd like to join a newly-formed on-line book group I enthusiastically agreed. Sure, I'll read whatever you choose, and post about it on December 18 along with everyone else. The book he chose was Gabriel Garcia Marquez' Chronicle of a Death Foretold.

And when the time came, I found I couldn't read it. I didn't even get myself a copy. After Birds Without Wings I just didn't have it in me to tackle a book with "death" in its title. And I got distracted by The Dark is Rising. And I also have to confess that I've never been able to get into that whole Latin American "magical realism" thing. I don't know why. I've attempted to read One Hundred Years of Solitude at least three times, and never managed to finish it. I really don't know why. Maybe I should give it another try. Thoughts, anyone?

That said, I strongly urge you to read the other bloggers' posts about Chronicle. Those I know of who've posted so far are Quillhill, Sylvia, and Ella. It is endlessly fascinating to me how the same words can elicit such different reactions from different people. And stay tuned for the next book. I'll post the title as soon as I learn it, and anyone who wants is welcome to read & post about it.

Eating out

2005-12-18T09:30:00.000-05:00

My family -- family of origin, that is -- loves nothing better than to eat out at a really good restaurant. When we return from a vacation, the stories always revolve around the food and the restaurants rather than the sights. We remember details of meals eaten decades ago. Though we are frugal about some things, we do not look at the price when we order. And certain incidents involving waitstaff have become the stuff of family legend.

For example, there was the waitress at the Queen's Hotel in Stratford, Canada, who whispered "excuse me" in the tiniest little voice you could imagine, every time she set down or removed anything from the table.

Then there was the waiter in the local Chinese restaurant who offered my dad "snake" as an appetizer. After some discussion my amazed dad was led to believe he would be served cross-sectioned slices of a snake that were about 6 inches in diameter. Turned out the waiter was actually mispronouncing the word "snack."

And then there was the waitress in the upscale Italian restaurant right here in town with the exaggerated fake Italian accent. Sure, it's acceptable for a Midwestern American waitperson to roll the R and accent the Ts when saying "ricotta." But the real kicker was when she described a dessert with "Meeshigan chairr-r-r-r-ries." And another dessert: "epple pie." I know I'm not getting the orthography right, but hopefully you get the idea.

Last night we had dinner in the same upscale Italian restaurant. Just the grownups, celebrating my sister's birthday. We had a rockin' good time, with cloth napkins and all. Epple Pie Waitress doesn't work there any more, and the food and service were impeccable. Nevertheless, because it was us, the conversation eventually turned to the topic of Great Waitstaff Goofups.

Sissy regaled us with the time she was waiting on four U-M hockey players in a campus pizza joint. As she pulled her order pad out of her little apron pocket two tampons also flipped out and landed right on the table. That's right, two.

And we had to retell (for the umpteenth time, but it never pales) The Story Of The Greatest Waitstaff Goofup Of All Time. In fact, this one sounds like an urban myth, though Sis and Bro-in-law say it really happened to the brother of someone they know. As the waiter set down the bowl of French Onion soup in front of the customer it became apparent to all that there was a thin string of cheese going from the bowl to the waiter's mouth.

What's your best/worst restaurant story?

Gift ideas for the toddler on your list

2005-12-14T15:41:00.000-05:00

1. Large plastic container filled with mixture of raw rice, popcorn kernels, dried beans, plus a few plastic cups and spoons. Be sure to lay a sheet or table cloth underneath; be prepared to vacuum afterwards.

2. "Special cards." Gather up half a dozen old credit cards, frequent buyer cards, photocopy cards, business cards, etc. Ideally, each would be a slightly different size and shape. Old wallet to put them in would be an added bonus, but not required. Emphasize the special nature of these cards.

3. A tootsie roll piggy bank. Remove the tootsie rolls and put in a few coins before giving to toddler. Demonstrate how to remove the lid, empty out the coins, replace the lid, and put the coins back in. Be prepared to provide a fresh infusion of coins or tiddly winks from time to time. Also be prepared to turn the house upside down if the lid gets lost.

4. Two hand towels, a wash cloth and a small (clean) wastebasket to put them in and take them out of. Go figure.

5. A sturdy laundry basket for the toddler to sit in, plus an older sibling to do the pushing. Hopefully your floor is carpeted.

Thus speaketh the Voice of ~~Desperation~~ Experience.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

2005-12-11T12:54:00.000-05:00

which for me means just one thing: time for my annual re-read of The Dark is Rising. Yes, annual. I posted about it a year ago -- in fact my one-year bloggiversary is fast approaching (!) and what a long, strange trip it's been.

I'm not the only one who reads The Dark is Rising every midwinter. Laura's reading it too, and I daresay there are others. Instead of "reviewing" it, this time, I think I'll leave you with some quotes, all from the first few chapters. These are some of the sentences that give me thrills and chills every year, though I have no idea how they'll sound if you haven't already read the book a dozen times. Honestly, it ONLY gets better with each reread. Why don't you all read it along with Laura and me? Here goes:

The radio let out a sudden hideous crackle of static as he passed the table.

This night will be bad. And tomorrow will be beyond imagining.

He was woken by music.

And before him, standing alone and tall on the white slope, leading to nowhere, were two great carved wooden doors.

"Minds hold more than they know," the tall man said. "Particularly yours."

"Forests are not biddable places."

He felt again the small drooping of the spirits that had come in the last two days, because this year for the first time that he could remember there had been no birthday present from Stephen.

And last but not least, a chapter title: The Book of Gramarye.

Birds Without Wings

2005-12-08T21:26:00.000-05:00

I did finish it, with a half hour to spare before my book club meeting. As I mentioned before, the book starts out as a very charming portrait of this little village in the Ottoman Empire -- what's now Turkey -- just prior to the start of World War I. Very charming. In this village live Muslims and Christians, Greeks, Turks & Armenians, living side by side, intermarrying happily and even attending each others' houses of worship on occasion. There are all kinds of "characters" like the aphorism-spouting potter, the imam who's deeply in love with his horse (not that way, shame on you!), the two young boys who play that they're birds, the beautiful young girl and her betrothed, the village drunk, the weird deformed hermit-beggar, the Armenian pharmacist: quite a cast. The first part of the book has a flavor that reminded me of The Sotweed Factor, which I never finished but loved all the same. And here's something: the author has a wonderful ability to write with different voices. Chapters are told from the point of view of many of the characters, and they are each very different in tone and style. A real treat.

Interspersed among these chapters, subtle at first so you (at least I) don't realize exactly what's going on at first, is the biography of some guy named Mustafa Kemal. His birth, childhood, schooling, etc., a little at a time. He doesn't seem to have anything to do with the village people. Eventually you realize that Mustafa Kemal is real-life historical figure Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, who becomes the founder -- "liberator" -- and first president of Turkey.

And after awhile the two storylines begin to converge. World War I starts. The Ottoman Empire declares it a jihad, a holy war, and only Muslims are allowed to enlist as soldiers. Suddenly people are divided where formerly they coexisted peacefully. The Armenians are deported first, then the Christians. And the war heats up. I already mentioned the gruesome descriptions in a previous post. The casualties are . . . endless. And not just for the soldiers. No one is left unscathed. No one. It is extremely painful to read; the best I could do was skim my way through it. The book does not get better after the war ends.

To sum up: I would highly recommend the first section of the book to anyone. And I would recommend the whole tragic thing to anyone who believes in the possibility of a just war.

In which I go to a seminar, meet a fellow blogger, and debate whether or not to finish a book

2005-12-02T21:07:00.000-05:00

So, I went to this parenting seminar that was jointly sponsored by several elementary schools, including ours. Normally I don't "do" parenting seminars. I rarely even read parenting books. First of all, none of the situations they describe ever seem to fit my kids. Second, who do they think their audience is? The handout at this seminar listed things not to say to your kids, including: "You're the reason we're getting a divorce!" Hell-LO! The people who say stuff like that are NOT the ones who come to parenting seminars. And third, I admit it: I have an arrogant streak, and I believe I know better than a total stranger what works for my children.

But you know what? This guy had some good stuff. Sure, his presentation was a little too rah-rah motivational-speaker-ish for my taste, but underneath it all, he did have some good advice. Here's one that I've already instituted: Don't call it homework time, because that just paves the way for "I don't have any" or "I forgot it." Call it study time. That way they have to do something, and it might as well be homework. And here's another that I liked: when your kids whine, "I can't dooooo it," instead of "Sure you can; just try harder," say "Ok, well, act as if you can."

The real reason I went, though, was because Nixie Knox was there! I arrived late because we had a PTO meeting right before, and when has a PTO meeting ever ended on time? So I was in the back of the room, where I had a good view of the crowd, and I spotted the chick in the pink coat and blue glasses right away. It was kind of distracting because all through the rah-rah motivation, "act as if," etc., I was staring at the back of this woman's head and thinking: "Omigod, that's Nixie, it has to be, it's Nixie!" Anyway, she was completely charming and funny and nice. I don't know why it took us this long to get together, considering we not only live in the same town, but we live on the same side of town in almost-neighboring school districts. I hope to see her again soon.

On the literary front, Birds Without Wings has turned out to be a huge doggie downer. In the last hundred pages or so it degenerated from a very entertaining portrait of peasant life in 1900's Asia Minor to a totally gruesome war story: bloated corpses, dysentery, bayonets, spilled guts. In great detail. I hate the thought of not finishing a book group selection (we're meeting on Tuesday) but I don't know how much more of this I can stomach.

Book review

2005-11-29T16:28:00.000-05:00

Well, as you know, I've been pretty busy lately. Too busy to do much reading, unfortunately. I've been worrying about the fact that I haven't been able to post anything, you know, literary in quite a while. Finally, I hit upon the perfect solution: get someone else to write book reviews for me. So, without further ado, let me introduce my almost-10-year-old son Joey, who just finished Inkheart, by Cornelia Funke. Joey writes:

Inkheart is a wonderful book. It has no pictures, but it is so descriptive that I could see a picture in my mind for almost all of the situations in the story. It is about a girl -- Meggie -- whose father has a mysterious power to read actual people out of stories, but when he accidentally reads an evil villain out of the book "Inkheart" it's all up to Meggie. There isn't a single person in this book that was created just to liven up the story. There isn't a single sentence in this book that is out of place, and it has a very satisfying ending. It's a great combination of fantasy, mystery, and a little bit of suspense. On a scale of 1-10 it would be a 15.

Busy days

2005-11-28T13:02:00.000-05:00

For an introvert like me, having social events five days in a row doesn't exactly sound enticing. But I had five really lovely days last week. Here they are:

Wednesday: I met blogger Melissa! She lives in another state, but her parents live nearby. She was visiting them for the holiday, so we met at Starbucks. Just the two of us, no kids. It was great. We chatted away like old friends until suddenly it was dark outside and her cell phone was ringing with the news that she needed to come home for dinner. She is so nice and sweet and funny, just like her blog. What a delight!

Thursday: Satiation shock, infra.

Friday: Spent the entire day with friends. Okay. Yes. I admit it. We spent the day tossing dice of many shapes and colors. If you don't get it, I'm not going to explain it. You already know I like games.

Saturday: Satiation shock part 2: Thanksgiving dinner with my husband's family. We did the whole thing all over again. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, yup. Two huge highlights of the dinner were the salad (mixed greens with roasted beets and this amazing mild creamy goat cheese) and the homemade ginger ice cream. Another highlight was the college freshman cousin who brought along his BANJO.

Sunday: A HUGE mommy moment -- Joey's first piano recital! My mom had serious reservations about taking him as a student because, being mostly retired, she couldn't provide the experience of regular recitals with a bunch of kids taking turns playing. So we decided we'd have to create opportunities, and what better opportunity than Thanksgiving vacation, with out-of-town relatives present. Joey was very nervous beforehand (Grandpa Bookworm and I responded, "Good! You're supposed to be nervous! You think Vladimir Horowitz never got nervous before a concert?" Reassuring, I know. But I was glad Joey took it seriously enough to be nervous.) And bless his heart, he played very well. And his little cousins were mostly quiet, though at one point Daniel commented quite loudly, "Oh my goodness!"

One of my mom's recital traditions is to begin with a student-teacher duet. Awww!

So that was my busy week. During all this, I also finished another blog design. And I've been reading Birds Without Wings (see sidebar), which I am LOVING. So far. I'm not even a hundred pages into it yet. But I'm loving it. It's very colorful, atmospheric, full of peasant superstition, aphorisms, Christianity vs. Islam, oh, just wonderful. It's got all the ingredients for a Julie's Favorite [rubbing hands gleefully in anticipation, and hoping for a bad back or mild cold to keep me in bed for a day or two . . . ]

Phrase of the day

2005-11-25T08:15:00.000-05:00

When psychologists do experiments with lab rats, they deliberately keep them underfed because hungry rats learn faster. When the experiment is over, the psychologists let them eat as much as they want. Sometimes they gorge themselves so badly that they become prostrate and unresponsive. This state is called satiation shock.

Bet you can guess why I mention this on the morning after Thanksgiving! :)

* * *

We had such a good time last night at my parents' house. The food was sooooo good, a mix of traditional and new, including our Thanksgiving sine qua non: Nana's cocktail. Nana was my great-grandmother; her cocktail is a lovingly-crafted homemade Bloody Mary mix. With or without vodka. Mmmmm!

Anyway, even better than the food was the family. The cousins played together nicely -- nicer than ever before, in fact, given the age range. The parents were able to pay attention to each other instead of the kids. It was great.

Best of all, we revived an old game. My family (my family of origin, that is) is very big on playing games. Board games, word games, guessing games. And we're also very big on inventing our own. My sister and I have a looooong history of playing made-up games. Mostly the object of our games is to laugh and be silly. One of my favorite games is one we play at the mall during the Christmas season. The name of the game is "Heavy or Light?" One sister points to some object, typically a Christmas decoration, but could be anything, and asks the other sister "heavy or light?" We both guess. Then we lift. Heaviness or lightness is relative, based solely on whether the object is heavier or lighter than our expectation of it. Is it metal . . . or just gold-painted papier-mâche?? And there's the sneaky goofiness factor. Usually we're examining and lifting things that we have no business touching, such as the fake presents under a fake tree in a department store display. Oh ha ha!

But that's not the game we played last night. The game we played last night was invented many years ago, when my sister was away at college. She was on the phone with my mom, and my mom was trying to describe a new pair of earrings she had just bought. They were hard to describe. Finally, she suggested that Eva go get a piece of paper and a pencil, and my mom would give her instructions for drawing them. "Okay, draw a hexagon. Now inside the hexagon draw another smaller one, about halfway in. Now draw lines connecting the points of the inner hexagon to the outer hexagon . . . " Etc. Nowadays we'd probably just take a digital photo of the earrings and email it, but in the technologically-benighted late '80s this was a marvellously entertaining way of conveying information. So entertaining that we did it frequently, even when we were in the same room. We would take a jewelry catalog, choose a piece, give drawing instructions, and then compare the result with the original photo. Is this totally kooky or what?

Years passed, we forgot all about the game. Until last night. I think what brought it to mind was my mom's ridiculously large collection of costume jewelry. A lot of it, coincidentally, came to us from the Nana of cocktail fame. She keeps it readily available for grandkids to play with. They were playing with it, and . . . oh yeah, the earring-drawing game! So nothing would do except for my mom to go and get the original hexagon-shaped earrings and describe them to us. So we drew the hexagons, and about three more pairs after that. All to the tune of gut-busting laughter.

Now that's what I call a great Thanksgiving. Hope yours was wonderful too. : )

Another one of those quiz things

2005-11-22T15:05:00.000-05:00

Finally, a quiz result I agree with, via Suzan:

The Movie Of Your Life Is An Indie Flick
You do things your own way - and it's made for colorful times.
Your life hasn't turned out how anyone expected, thank goodness!
Your best movie matches: Clerks, Garden State, Napoleon Dynamite

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

Tooting my own horn

2005-11-21T20:20:00.000-05:00

I guess false modesty is as bad as none at all. I have to confess I'm feeling pretty damn pleased with myself this evening. Did you see this?

Mad scramble

2005-11-17T12:07:00.000-05:00

It's snowing! Not a lot, but enough. You can see it on the garage roof. And you know what that means, right? It means a mad scramble to the mall for boots and mittens as soon as the kids get home from school. I was born and raised right here in Michigan. You'd think for once I'd be ready.

* * *

Tonight's the annual neighborhood Cub Scout-sponsored PANCAKE SUPPER. My son is not a Cub Scout (what? wear that uniform? I don't THINK so!) and I unequivocally do NOT support their right-wing, homophobic values, but gosh the Pancake Supper is so much fun that I just can't say no. Everyone sits at long tables in the school gym, and uniformed cub scouts bring around pancakes and ham and cheese cubes and applesauce. And you feel like you're in the middle of the Vinyl Cafe, or a Norman Rockwell painting. The whole neighborhood turns out. You can hardly breathe because it's so hot and stuffy with all the people in there, and you know everyone, and they know you, and your kids spot their friends across the room and want to go eat with them instead of you, which is fine because everyone knows everyone anyway, and we all keep an eye out for each other. I'm going to have to go solo tonight because Steve has parent-teacher conferences, but I don't care. I wouldn't miss this event for the world!

* * *

I've been overwhelmed by the response to Mimilou's new blog design. Thank you all for the wonderful compliments! Not only that, but less than 24 hours after I installed it I got another commission! Stay tuned, because this one will be very different from my previous efforts, and it's going to be a lot of fun.

Addendum

2005-11-15T07:07:00.000-05:00

Wow, double my typical number of comments on that last post. I've gotten lots of good ideas for my must-read list. Thanks everyone!

I also was reminded of a few more for my own list:

Yes, of course, James Herriot! How could I forget? I have even been to visit his actual office in Yorkshire.

Susan Cooper: The Dark is Rising. My annual mid-winter re-read. Yes, annual.

P.G. Wodehouse: Blandings Castle books. If you like Gilbert & Sullivan you will love these. Do not eat or drink anything while reading these because it WILL come out your nose as you scream and snort and choke with laughter.

And the mention of mysteries. How could I forget Dorothy Sayers? I will never tire of Lord Peter and Harriet. Never.

“The rice pudding of literature”

2005-11-12T08:32:00.000-05:00

At first I was going to respond to each comment individually, in the comments section, but it got too long, so I decided to do it this way instead. THANK YOU all for stopping by and bearing with me despite my long-ish absence!

1. Potty training: Hmmm, I probably should clarify. Perhaps "potty training" is too strong a phrase to describe where we're at now. All I'm really doing is making sure he spends some time naked every day. Some days all morning, some days only half an hour. He clearly has the physical control to be fully trained, but cognitively he's not even close. You'd think with two older sibs he'd get the idea of being a big boy, but he doesn't seem to. Ahava (welcome! I'm always honored to have a doula stop by!), he'll be two and a half at Christmas.

2. Rereading Robertson Davies: I don't believe this is a question of me getting older and wiser. I still think there is a LOT to be gleaned from his books and I'm sure I'll still be rereading them when I'm 80. Unlike, say, The Mists of Avalon -- which I adored when I was 20, but now, um, well. I'm just nit-picking about Davies, really. He IS delightfully wise and fascinating.

But you know? I don't think it's wrong to expect, or at least hope, a book will last forever. A book should have more to it than just plot. When I'm reading for the first time, all I can see, pretty much, is the plot. I have to read a book at least twice to appreciate the writer's craft: plot structure, foreshadowing, writing style. I'm a very fast reader, and I miss a lot the first time through (just ask my book club).

And of course there is the comfort factor of reading a well-loved book for the millionth time. What Crit calls the rice pudding of literature. Crit, you described it perfectly. Robertson Davies is -- still -- rice pudding for me. So is Patrick O'Brian, whose name I try to plug here at least once a month. Little Women. Yes, and Orson Scott Card. And the Narnia books and the Earthsea trilogy. And a couple of really cheesy ones that have stood the test of time for me: The Deed of Paksenarrion and Clan of the Cave Bear. Oh, you would not believe how many times I have read Clan of the Cave Bear.

What's your rice pudding?

I think I can actually see it now!

2005-11-10T07:12:00.000-05:00

The light at the end of the tunnel, that is.

I've been away from my blog for more than week. During that time I was a single mom for a weekend while my husband went away for some much-needed and well-deserved relaxation with the guys in a rustic little cabin up north. And I finished a couple of desktop publishing projects and got hired for a couple more -- hurray! I might be able to put Daniel in daycare next year after all! -- which pleases me no end, but of course cuts into my blogging time. And novel-reading time.

The light at the end of the tunnel. It's very far off, but unmistakeably there:

1. Joey and Lena walk themselves home from school now. They've been walking themselves to school all along, but coming home is new. I thought I would miss seeing the other parents. I don't. It's great!

2. And even better, Daniel is potty training! That is to say, I've discovered that when he's naked he does not wet the floor. So we're spending a lot of time at home. Naked.

3. His language is getting more complex too. Now he sometimes uses the pronoun "I," as in "I want!" Speech is still not very clear, though. Yesterday he was excitedly pointing out the window and saying (we thought) "Monkey diaper! Monkey diaper!" Then we saw the motorcycle.

4. And when I ask him to do something, instead of grinning devilishly and doing the opposite, he says "Okay, Mama" and does it. About a quarter of the time.

Anyway. As I said, I haven't read anything much lately. Of course I have to read a few pages of something -- anything! -- before falling asleep, so I picked up What's Bred in the Bone. I love Robertson Davies very dearly, but the tenth reread is just not as good as the first time. Especially if you've read all his other novels about ten times as well. Davies only has one voice. Read a random paragraph from any book, and you wouldn't know which book, or which character, except by the plot. His one voice is delightful, of course. And wise, and fascinating. And that's fine in Fifth Business, where the middle-aged first-person narrator is telling his own life story. But the delightfully wise and fascinating voice doesn't work so well for the twenty-ish hero of Bone. If he's so delightfully wise and fascinating why did he fall in love with that dorky Ismay?

Or is it my fault for reading the same book so many times? Is it wrong to expect a book to "last" forever?

A couple more good things about Halloween

2005-11-02T06:30:00.000-05:00

Well, okay. It is sort of fun to feel the excitement in the air as the witching hour approaches. And some of the kids are awfully cute. Especially (ahem!) these three:

And here's another treat, courtesy of my artistic brother-in-law, who carved front middle and it's frightened neighbor:

Overheard . . .

Trick-or-treating kid #1: "Look, Bush lies!"
Trick-or-treating kid #2: "Duh!"

The one good thing about Halloween

2005-10-30T13:12:00.000-05:00

I hate Halloween. Orange and black are ugly colors. Costumes are expensive, uncomfortable to wear, and they (mostly) look stupid. All that sugar makes my kids unrecognizable. And what good is a holiday if it doesn't involve a great big festive meal with extended family?

Halloween has one redeeming thing. I hope you already know how to do this, but just in case, here's the recipe for roasted pumpkin seeds à la Bookworm:

1. When you're scooping out the insides of your jack-o-lantern, separate the seeds out. You might want to rinse them, but don't get too fanatic about it. Little bits of pumpkin left clinging to the seeds will come out crispy and delicious. Also, if you're not going to roast them right away, just put them in a bowl of water. They'll be fine on the kitchen counter for a few hours.

2. Liberally oil a cookie sheet or two, depending on how many seeds. Spread the seeds in a single layer on the sheet. Salt according to taste. (My taste: lots and lots, and preferably kosher.)

3. Bake at very low heat (250° F) for 45 minutes or so.

4. Eat while still hot.

And don't forget, you can do this with the seeds from any type of winter squash. Yum!

It's been a while

2005-10-27T06:55:00.000-04:00

since I posted a cute kid photo. Here's little Imelda Marcos. And in case you're wondering what's on his mind these days you can read about it here.

Sad monster

2005-10-23T21:03:00.000-04:00

I read the first story in the A.S. Byatt book. "The Thing in the Forest," it's called. The Thing turns out to be (this isn't a spoiler) essentially the Questing Beast out of Arthurian legend.

Do you remember the Questing Beast? In The Once and Future King there's an episode where King Pellinore (I think that's who it was) takes a break from the chase. The Beast gets lonely and comes looking for him, to get him to resume the chase.

The image of a lonely monster is so powerful. I think of the original Frankenstein, or even more pathetic, the short story by Ray Bradbury about a Loch Ness-type monster, the only one left of its kind, who mistakenly responds to a fog horn thinking it's a mating call.

Byatt doesn't talk about the monster's feelings in the story; it's all about these two little girls who see the monster, and how these girls' lives are forever altered because of it. I wish she had. I would have liked a little something from the monster's point of view.

Something literary

2005-10-19T14:53:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking about A.S. Byatt recently. First, because Laura read Possession recently, and second, because at dinner the other day we had a great conversation with the kids about how best to phrase your wishes when you free a genie.

I didn't like Possession when I read it several years ago. I found it so . . . cold. I didn't care about any of the characters. I never felt engaged in it, never lost myself in it. I wondered if perhaps the author wrote it merely as a technical exercise.

On the other hand, I adored The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye. It's a collection of fabulous short stories (and I mean fabulous in the original sense: resembling fables). They truly are fairy tales for grownups, and they're luscious. Especially the wishes.

I didn't expect to like Djinn as much as I did. Aside from the fact that I didn't like Possession, I generally don't enjoy short stories as much as big, meaty novels. (Science fiction is a huge exception, but that's a subject for another post.) Why? What's the problem with short stories?

I have a theory. One of the problems I have with short stories, I think, is that unless it's the last story in the book, I don't know when it's going to end. With a novel, whether I think about it or not, I sense its overall structure by the size of the book, by the thickness of the stack of remaining pages. I know when I'm halfway through or almost there. When I watch a movie, I like to know in advance how long it is, and I often find myself checking the time not because I'm bored but because I need to know "where I am" in the story. Is this just because I'm an INTJ, or do you feel that way too?

Back to A.S. Byatt. Since I had equally strong but opposite feelings about the two I read, I thought I ought to give her one more try. I found her Little Black Book of Stories at the library the other day, and I'm giving it a try. I'm still in the middle of the first story, but so far so good. I'll report back when I've finished it.

Have you seen this?

2005-10-17T20:29:00.000-04:00

I just spent twenty fascinated, horrified minutes perusing this site.

Giggle giggle

2005-10-16T18:12:00.000-04:00

I found this at Purple Puzzle Place. Google your own name (real or username) plus the word needs, all in quotation marks. Here are some of the hits I got when I Googled "Julie needs".

Julie needs to work on her parenting.

Julie needs a team of committed people to pray for her.

Julie needs some real hands-on comforting as the anniversary of that first killing spree is drawing near.

Julie needs 25 to 35 grams of fiber daily.

Julie needs a kidney transplant (not so funny!).

Julie needs to show off her womanly frame.

Julie needs a diversion.

Julie needs to be taught a lesson.

Julie needs something special like a trip to the bathroom.

What obsolete skill are you?

2005-10-16T14:19:00.000-04:00

I found this at Sylvia's.

You are "programming in QBASIC." This programming language (of which the acronym stands for "Quick Beginners' All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code"), which is so primitive that it cannot easily be used for any purpose involving the Internet nor even sound, was current more than a decade ago.

You are independent, in a good way. When something which you need cannot be found, you make it yourself. In writing and in talking with people, you value clarity and precision; your friends may not realize how important that is. When necessary, you are prepared to be a mediator in conflicts between your friends. You are very rational, and you think of things in terms of logic and common sense. Unfortunately, your emotionally unstable friends may be put off by your devotion to logic; they may even accuse you of pedantry and insensitivity. Your problem is that programming in QBASIC has been obsolete for a long time.

What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Honestly!

2005-10-16T12:52:00.000-04:00

I have more than half a mind to switch to some other blogging platform. Recommendations, anyone? I've recreated my template, and yes, this time I will back it up. Jeez.

So anyway, two different people tagged me with the same meme: list five of your idiosyncrasies. Ok. Here goes.

1. I went to law school. (Ha ha, that was supposed to be funny.)

2. I can happily eat an entire jar of olives, including drinking the juice, in one sitting. However, I prefer the super-salty, slightly bitter, oil-cured ones: the only reason for shopping at Whole Foods.

3. I have a crush on the entire country of Canada.

4. I play Dungeons & Dragons with my family.

5. I have spent many pleasant hours practicing writing with my non-preferred hand.

All right, I hereby tag doulicia for this one, heh heh, along with anyone else who would like to be tagged.

Whoa!

2005-10-15T13:22:00.000-04:00

Not only has it been forever since I checked in with the blogosphere, but apparently it's been forever since the blogosphere (Blogger, I mean) has checked in with me. I just now discovered that during the time that I had no template I also received no notification of any comments that were left in the last week. They all flooded my in-box just now. I will respond as soon as I can.

Blognotes

2005-10-15T06:09:00.000-04:00

I feel like it's been forever since I last checked in with the blogosphere. I feel out of the loop and honestly, I wish no one would ever post more than twice a week. It's so hard to catch up.

Not only that, but Blogger ate my beautiful template, so as a quick-fix I installed one made by somebody else (gulp!). I don't even have anything to say, except that I've been really busy and will continue to be really busy for the next few days. So I guess I'll just treat y'all to some random thoughts.

* * *

Why is the d**n dog shedding so much right now? Aren't they supposed to do that in the spring? You would not believe how disgusting my house is. And if it's so disgusting that even I am disgusted, that is indeed disgusting. I have a very high tolerance for filth and grime. I learned it from my mom, whose non-housekeeping footsteps I've faithfully followed. (Though, INTJ that I am, my filthy house is extremely well-organized.)

* * *

And while we're on the topic of animals, guess what's outside by our back porch? (Hint: we have two cats who both go outside.) Yep, the hind legs and tail of a chipmunk -- in one piece.

* * *

And a cute kid anecdote. Lena's backpack bit the dust so we picked out a new one this afternoon:

Lena: Mom, will my new backpack last longer than the old one?

Me: Probably not.

Lena: How do you know?

Me: Well, it's pretty cheaply made. [Purchased at Meijer on sale for $9.99. Pink. My Little Pony.]

Lena: How do you know?

Me: Oh, I can just tell.

Lena: How can you tell?

Me: [launches into a boring description involving cheap fabric, style, place of purchase, etc.]

Lena: [triumphantly] It's a mother's instinct!

* * *

Tonight I'm going to the library to hear Elizabeth Kostova talk about The Historian. I can hardly wait!

In a few days my current project will be all over and then I'll be at leisure to reinstall my template and blogroll and post a report on Ms. Kostova.

I tried it, and by gum, it works.

2005-10-06T14:46:00.000-04:00

That's the 5th sentence of my 23rd post: the 23.5 meme, brought to you by Sylvia, my blogodoppelgänger. My 23rd post was about raw cookie dough, and the thing that works (by gum!) is substituting soy flour for eggs.

This is entirely apropos of this totally stupid book I'm reading right now, French Women Don't Get Fat. Like I'm really gonna whip up an asparagus flan or a celery root rémoulade to serve my kids for dinner. Like I'm really gonna start sitting down to eat breakfast. You know, breakfast on fine china with a fresh white linen napkin. I haven't eaten breakfast sitting down in years.

Actually, the book's premise makes a lot of sense. Eat delicious, fresh, flavorful, homemade food. Whatever you want. You won't mind the smaller portions because the food tastes so interesting. You'll be satisfied with less.

But the book is totally annoying. Not just because it prescribes a totally unrealistic lifestyle (at least, for me) but because of the way it's written. For one thing, it's unnecessarily full of French phrases, such as: "I still needed to me remuer (move my butt)." What's the point of that? To remind us she's French? The whole book is about French women. We already know she's French.

Which brings me to my second criticism. Apparently all French women are alike. And all French women are incredible. Did you know that "[j]ust as French women have an uncanny knack for using the same scarf to create a different effect by draping it over the head, neck, shoulders, or waist, in the kitchen they master a few basic preparations and leave the rest to improvisation . . . " Yadda, yadda. Or how about this? "French women live on budgets, too, but they also understand the value of quality over quantity." Well, excuuuuuuuuse me!

Think I'll go whip up a batch of cookie dough.

Symptoms

2005-10-02T07:51:00.000-04:00

Last night I dreamed I was visiting Interlochen. Ah, Interlochen, land of the stately pines!

If you click on the link you'll see the web page about Interlochen Arts Camp. They've made a lot of changes since I was a camper there. Back in my day (25 years ago!) it was called National Music Camp, there was just one eight-week session (not nearly long enough), the uniform was strictly enforced, and there was still a Gilbert & Sullivan in the sixth week.

I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that Interlochen was what kept me from ending up like Holden Caulfield. Do you know what? At Interlochen it was cool to be smart and talented! I don't know how to say this without sounding immodest, but if at age 13 you were called "brain" and "teacher's pet" and felt vaguely embarrassed about being first chair in band, you can imagine how it felt to be surrounded by brains and teachers' pets and first chairs.

ANYWAY, (and here's the real point of this post) in my dream last night I was visiting Interlochen. I dreamed that they had added a rock 'n roll program and Pete Townshend was giving a master class. I snuck in to watch and made actual eye contact with Pete before I got kicked out because I wasn't registered for the class. All during this incident I was thinking how amazing it was that I was seeing Pete Townshend in the flesh and I couldn't wait to blog about it. Yes, that's right. In my dream, while it was happening, I couldn't wait to blog about it!

When I woke up I immediately thought of Fred's hilarious post about blogging addiction. This anecdote demonstrates two more symptoms: 1) thinking about blogging about an event while the event is occurring; and 2) dreaming about my blog.

Anyone else dream about their blog?

A banned book

2005-10-01T14:49:00.000-04:00

Well, I really wanted to read a banned book, but it was late at night and the library was closed. So I had to look around the house to find a banned book that we already owned. Besides Captain Underpants, that is. Finally I found one: Catcher in the Rye. So here I am, rereading it for the first time since, what, tenth grade English.

The book I'm reading has one thing going for it, for sure. My copy is a hardcover Modern Library Edition, with the original dust jacket from 1951. I just love those old Modern Library books. Despite being hardcover, they open so flat. The paper feels lovely: smooth and substantial. The font, whatever it is, is so easy to read, and the perfect size. The margins aren't really wide enough, but that's okay because it opens so flat. All in all, pure joy to hold in your hands.

* * *

My parents have friends whose daughter is about seven or eight years older than me. When I was a kid I adored this older girl like you wouldn't believe. She was absolutely mesmerizing as well as hilarious, and really good with young kids. She would have made a fabulous elementary school teacher. When she was a freshman at U of M she invited the pre-teen Bookworm to spend the night in her dorm. I think it was little sisters' weekend or something, and why she invited me rather than her little sister I don't recall. Anyway, I got to spend the night in the dorm -- Pure Heaven -- and what I remember so vividly is her asking me if I'd ever read Catcher in the Rye. I'd never even heard of it, so she read the first chapter out loud to me. Read it out loud! Read it to me while I was lying in my sleeping bag on her dorm room floor. I do not usually like to be read to; I'd rather read it to myself, thanks. But when Cool Older Girl was doing the reading, well, that was a whole nother story and I listened avidly. I didn't think it was quite as great as she obviously thought it was, but I did finish it when I got home. (Strangely enough, my parents had this lovely Modern Library edition . . . )

* * *

When I was in college I went through a Franny and Zooey phase. I bet I'm not the only one out there who, at age 19 or thereabouts, thought it was the greatest novel ever written. I bet I'm not even the only one out there who emulated Zooey by taping bits of Sappho and Epictetus onto my wall. Here's a Sappho fragment that's still very dear to my heart, though Franny & Zooey is long gone:

We shall enjoy it

As for him who finds fault,
May silliness
and sorrow take him!

I'm sure Cool Older Girl, who's now a psychotherapist and the mother of two young children, isn't a big fan of Catcher in the Rye any more, either.

* * *

On the other hand, as precious and sophomoric as Catcher seems to me now, the banned aspect is giving me food for thought. I'm surprised at how much Holden talks about sex. My recollection of the book was that it had a bunch of goddams sprinkled liberally throughout, and towards the end you come across the f-word a couple of times. But now I'm finding all this stuff about knockers and flitty guys and going all the way. Now isn't that interesting? I didn't remember any of that! I'm sure that's because -- whooosh! -- it went straight over my head when I read it back then. Straight over my goddam head.

Humility

2005-09-28T10:53:00.000-04:00

This morning Lena was talking about studying phonics in school. They were supposed to figure out the beginning and ending sounds of words. "And you know what, Mom?" she said proudly. "There was something that only Miss Smith and I knew, out of the whole class!"

That's my girl, I thought smugly, puffing up my narcissistic chest and basing my self-esteem upon my children's achievements. Yep, my kid is the smartest in the whole class!

"Yeah," said Lena. "Only Miss Smith and I knew that the ending sound of brass is the a-word!"

An amazing book

2005-09-24T09:50:00.000-04:00

I also read Into the Forest, by Jean Hegland. Doulicia recommended it, and I'm so glad she did! I'm providing the Amazon link because the book was hard to find in the library. I ended up borrowing Doule's copy, which she found in the U-M grad library. I LOVED this book. I read it, literally, in two sittings.

No spoilers this time; I'll just say that the setting is a near-future post-apocalyptic Northern California. Though the book is © 1996 it felt very topical after the Katrina disaster. And very menacing because no explanation is given for society's collapse. The book is about two teenage sisters living alone out in the woods, learning to survive without gas, electricity, or any of the modern conveniences they used to take for granted. A combination of my two favorite genres: near-future post-apocalypse and wilderness-survival. And for the most part very beautifully written. The author is also a poet. Aspects of the plot were completely predictable, but it didn't matter in the least. It could have only turned out one way, and it did. And there's a fabulous, absolutely fabulous, moment at the end.

Five stars, two thumbs up, go get this book!

Notes from the sickbed

2005-09-23T14:45:00.000-04:00

I hurt my back pretty badly yesterday while removing my 35-pound toddler from the stroller with no brakes, from behind and at an angle. Pow! I was bedridden all day yesterday and although I feel much better today (hubby took the day off, thank you so much my dear) I'm still taking it very much easy.

On the bright side, in the last 24 hours I got to read a LOT.

I finished The Historian yesterday. I was this close to giving up on it completely, book group or no, at page 250. You may remember that my book group chose The Historian for this month because the author, who lives in Ann Arbor, will be giving a talk at the library next month. We thought we could try to go to that, too. And you may also remember my post about all the difficulties the various members of my group had in getting hold of copies of the book. (By the way, did you notice the comment to that post from someone named Eli? I have no idea who Eli is, but if you click on his name it takes you right to the Ann Arbor District Library home page. What an honor! Someone at AADL is reading my blog! *big smug grin* I'd rather have that than be on that stupid A List any day! I also got a letter from Little Brown -- yes the publishing company -- hand-addressed to me. You wouldn't believe the grandiose thoughts that went through my head before I opened the envelope, even though I haven't submitted any MSS ~~recently~~ ~~ever~~ recently. The letter in the envelope said the same thing as Eli's comment: they've changed the date of the talk, so I can go after all. Yay!)

Anyway. The Historian. The first 250-or-so pages were a little boring. But it got better, gradually picking up momentum, and there were aspects of it that I liked a lot. Here are a few random thoughts, which contain ***SPOILERS!!!*** but I'll write them anyway because I know so many people have already read it.

1. I wish the "voices" were more varied. Pick a random sentence, you wouldn't know if it was the daughter, the father, Helen, Rossi, Turgut, Barley, Dracula. They all sound exactly the same.

2. I wish there had been an explanation other than random coincidence for their bumping into Turgut. Maybe there was and I missed it.

3. It would have been a better book if Rossi had accepted the "job" of his own volition. I would have! I would have included some discussion about knowledge itself being neither good nor evil, only the use one makes of it. I'm not sure whether or not I believe that, but this book is a perfect vehicle for that discussion.

4. I loved it that Vlad/Dracula, while alive, was apparently concerned about the salvation of his soul, donated all that money to the church, etc.

5. I have to think about this some more, but it bugged me that the dragon books had blank pages.

6. I loved it that he went after librarians and archivists.

7. I wasn't thrilled about Helen deserting her family.

8. This is just a tangent, but there was a reference to a Panteleimon. I instantly thought of the His Dark Materials series, so I did a little research. In case you are interested, he was a Russian Orthodox saint, and here is his story.

Eurocentrism at its finest

2005-09-19T22:42:00.000-04:00

Often I feel guilty and bad about myself just because I am a white American of European descent. As if it weren't bad enough that I obediently pay taxes that support government policies I think are evil, a few years ago I made the mistake of reading A People's History of the United States: 1492 to Present, by Howard Zinn. I used to comfort myself with the fact that my early American ancestors (my mom's family goes wa-a-a-a-ay back) could not have been slave owners because they only lived in the north. But flip through the Zinn book and you'll find that those northerners were every bit as awful as those in the slave states. Only instead of oppressing the black slaves, they oppressed the native Americans . . . and each other. And unlike the evil southern white guys, the evil northern white guys managed to keep their atrocities out of the history books, too.

But there is one arena where Europeans shine like no other culture, and whenever I get to feeling really awful about our history I remember that we invented polyphonic music. We invented harmony and the symphony orchestra. No other culture on earth can match us for music.

This cd has been living in my car stereo for quite a while now. I challenge you to listen to the two versions of Ave Maria, first the Gounod and then the Schubert, one after the other and in that order, and not be moved to a place beyond even tears.

Metaphor

2005-09-16T17:13:00.000-04:00

This postcard arrived today from my parents, who were travelling in northern Italy. It says:

"Just had lunch in [illegible]. Was last here in winter 1936/37. The Dolomites are really craggy and jagged. One group of peaks is called "Grandma's teeth"; that gives you an idea. The trip by tourist bus goes through mountain passes 7000 feet above sea. Love, Dad.

"Crummy lunch, but well worth it for the fabulous views. XXXOOO, Mom."

Grandma's teeth . . . ewww!

More on the fabulous teacher

2005-09-15T22:35:00.000-04:00

Ok, so this is fourth grade. Today for homework they had to read a short story called "Planting Things." It was about the old man who loves to garden. "Mr. Willis was not a practical gardener, so it did not matter to him whether or not he could eat what he grew, or even if what he planted grew badly or not at all. Mr. Willis just enjoyed planting things." His wife is ill, and has lost her zest for life, but he cares for her tenderly at home. One of the plants on his porch is a Swedish ivy, and it is a wonderfully hardy, healthy plant. One day he discovers that a robin has built a nest in the ivy plant. ("He was glad he was on good terms with God, in case it should be a sign to him!") He is amazed and delighted, and tries to persuade his wife to get out of bed and come to the porch to see the nest with its eggs. She is pleased to hear about it, but too tired to get out of bed to see it. All summer long, Mr. Willis watches over the birds and the eggs. At one point Mrs. Willis does get out of bed to see the nest. Watching the eggs, Mr. Willis remembers what it was like when he and his wife were expecting their child. "The world had slowed down for them, and the days had been long and full of conversation." Fall comes, the baby birds fly away, and Mr. Willis carefully removes the nest. In the spring he will put the nest in his apple tree because he is a man who enjoys planting things.

They also had a short article, "All About Baby Robins," detailing the life cycle of robins; size, color, number of eggs, incubation period, typical diet, etc.

The assignment: first, three multiple choice comprehension questions (Q: How are Mr. and Mrs. Willis different from each other? A: Mr. Willis is interested in life and in all sorts of things. Mrs. Willis seems to have given up on life.) Then, "write a paragraph explaining how the title of the story tells us about the kind of person Mr. Willis is. Be sure to show examples from the story." And finally, an essay question, with two pages of blank lines for the answer: "Write about the two passages. Tell about connections that show how the two passages are alike and how they are different. Also discuss the ways in which an informational article is different from fiction. Be sure to use examples from each text."

Now is it just me, or is that a pretty sophisticated assignment -- and a pretty sophisticated story -- for nine year olds? I am just so delighted. We'll make English majors out of them yet!

And a little addendum: Joey zipped through the assignment with no parental help. But clearly he needs parental help in the Inappropriate Humor department. He finished his essay with this paragraph:

The difference between FIC and Non FIC is that non fiction is true, and fiction is not. If you wanted to learn about sheep, you wouldn't read "Larry the Lovesick Lamb," you would read "All about Sheep," or something like that.

Hope in a hopeless world

2005-09-13T21:19:00.000-04:00

Curriculum Night at our elementary school:

Joey's 4th grade teacher is amazing! She asked us if it was okay to give him enrichment math to do in class! (Last year I had to beg and beg the teacher to give him extra math just to do at home.) She told us the whole class was extremely well-behaved, and although it's true they are overall a pretty good group of kids, if they are "extremely well-behaved" it's because she is On Top Of Things. And this is only her second year of teaching. And to quote from the note Joey left for us: "Uh . . . my favorite thing to do here is . . . WRITE!!! My least favorite thing to do here is . . . uh . . . nothing! Mrs. C. is AWESOME!!!" She was funny, too. Part of their upcoming science unit (animal behavior) involves having mealworms in the classroom. She didn't actually shudder when she talked about them, but you could see she was trying hard not to. With the kids, she acts like it's a special privilege to be allowed to take care of them. That way she never has to get too close to them herself.

Our principal was not at the meeting. She had gone down to Houston to help with the relief efforts, bringing with her 8 suitcases full of school supplies donated by our school. While there, she threw her back out (compression fracture!) and is still in the hospital down there.

Our beloved kindergarten teacher from last year is now a full-time reading specialist, working intensively with lower-elementary kids who are below grade level. This is the first time in thirty years that she hasn't had her own classroom and she misses it terribly, but, she said, and I quote, "I feel like I'm feeding the hungry."

I'm trying hard here

2005-09-13T12:18:00.000-04:00

to process and understand what is happening to our country. I had decided not to blog about the aftermath of Katrina anymore but honestly I feel like this once-great country of ours is falling to pieces all around me. Every time I think we've hit rock bottom, and things couldn't possibly get any worse, I find I was wrong. I started to cry yesterday in the car, listening to Pops Staples singing "Hope in a Hopeless World."

Sparse . . . and a little romance . . . and something spooky

2005-09-11T12:03:00.000-04:00

Once again I seem to have gotten behind in my blogging. It's been several days since I've posted or visited. I apologize. I got distracted by the sudden need to change my template. Six months is way too long to go without changing the template. I need -- I need! -- variety. I'm not one of those people who fears and hates change. I say: Bring it on! Give me something new! Every day! This time, I went sparse.

You might have noticed a strange title on my bedside table. License to Deal? What is that? A book about the legalization of marijuana? Heh, heh, well, no. It's a book about this guy who manages baseball players. He's an agent. He negotiates contracts, gets endorsements, and so forth. An odd choice, to be sure, not my usual fare. And I went to some trouble to get my hands on a copy (interlibrary loan, all the way from the Pontiac Public Library). The reason, the only reason, I'm interested in this is because the subject of the book, sports agent Matt Sosnick, is my cousin Amy's fiancé. They met online. Just about a month ago. And they are engaged. Madly, madly in love. Matt said he made a list of 100 things he looked for in a prospective girlfriend. Amy was a "yes" on the first 22. ("What was number 23?" we clamored to know. "Heh, heh," said Amy, "I do have a tattoo.")

Matt and Amy live in the San Franscisco area. They blew into town last weekend like a breath of crazy fresh air. Matt, who also "owns a piece" of Ticketmaster, brought along ten tickets to the Michigan football game, section 24 row 45 (for those not in the know: very good seats). Matt is warm, funny, expansive, generous, and clearly not a local. He hailed us a cab after the game. A cab! I didn't know we had cabs in Ann Arbor. Anyway, we had a ball. Amy's folks drove down from up north to Meet Him -- and go to the game, so we had a mini-family reunion. Amy and Matt, blessings on you both.

I can't wait to read the book.

* * *

Our next book group selection is The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova. We chose it because the author will be giving a talk at the Ann Arbor District Library next month.

Let me tell you something weird and spooky. The Historian is about someone researching vampires. The researcher goes through lots of dusty old archives trying to find out . . . but gets thwarted by -- (insert spooky music) -- Someone Who Doesn't Want Her To Find Out!

AADL kindly put a bunch of copies on reserve for people who signed up for the talk next month. I and others from my book group called in time, got our names on the list, went to the library to pick up the book, and -- (insert spooky music) -- no book! That's right. We have had great difficulty obtaining our copies. The complications have been, well, byzantine. And we are wondering whether -- (insert spooky music) -- Someone Doesn't Want Us To Read This Book!

The bottom line is, we don't have enough copies of the book to go around. I did finally get one, and I've been reading it like mad to finish it in time for someone else to get their turn before the end of the month. And you know what else? I can't even go to the talk at the library. It's the same night as PTO, and heaven knows I can't miss that! Oh yes, I've got my priorities straight.

News

2005-09-07T22:08:00.000-04:00

I have a bunch of book-related things to write about, but I'm too tired for any except the big one, which is that I went to Melanie Lynn Hauser's book signing this evening! I read her book, Confessions of Super-Mom, a few days ago. Read it almost in one sitting, in fact. Her book is charming and hilarious. But I will not say anything more about it because I KNOW you are going to read it anyway, and I don't want to spoil it for you. Except that if you happen to have a teen or pre-teen son who is obsessed with comic books (as I do) you will especially enjoy this one.

Anyway, it was so fun to meet Melanie. Like her book, she's charming and hilarious, and very sweet. And her hair? Adorable! I got there a little late because I had to rush from across town, with Joey in tow, still wearing his martial arts gear. When I arrived she was talking about the process of writing and how she finally ended up getting published. Then she read from the book, and boy did she read! I wouldn't be surprised if she has a background in acting. She read really well! I wished I could have spent more time talking with her and her husband, who was also there.

All in all, a fun and entertaining evening. Couldn't leave the store without buying something, so we picked up The Littles for Lena (and ordered Betsy-Tacy and Tib, but maybe I'll save that one for the holidays) and a fresh copy (our third?) of Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever for Daniel because the previous ones have been trashed beyond any salvage.

Physics 101

2005-09-05T21:22:00.000-04:00

Well, I'm gonna take a break from all the yucky stuff and tell you about something that happened at our house the other day. It has nothing to do with hurricanes or the federal government.

In more than twenty years of schooling I somehow managed to avoid ever taking a physics class. Thus, I have no explanation for this, this, this . . . thing that occurred. Maybe you can explain it to me.

Our neighbors around the block were renovating their kitchen. They had to get rid of their old fridge to make way for a new, smaller one. The old one was perfectly fine, and not even very old, so they asked us if we'd like it. Would we! Our fridge was ancient and too small, so we jumped at the chance. And because we are (sort of) in the landlord business, we have a dolly and some experience in moving large appliances around. So Steve trundled around to the other side of the block to pick up the new fridge. After a while, he returned with the fridge and the dolly, and also with the neighbor, who was carrying along some kind of a weird gadget that looked like the canister part of a vacuum cleaner with two hoses attached. The gadget, he said, was lent to him by his kitchen contractor. The guys wrestled the fridge up our front steps. Once it was up on the porch and poised to come in, they slid these things underneath that looked like snowboards, and were attached to the hoses that came from the vacuum cleaner, and, well, here's a picture:

He turned on the vacuum cleaner thingy, and (can you tell from the picture?) the snowboards and the refrigerator LIFTED OFF THE GROUND AND FLOATED ACROSS THE ROOM! All we had to do was gently guide it where we wanted it to go!

I know what you're thinking: did anyone have the nerve to try standing on the snowboards? Well, Joey was mad to try, and so was I, but because the thing was on loan from the neighbor's contractor we didn't. Maybe we'll get one for Chrismubirthdaykah this year.

Anyway, the new fridge is fabulous. It fits perfectly in our kitchen. It has adjustable "spillproof" glass shelves. The crisper drawers have separate humidity controls. Gallons of milk fit in the door. The freezer is gigantic. And best of all . . . it floats! :)

Thanks, Jim and Aimee!

From sea to shining sea

2005-09-04T07:52:00.000-04:00

Honestly, I wasn't going to write anything about Katrina or politics here. I've left so many comments on other people's blogs -- my own memories of New Orleans, my rage, my sadness, my frustration -- that I'm all blogged out on the topic. But I guess I do have a couple of things to say after all.

I read an article yesterday about the help offered by other countries. Turns out the French city of Orleans mustered up a special aid package for its namesake, including opening its homes to refugees.

The other thing that leaves me with a little hope for the future is something Scrivener said (and I hope he doesn't mind me lifting this from his blog). He sez:

The one saving grace about all of this utterly inadequate response of the federal government is that unlike Iraq, when voices speak up and point to the failures, the White House won't so easily be able to point to the critics and call them traitors. What are they going to say, "You're giving aid and comfort to future hurricanes?" None of what the federal government has done or failed to do is really a surprise--this is the fallout of political decisions from the party in power over the last half-dozen years. I just hope that the American people are paying some kind of attention and that they remember how angry they are now when November rolls around.

I hope so.

Yesterday we went to the football game. Before the game started they had a moment of silence for the Katrina victims. 110,401 people in there and you could have heard a pin drop. I started to cry while we sang the National Anthem, feeling so sad for this poor beautiful country of ours that's being run into the ground.

And then I woke up this morning and learned that Chief Justice Rehnquist died last night.

Bookshelf

2005-09-01T12:31:00.000-04:00

Well, I gave up on Out of the Silent Planet, at least temporarily. The book was just too ugly to read. So, groping on my bedside table for anything -- anything! -- to read, I of course came up with a Patrick O'Brian, number 3 in the series, H.M.S. Surprise. We keep Patrick O'Brians scattered all over the house, because you never know when you might need a good roborative dose. This is the one where they are taking the envoy to Malaysia, but he dies on the way there. (That wasn't a spoiler. Plot is not what these books are about, though my husband would disagree.) But I did go to the library and find a nice, hard-cover, Bound-to-Stay-Bound copy of Planet. However, it's going to have to wait a little longer, because I also stopped by Nicola's this morning and picked up a copy of Confessions of Super-Mom. Daniel has just gone down for his nap. Sofa and Confessions: Here! I! Come!

P.S. If you are familiar with Patrick O'Brian I'm sure you will appreciate my clever use of the word roborative.

Update on the little girl

2005-08-31T18:48:00.000-04:00

Thanks for all your kind comments on the last post.

It's interesting that Laura commented that her first year of teaching was probably her best. I just can't resist the notion that even the best intentions in the world can't make up for experience. Today Lena told me that Miss Smith warned the class that if they got three checkmarks on the board (for bad behavior) she would cancel recess. But when the third check came, she said that if they got one more, there would be no recess. First, cancelling recess for the whole class is a baaaaad idea, in my opinion. These kids need recess! But second, and worse, she should not have changed her mind. What do you think? Other teachers out there, what was your first year like? My husband's first year, teaching in a charter school in Detroit that was also brand-new that year, was horrendous. Trial by fire.

Anyway, the little girl in the last post? On the second day of school -- yesterday -- they transferred her to the other first grade class, with a teacher who's been around the block a bunch of times. My feelings are mingled: relief and pity.

First day blues

2005-08-29T21:03:00.000-04:00

Back to school is always hard for me, though not because I miss my kids. I feel the same relief as all the other SAHMs when the kids head off to school. No, it's because my husband has to go back to work, too. It's so lovely to have him around all summer, especially when there's a very rambunctious toddler in the family. We do role reversal all summer: he takes care of the kids most of the time, while I do my own thing. This summer, I started a little home business. Little in the scheme of things, but A Very Big Deal to me, with huge emotional investment. It is painful to have to cut back my time on that and go back to being the SAHM while he goes off to work. And I miss him.

I knew in advance that Lena's teacher was new to our school, and that she was young, but I didn't learn until this afternoon that this is her very first teaching job. I really liked her this morning: she seemed poised, confident, and sweet. But now that I know she's new to teaching I'm all worried. And yet I feel so stupid for worrying because first of all, this morning, before I knew, I thought she was great. And second, everyone has to start some time. Heck, I'm married to a teacher. Why not give her the benefit of the doubt? And third, Lena's not a particularly high-maintenance kid; she'll probably do fine wherever she is. And fourth, since Miss Smith is fresh from school she's presumably full of all the latest theories and ideas and so forth. She's probably super-motivated. And yet, and yet. There are a couple of very high-maintenance kids in the class. Well, I signed up to volunteer in the classroom, so I'll be able to keep an eye on her, at least for an hour a week! :)

One of the high-maintenance kids in the class is a little girl who, at the beginning of kindergarten last year, could not write or spell her own name or recognize most of the letters of the alphabet. She appears to be economically disadvantaged. No parent or guardian of hers was ever seen at any school event. She had no address or phone number listed in the directory. She diverts attention away from her academic difficulties with bad behavior. She has no idea how to get along with other kids. Once last year she said to my daughter: "Lena, you're a bad girl, and I'm going to tell you that every day!" I tried many times to get Lena to see the sadness of the situation, how this girl is trying to be Lena's friend but just doesn't know positive ways of getting attention, how often she herself has probably been called a bad girl, etc. When she saw Lena in the hallway this morning she ran right up to her and gave her a great big bear hug. Which Lena hated, but didn't break away from. And which made me a little teary, the poignancy of it.

Joey's going to have a great year. His teacher is also pretty new to teaching, but not brand new. I do know she's very creative with lesson plans. Even better, he was (deliberately?) put in a class separate from his two best pals. He was devastated, but I'm glad. The fewer the distractions, the better.

Daniel started off the school year by waking us up at 5 am. By late afternoon it was apparent that he had some kind of stomach bug, resulting in some extremely unpleasant diapers. Ew!

Sorry for rambling & bad grammar, but I've been up since 5 am and I am So Fried. Good night!

Statistics 101

2005-08-27T15:36:00.000-04:00

Just to recap: my non-blogging friend Leslie has this theory that people tend to like either Life of Pi or Kite Runner, but not both. She and I, by the way, both liked the former but not the latter.

Five people who had read both books voted in the poll, certainly a statistically significant sample. Out of the five, three liked one but not the other. One liked both, one disliked both. I think this is pretty good support for Les's theory. I've been trying to get her to write a guest post that would give a reason for this phenomenon, because frankly I can't come up with much. The two books are sooooo different on so many levels. Would anyone else who's read both care to take a stab at it while we wait for Les?

Anyway, I'm taking down the poll now. I'm sorry about the popup ads; I didn't know that would happen. Thanks for voting, if you did.

Oh ha ha ha!

2005-08-27T09:14:00.000-04:00

Have you seen these? They're rude but SO funny!

LOTR 1
LOTR 2
LOTR 3

Big excitement, and a rant

2005-08-26T23:08:00.000-04:00

I have been so envious lately because it seems like all the other bloggers are getting to meet each other in real life. I can't believe two of my favorite bloggers, Phantom Scribbler and Mimilou, got to have a playdate. No fair! Anyway, I was bemoaning my fate and feeling all alone, when I learned that Melanie Lynn Hauser is going to be here in just a couple of weeks, promoting her new book! Hurray! I get to meet a blogger!

Melanie's been doing a very cool thing on her blog with her interviews of independent booksellers. I do like to get up on my soapbox every once in a while and rant against the big corporate bookstores. I'm still mad at Barnes & Noble for buying out the student-run cooperative book store at the University of Michigan, god, how many years ago was that? And Borders? Oh, don't get me started! Actually, I have, uh, personal reasons for boycotting Borders, even aside from its size and general corporate-ness. I'd rather get books from the library anyway. But if I have to buy a book (and I have to buy Melanie's!) I will buy it at Nicola's or Shaman Drum.

Oh no . . . !

2005-08-26T22:37:00.000-04:00

I saw this at Mimilou. I think INTJ is probably accurate for me, but still! Sheesh!

Harry Potter Personality Quiz by Pirate Monkeys Inc.

In the interest of fairness . . .

2005-08-26T19:58:00.000-04:00

I should tell you that the other times I've called Poison Control I've had no communication problems at all. They've been great.

The first time I ever called them was when Joey was about one and a half. This was back in the good old days when doulicia and I used to be next-door neighbors. She and her husband went away for the weekend, leaving me to take care of their cats. So, Joey and I are down in her dank, cobwebby, unfinished basement (if you live in Michigan, you'll be able to picture it perfectly). I'm scooping the poops out of the litter and it's taking forever because there are two cats and the pooper-scooper thing is extremely flimsy. So, one little poop at a time, I'm picking out the pieces. While I'm doing that, Joey is . . . Joey is . . . ohmigod! Joey is holding what appears to be an empty gallon-size milk jug, but it has DANGER and POISON handwritten all over it in huge capital letters with black marker. And an actual skull and crossbones drawn on, too! Joey is giggling and shaking this jug, as white droplets of something fly out of the jug and land all over him and the floor around him. It was almost comical, in a Bugs Bunnyish sort of way.

Doulicia hadn't left any contact information. Poison Control said the mysterious poisonous white liquid was probably one of two things. Either it was whitewash, or it was industrial-strength pesticide. Knowing doulicia, we put our money on the whitewash. The ER doctor determined that whatever it was, Joey had not ingested any of it.

It was whitewash, by the way. Whitewash, which looks just like milk, and was in a milk jug, and Doulicia didn't want anyone to drink it by mistake . . . .

Luckily, no one did.

Hmmmm

2005-08-23T22:02:00.000-04:00

Couldn't resist this quiz I saw at MysteryMommy: which Greek god/goddess are you?

But I'm a little surprised and puzzled at the result I got:

Apollo
You are Apollo! Apollo was the god of prophesy, music and healing.
He is famous for his skill with the lyre, and that he was responsible for the downfall of Achilles, a great hero during the Trojan War.

Elderberries

2005-08-23T21:18:00.000-04:00

For some reason, this summer the birds didn't eat all the elderberries at my mother-in-law's house. She invited Joey and Lena to come over and eat whatever they could pick. Well, they picked a lot. A Lot. And because grandma lives next door, the kids were easily able to go back for more. Which they did. They brought back bowl after bowl. They mashed 'em up and added sugar. They ate 'em plain. They ate 'em with milk. They fed 'em to our delighted toddler.

The elderberryfest lasted a couple of days. Then my mother-in-law called just as we were in the middle of cleaning the purple off their faces so we could go to a dinner party. She told me she was looking up elderberry recipes on the internet. One of them warned that elderberries should never be eaten raw. Gulp!

I rushed to the internet to try to find more information. I found something about the pits containing cyanide, but it wasn't very specific. So I called poison control. The person who answered was not a native English-speaker. There was a bit of a communication problem. Now, is it just me, or is answering the phone at the poison control center the one place where communication skills are vitally important? ("Elderberries, dammit! E-l-d-e-r-b-e-r-r-y, elderberry!") By the time they figured it out my kids could've been dead!

Not really, as it turns out. Raw elderberries can cause tummy aches and diarrhea, but we would have known about it within 2 hours of first ingestion. Some people are more susceptible than others.

And I know what you're thinking. Yes, grandma did find an elderberry recipe. We ate the pie, still warm, with vanilla ice cream. Man, was it good!

A brief and bitter digression into politics

2005-08-20T12:46:00.000-04:00

"Hey, look, honey," I said to Steve the other day, "I found a funny typo in the paper. It says President Bush is on vacation for five weeks! Ha, ha, they said weeks instead of days!"

And it isn't even Wednesday

2005-08-20T12:22:00.000-04:00

The title of this post is a literary allusion, dontcha know, referring to Phantom Scribbler's weekly Wednesday whine-fests.

So, like, I'm trying to read this book now. But it's too hard, because it was printed in 1971. A paperback, and not on archival paper. The pages are yellowy, brittle, almost falling out. The font and margins are miniscule. You can't hold the book without covering up some of the words with your thumb. What could be less inviting? What was the so-called designer thinking? It's a serious obstacle to my enjoyment of this book. The only book I've ever read that was worse than this is my copy of The Idiot, which has the above-described problems, PLUS the ink smears when you touch it. Gross!

The current book is Out of the Silent Planet, by C.S. Lewis. I actually did make it through this godforsaken book once before, years ago. All I remember is how ugly it was -- the book, that is, not the content. But despite the huge obstacle I'm enjoying it. Here's a sample quote: "For the first time a suspicion that he might be dead and already in the ghost-life crossed his mind. He was trembling, but a hundred mental habits forbade hime to consider this possibility." And here's a very C.S. Lewis-y little phrase: "severe delight."

Well, I'm off to the library at the earliest opportunity to see if they have a better copy there.

Bad guys

2005-08-15T20:13:00.000-04:00

In her comment on the preceding post, Laura wrote:

I'm curious about whether people can be evil without being insane. Can a person who is entirely sane still be deliberately evil? Does past abuse, attachment disorder, etc., make the actions any less evil? I understood that the definition of psychotic meant "out of touch with reality". In that case, aren't the organized murderers more psychotic (insane) than the disorganized ones?

Hmmmm. I'm going to go for the easy question first, which is the last one. No. The disorganized ones are more psychotic. One of the disorganized guys believed his blood would dry up and turn to dust unless he drank the blood of his victims. He also believed that by doing so he was preventing earthquakes from causing California to fall into the ocean. He truly believed he was saving millions of lives. The organized guys, on the other hand, are merely (merely!) making their life-long fantasies of domination and death come true. They know full well what they're doing, and judging by the descriptions in the book they are not psychotic. Unless you want to argue that only an insane person would do what this person did, therefore he must be insane -- an argument that traditionally has not held up in court, if I recall correctly.

Laura's other questions have more to do with definitions, and the answers I believe are matters of opinion. What does it mean to be sane? Well, I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest a definition. Let's try this: sanity relates to cognitive processes, to how we understand and process information. One of the dictionary definitions is "able to anticipate and appraise the effect of one's actions." "Rational" is given as a synonym. Under this definition you could easily have a sane evil person. These organized guys clearly are able to anticipate and appraise the effects of their actions; the disorganized guys clearly are not.

Then again, I always wonder about the bad guys in movies. Do they think they are evil?

This is a great topic for discussion. What are your thoughts?

An irresistible impulse

2005-08-14T20:45:00.000-04:00

It's one of the ways you can plead insanity. The original legal standard was that you had to be so insane as to not know the difference between right and wrong. After a while the definition was expanded to include those crazies who knew what they were doing was wrong, but had -- you guessed it -- an irresistible impulse to do it anyway.

I had an irresistible impulse to set aside Cry, the Beloved Country in favor of a book called Whoever Fights Monsters: My Twenty Years Hunting Serial Killers for the FBI. Steve brought it home from the library the other day. I'm not sure why. I do know that reading books like this is wrong, WRONG, WRONG! Wrong because they are so f***ing creepy and disturbing. But despite knowing full well, I couldn't resist my (duh!) irresistible impulse. I've read almost 150 pages just since yesterday afternoon.

I guess I wouldn't be Bookworm if I didn't start out by saying that this book is very well written. From a purely literary point of view it's a very good read, and I would highly recommend it to anyone interested in the true crime genre. It's matter-of-fact, clean and concisely written. The author doesn't bother with a lot of adjectives and adverbs; he lets the facts speak for themselves (and boy howdy, do these facts speak for themselves!) The author, Robert K. Ressler, is a now-retired FBI agent who coined the term "serial killer." He comes across as a very likeable, unassuming guy. He freely admits his annoyance with FBI beaurocracy, and confesses to resorting to some sneaky strategies to get around the red tape. He even manages to work in a little gentle humor here and there, despite the distressing nature of the subject matter.

And it is distressing! My mind is filled with Manson, Gacy, Son of Sam, and many others I hadn't heard of before. Such macabre horrors you wouldn't believe. And their impoverished childhoods, their mean parents, their twisted fantasies, their irresistible impulses. Oh. My. God.

Why is this stuff so fascinating?

Hat meme

2005-08-08T21:56:00.000-04:00

Found this meme at Jo(e)'s page: post a photo of your child wearing a hat. Coincidentally, I took this one just this morning.

Where does he come up with this stuff?

2005-08-08T20:07:00.000-04:00

This was a hard day. I was going to write a very sad post about a gigantic funeral that was held this morning at the church next to our house (tragic auto accident, parents and young children, 'nuff said), but decided instead to cheer myself up (and hopefully you too) with this little tidbit:

My son Joey, age 9, is into Yugioh, but because he's Joey, he prefers to make up his own cards than play with ones created by someone else. He goes through index cards like you wouldn't believe. I made a little collage of three randomly chosen cards from a recent pile:

If you're at all familiar with Yugioh you'll know that the above are fairly typical of the genre. And then I found this one:

Waxing enthusiastic

2005-08-08T09:13:00.000-04:00

While we were on vacation I started reading our book club selection: Cry, the Beloved Country.

I will say first off that I would never have read this book if it weren't for the club. A quick initial flip through the pages gave me such a sinking feeling: it uses m-dashes instead of quotation marks to indicate dialogue. What could be more off-putting?

And then I read the first page. I was sucked in immediately by the beauty of the prose; the simple dignity of the main character; the emotional intensity of the plot and setting; Africa. The m-dashes are not an obstacle.

I'll give you a taste of it. A man has been murdered, and the protagonist, Kumalo, tries to figure out if he knew him.

[Kumalo] was silent, then he said, yet I remember, there was a small bright boy, and he too sometimes rode on his horse past the church. A small bright boy, I remember, though I do not remember it well.

And he was silent again, for who is not silent when someone is dead, who was a small bright boy?

Here's another one, also about silence. This scene takes place at a church service.

Msimangu opened the book, and read to them first from the book. And Kumalo had not known that his friend had such a voice. For the voice was of gold, and the voice had love for the words it was reading. The voice shook and beat and trembled, not as the voice of an old man shakes and beats and trembles, nor as a leaf shakes and beats and trembles, but as a deep bell when it is struck. For it was not only a voice of gold, but it was the voice of a man whose heart was golden, reading from a book of golden words. And the people were silent, and Kumalo was silent, for when are three such things found in one place together?

Wow. Heady stuff, huh?

We're back!

2005-08-08T08:43:00.000-04:00

Hi everyone!

We're back from our trip, feeling simultaneously exhausted and refreshed. My brother-in-law is the designated family photographer: not only does he take terrific pictures, but he actually remembers to bring his camera. So, as soon as he downloads the photos, I'll post some.

I had decided to forego the Kite Runner discussion in favor of going sailing (a no-brainer) but fate dictated otherwise. It rained that morning. So I went. Along with 30 other people. We should have divided into smaller groups, but instead we all crammed into one big circle. Most people liked it a lot, though there were a few who didn't. The discussion was interesting. It focused mainly on class distinctions and Afghani culture, as opposed to the literary merits (or lack thereof!) of the novel. I was a little shy with so many people there: I didn't have the courage to bring up the comparison to Atonement, and I also wasted a perfect opportunity to take a Life of Pi vs. Kite Runner poll. Oh well! The discussion didn't make me like the book any more, but it did make me think about different aspects of it. But I would rather have gone sailing.

There's still lots of laundry and other catching up to do, but I am looking forward to going through my blog roll later today.

One last thing

2005-07-29T14:47:00.000-04:00

I can't leave you all without passing on this treat.

Blog withdrawal

2005-07-29T08:48:00.000-04:00

I have been suffering from blog withdrawal these last few days. I've been working hard on a project that I had to get done before we go away tomorrow, and I've not had a minute to spare for blogdom.

Yes, we're going away tomorrow, for a week at family camp. Guess what one of the activities for the grownups is going to be? A book discussion group. The book? Heh, heh, it's Kite Runner.

See you on August 6!

Kite Runner and that other book, too

2005-07-24T08:41:00.000-04:00

I'm having a little trouble with Kite Runner. Did anyone else find the writing style, well, undistinguished? Clunky?

For example, he says that spikes of pain battered his knees. I'm sorry, but spikes don't batter. Spikes could stab, though. Or the pain could batter.

I'm also finding the characters one-dimensional and unrealistic.

This is in sad contrast to Atonement, which coincidentally has the identical premise: weak, cowardly young adolescent makes an unfortunate decision that changes the lives of the people around him as well as his own. I'm wondering if Kite Runner got all this hype merely because it takes place in that hot spot, Afghanistan. Because I don't see a whole lot of literary merit in it. (Caveat: I'm about halfway through the book right now. I do intend to finish it.)

I read that other book, you know, the one everyone is reading right now? It was terrific. Every bit as good as The Prisoner of Azkaban, my favorite of the series. Unlike the other long ones, this one was absolutely taut, and very suspenseful. Laugh-out-loud funny in a couple of places, too.

Noir

2005-07-24T08:31:00.000-04:00

My son Joey, age 9, professes to love "dark humor."

Sometimes, he gives us an unintentional dose of it. The other day we were driving through a construction zone and all of a sudden he exclaimed, "Oh my GOD! Who would want to kill a worker?"

He thought the warning sign was an offer.

A rambling post about books . . .

2005-07-18T09:48:00.000-04:00

but not that one!

The Kite Runner is listed in my sidebar as being on my bedside table. It's been languishing there since last May (Mothers' Day, to be precise) but I just haven't been able to get myself to start it. It's getting down to the wire now, because we're going away to a family camp (doesn't that sound dorky? I keep picturing the one from Tommy: "I'm your uncle Ernie and I welcome you to Tommy's 'oliday camp! The camp with a difference, never mind the weathah, when you come to Tommy's, the 'oliday's forevaaaah, ha ha!") in a couple of weeks and one of the things happening there is a Kite Runner discussion. Of course, not attending a book discussion group is not an option for Bookworm.

The problem is, Kite Runner has been talked up way too much. I always have a hard time reading books that have been too highly recommended. I feel under pressure to like it. That's why I've never been able to finish The Magic Mountain, among others. And to make things worse, get a load of this:

My old pal Leslie has an interesting theory. Based on data gathered from conversations with a variety of people, she believes that people who liked Life of Pi don't like Kite Runner, and vice versa. She has no explanation for this phenomenon, but it's something she's definitely observed, and she can list a bunch of people who go one way or the other. No one she knows seems to like or dislike both.

Well, I loved Life of Pi. Absolutely loved it. It has all the ingredients for a Julie's favorite: natural history, religion, boats, a surprise twist at the end, and above all, different versions of the same event. I am such a sucker for books that describe the same event from different characters' points of view (for example, Atonement).

So I'm really afraid I'm going to hate Kite Runner. I think I'll try to set up one of those polls in my sidebar to test her theory.

The goops

2005-07-17T11:46:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I posted a photo. They do lead disgusting lives, don't they!

Shocker!

2005-07-17T09:30:00.000-04:00

This may come as a shock to those of you who know me well, but I have uncovered new evidence regarding Intelligent Design, which I now believe in wholeheartedly. I can't believe I ever thought we evolved through random chance.

Read all about it right here.

My sheltered life

2005-07-16T20:47:00.000-04:00

So, last night hubby and I decided that after the kids were in bed we'd watch a video for about half an hour while the kids settled down and then, ahem, we'd, you know, go to bed early.

So, the video we decided to watch for half an hour? Fahrenheit 9/11, which somehow we'd managed to avoid up until now. Frankly, I didn't want to watch it before the election. Back then, I was already terrified at the prospect of the shrub (as Guusje calls him) winning the election, and I knew this movie would only make me feel worse. After the election, well, we were too depressed. Didn't want to make it worse. But then Steve brought it home from the library, so we watched it.

And I do feel worse.

Not because of the facts, most of which we already knew. No, it was the visual images that freaked me out pretty badly. The Iraqi civilians, the American soldiers. Not to mention, at the very beginning, the scenes at Ground Zero. Whoa!

Confession here: we use our tv only as a monitor for the dvd player. We don't have cable. We don't have an antenna. Not even rabbit ears. We couldn't watch the news if we wanted to. We get our news via NPR, CBC Radio Two, the Atlantic Monthly and Mother Jones, and our local paper. To this day, I have never seen the actual footage of the hijacked planes. Photos, yes, but not the video.

I read lots of gory stuff, though, and so does my husband. Unlike some of the people in my book club who try to avoid reading about war, I've read quite a bit, including such classics as All Quiet on the Western Front and Johnny Got His Gun. My husband is not only a social studies teacher, but also a military history buff, and I have also read a fair amount of the stuff he leaves lying around. Most recently, and in quick succession, I read the separate Viet Nam memoirs of 1) an army doctor; 2) women; and 3) a corporal. All shocking, not only in their descriptions of the carnage and bad policy, but also in their poignant attempts to readjust to life back home afterwards.

Fahrenheit 9/11 really brought home to me the difference between reading about something and seeing it. Lord knows, my imagination is vivid enough that you'd think just reading would be enough.

We are NEVER getting cable.

* * *

And, as you probably predicted: the romantic interlude did not happen that night. We sat riveted in front of the tv until midnight, and then we were too raw and tired to do anything but sleep.

Off my chest

2005-07-15T20:43:00.000-04:00

Ok, I know I always seem to get into trouble when I ~~rant~~ blog about birth, but I just have to get this off my chest.

Our neighbor around the corner just had a baby, her first, earlier this week. (Aside: I don't know when I've ever been happier to hear of a pregnancy; they'd been trying for years, and had actually started adoption proceedings when she finally conceived.) I haven't seen her or the baby yet, but I did get the birth story from the father, who stopped by a little neighborhood shindig last night. He said they scheduled her for a c-section because it was the day before her due date and the baby hadn't dropped yet.

They scheduled her for a c-section because it was the day before her due date and the baby hadn't dropped yet.

The baby was so high up that one of the doctors had to push down on the mother's abdomen to get the baby closer to the site of the incision. They had to use forceps to get her out. The baby was 8lbs 7oz.

Why couldn't they just wait?

* * *

At this same little neighborhood shindig there was another woman there with a month-old baby girl, her fourth child. (Baby's name: Poppy. Is that the cutest?) We were talking with the aforementioned new dad about how hard it is to get used to the idea of oneself as a parent, even when you've been trying for a baby for five years. We assured him that subsequent children are a piece of cake. (Ha ha, I know, but in many ways I think this is true.) Then the other mom talked about how Poppy was born just a few days before our school's annual ice cream social. She went to the social, she said, and laughingly described how weepy she'd been then. And that was with her fourth! Those hormones! She turned to me and asked whether I'd been weepy after my births.

Well of COURSE I was weepy. Who wouldn't be? And must we blame it all on hormones? This is a major life change we're talking about here. Everything is different when you're a parent. Once you were young, strong, independent, and nothing fazed you. Now you are tied to this helpless creature with every fiber of your being. Nine years later and I'm still weepy! Things I wouldn't have batted an eyelash at, pre-kids, make me break down in great, howling sobs. It just doesn't get any more vulnerable than this.

P.S. I don't mean to suggest that hormones don't play a part in mood swings; I know that they do. And also, I'm not talking about postpartum depression-type weepiness, which is a whole nother kettle of fish. Nevertheless.