Yeas and Nays January through June 2010

Fifteen-year-old Emily has decided to describe 46-year-old Emily's "yea" and "nay" books of January through June 2010. This is because 46-year-old Emily is too tired, and also because 46-year-old Emily plans to write real posts on some of these titles (if she hasn't already). As always with the "yea and nay" lists (when I don't decide there aren't) there are six "yeas" and six "nays." And then, there is this odd title at the end of the list. The titles are arranged alphabetically by author (because 15-year-old Emily is as anal-retentive as 46-year-old Emily is).



YEAS



Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler
When I grow up, I'm going to date Philip Marlowe and help him solve crimes. (Full post here.)



King of Elfland's Daughter by Lord Dunsany
One day, I am going to ditch my family and go live in Elfland. (Full post here.)



Slaves of Solitude by Patrick Hamilton
I want to go back to England. Even if my home is bombed. Even if I have to live with a bunch of losers. Even if I am going to be stupid enough to get my heart broken by some dumb American. England is just so much cooler than North Carolina. They go to pubs and drink pink gin fizzes.



This Book is Overdue by Marilyn Johnson
I want to be a cool librarian and surprise everyone with how cool librarians actually are. (Soon to be posted at this site -- I've decided I'm not risking much by linking from this site to that one, as people in these parts are not all that technologically savvy, so I am throwing caution to the wind here and doing so. Now watch: someone from the library will find this blog, my irreverence will shock her, and I'll lose that gig. Oh well...).



The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick
If I weren't too old for children's books, this would be the coolest book ever. (Full post here.)



The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
I hate really popular books with really dumb titles. Just pretend no one's ever heard of it and that it has a much better title, and read it, because it's so much better than you think, especially if you LOVE, love, love Daddy Long Legs -- it's kinda like that. All letters anyway, and the author even talks about loving that book. (Full post here.)



NAYS



Away by Amy Bloom
I thought it was going to be like Bread Givers, but it wasn't. I hated it, especially since I went through all that for such a bogus ending. ("Full-er" post here.)



A Royal Pain by Rhys Bowen
A "royal pain" is right. I didn't bother to finish it.



French Milk by Lucy Knisley
That girl was pretty stupid for someone in her twenties. I hope I'm smarter than that when I'm that old (46-year-old Emily assures you she wasn't. However, she didn't need to be reminded of how awful it is to be 22, and she hopes she wasn't quite so self-centered at that age).



The Giant, O'Brien by Hilary Mantel
I hate books that make me feel like throwing up, especially when they make me feel like that more than once. (Soon to be posted for the TBR challenge.)



The Shack by William P. Young
Why I hate popular books. I couldn't finish it. Almost as bad as The Prophet.



YEA/NAY



The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson
(I've read a lot of popular books this year, haven't I?) This has the worst scene I've ever read in a book. It gave me horrible, horrible nightmares. But, the girl is so tough and so cool. I want to be like her (even though I am terrified of needles and could never get a tattoo).

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

Happy summer solstice, everyone. When I think back on all the many, many summers I have lived, most of them seem to have "theme songs." I thought it would be fun to share one of those today, especially since here in PA we have most definitely been experiencing the sort of weather that is the reason I have never been a huge fan of summer. I don't know what it's been like where you are, but it's been about 1000 degrees and 120% humidity every day for five days running now with no end in sight, if the weather forecasters are to be believed.

This kind of weather reminds me of the Piedmont region of North Carolina, where I was born and raised, so it's only appropriate to go way, way back in time to bring you a summer theme song. This one hails from the summer of 1978. It was a summer when I never knew whether or not my older sisters were going to deign to bring me along with them anywhere. Occasionally, the sun, stars, and moon were all aligned correctly (a.k.a. my parents had made them pick me up after seeing some movie with a friend or something, and they didn't want to drive all the way back home -- we lived ten miles outside of town --to get rid of me), and (be still my beating little fourteen-year-old heart! You are way too young to have an attack) they would allow me to come with them on night-time escapades, driving around town, seeking out the homes where all the boys they liked lived (why? Do teenage girls still do this sort of stuff? It sounds like we were all priming ourselves to become stalkers. I promise you, all we ever did, though, was drive by their houses -- screaming and trying to duck down in our seats, if anyone actually went into or came out of any of the houses in question. The idea, I guess, was to see without being seen -- impossible, of course, with windows wide open and girls screaming. Once I learned to drive, my own friends and I continued this practice, which, thank God, I gave up once I went away to college). Anyway, as you might imagine, this was not an easy task back in the days of no GPSes. We had to use things like phone books and maps.

We also were stuck listening to nothing but a radio, which was always on in the dark blue Datsun B210 (we avoided using the other car, the station wagon, whenever possible). The car actually had a stereo, with two speakers in the back (our first car to have such a thing), but, alas, no tape deck. We were completely dependent on whatever the DJs happened to be spinning that night. Luckily, they spun "Miss You" by the Rolling Stones, one of my favorites, quite a lot. We'd roll down the windows, turn it up, and hit those high notes right along with Mick, as we sped down the roads leading to David's and Jim's and Peter's and whoever else's houses. And, sometimes, we'd even play a little Chinese stoplight, which allowed me the opportunity to wind up in the front seat. Does life get any better than that?

A Great Deliverance by Elizabeth George

George, Elizabeth. A Great Deliverance. New York: Bantam Books, 1989.

(This was another title read for the mystery/detective book discussion book.)

Before I became a member of the mystery book discussion group, I wasn't someone who'd read a whole lot of mysteries. Yes, I'd gone through my teenaged "Agatha Christie" phase, and when I was younger, I had been completely hooked on the Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators series, and I had read about half a dozen Hardy Boy books, but other than that, nothing, really. I didn't even read Nancy Drew, which seems to be a female rite of passage in this country.

However, when I was in my twenties and early thirties, I discovered a number of authors that I liked. They were authors who belonged in the mystery genre, because they definitely wrote mysteries, but what hooked me on them had more to do with the ongoing stories of the main characters who showed up to solve the crimes rather than the mysteries themselves. Inevitably, I'd read one or two of the later books in the series and then would have to go back and start from the beginning and read them in order, because that was the only way I could get the full stories. I did this with the likes of Linda Barnes and Linda Fairstein and Elizabeth Peters. Janet Evanovich made it easy, because hers are all numbered, so I never read any of those out of order. Tom Corcoran only had two books out when I discovered him, so he was easy, too. Most recently, I've been following Jacqueline Winspear. Often what happens with these authors (Linda Barnes, Elizabeth Peters) is that I lose interest. I don't know why. I just do.

Maybe it's because once I begin to get a little behind in a series (which can easily happen, due to my natural tendency to savor rather than to gobble), I find that I can quite quickly begin to fall way behind, and it just becomes so overwhelming to try to catch up. Then, if I decide to try to catch up, I find I've forgotten so many of the details from the earlier books ("She's married to him? When did that happen? I thought they were sworn enemies"), I almost feel as though I need to go back and start again.

Anyway, that's sort of what happened to me with Elizabeth George. Only her books were a little bit different. I had a friend at work who lent me a few of her books that were published in the mid-nineties, and I got hooked, eagerly awaiting the next installment without having read the earlier works, mainly, I think, because they never seemed to be available at the library. Finally, one Christmas, I asked Bob to buy the first two in the series for me, and he kindly obliged. I still remember the first time I read this one. I was traveling to Chicago for a conference and finished it when I got stranded in the airport due to delays.

My reaction to it, back then, after having read her later works, was that I didn't like it much, despite getting some of the back story on the main characters I'd been missing. And my feelings must have been so strong that I never picked her back up again. This go-around, I can't quite understand what made me feel that way. Okay, some of the characters (all right, all right, put a gun to my head, all of the characters, just some much more than others --annoyingly so) are so stereotyped I can't figure out if she meant them to be serious, or if they were parodies (see: the American tourists in Yorkshire). Despite this irritation, though, as well as the other irritation of coming across something like 15 typos/grammatical errors before I'd reached page 100 (but that's not her fault. I can't blame editors, copyeditors, and proofreaders who fall down on the job on the author, although, has anyone else ever noticed that when you read someone like Julian Barnes, you rarely ever encounter such errors?), I enjoyed the book.

I liked George's attention to detail. As I did with the Christie (also a reread), I found myself paying much more attention to it, and discovering that she used it to her advantage. I guess all mystery writers do that, but it's easier to catch when you're revisiting a book. Complain, though I just have about it, some of the stereotyping was great, like the "Old Guard" at New Scotland Yard, men who, for instance, when the head of forensics is being too casually graphic, say things like,

"You're a ghoul, man! At least have the decency to remove that filthy coat
when you come here! Have you no sense at all? We've women on these floors!" (p.
14)

(One of them, of course, being Sergeant Barbara Havers, who has probably been exposed to far worse than a coroner's filthy coat while on duty, and who is about to be paired with Inspecter Thomas Lynley.)

I liked the story of Havers and Lynley being so wary of each other and their having to work it out together. I remember liking St. James and Deborah and Helen (other characters found throughout the series), and I still do. I also like the way George hides skeletons in the closets of all these characters (just because they aren't murderers and murder victims themselves doesn't mean they don't have plenty to hide). I also liked George's sense of humor.

I guess, though, that this go-around, I just didn't like the plot, the actual case and the characters involved in it -- the skeletons in their closets. And, thinking back on it, I realize that that's what left a bad taste in my mouth the first go-round. It just was so unpleasant and didn't seem all that original. Not that murder is ever "pleasant," but I hope you know what I mean.

Then again, it may have had nothing to do with plot. Maybe it's just that I am a horrible snob when it comes to Americans writing books set in England, even though George does a very good job. The only hint I got of "American writing England" was that her American characters were so obnoxious. She overcompensated. Even the English themselves are more forgiving of us than she seemed to be. Don't worry. I am just as snobby about English authors thinking they can write books set in America. I don't care how well you may think you know the other country and its people, you don't. But that's just me, and it's one of the rare instances in which I hold tight to the old "write about what you know" dictum (usually, I'm tossing that thing out the window and watching it get carried off with the wind). Perhaps I just decided I wanted the "real thing" when it comes to English mysteries.

Whatever it was, it's gone. I'm hooked again, and how perfect that I've already gone back and started at the beginning. I'm going to go find the second book in the series, which I know is hiding somewhere on my shelves. I've got lots of catching up to do. The woman is prolific...Oh, who am I kidding? Just typing this last paragraph has me so overwhelmed, I'm practically hyperventilating. Maybe it's best, for a change, just to tiptoe around those snoring dogs lying about all over the place.

The True Confessions Meme

(It seems like I stole this idea from Stefanie, who recently did a similar post, but I promise I didn't. She and I just happen to be on the same wavelength -- not for the first time.)

I was reading O magazine over the weekend (that's my first "true confession," I love that magazine), having, of course, skipped right to the article "What to Read Next: Our 26 Favorite Books of the Summer." Actually, since I'm in a confessing sort of a mood, that's not quite true. It was where I was headed before I got sidetracked by "Take the Intimacy Quiz!" (you will be happy to know that, according to this short little quiz, Bob and I score a "Congratulations -- your friendship and your marriage are strong") and the pictures of all the lovely pairs of clogs in "Love That! Clog Heaven" (falling madly in love, of course, with the pair that cost nearly $400).

Anyway, eventually I got to the article on books, because I am, of course, in desperate need of titles to add to the TBR tome (luckily, it seems that every other one was compared to Amy Bloom, a writer I have decided I don't like, so TBR damage was kept to a minimum). This article had a great sidebar feature in which authors were confessing about books they should have read but never have. "What fun, and how empowering to come clean," I thought, being someone who has lived her whole life trying to avoid people who might say to her, "You haven't read what? I can't believe you haven't read that!" I mean, if Kathryn Stockett can freely admit to Oprah's 5 billion (or whatever it is) followers that she's never read Jane Eyre, and Jennifer Egan can admit she's never read David Copperfield (woo-hoo, Jennifer. I'm right there with you!), surely I can admit to the handful of very kind people who read this blog that I've never read The Old Man and the Sea (or any Hemingway, as far as I know, although I may have read some short stories in high school that I don't remember). In fact, why not create a meme that revolves around such lapses?

So, here you go. This is the true confessions meme. Think of ten books it seems you should have read by now but never have. Post them. Feel free to say anything you want about why you haven't read them. Tag others when you're done.

1. The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett
I love the hard-boiled genre. People have told me for years that I can't really say that without having read this classic. We read The Glass Key a couple of years ago for the detective book club. I planned to read this one right after that. I never did. Still planning to read it, though... Really.

2. Light in August by William Faulkner
I love Faulkner. About 20 years after having read it, I still think The Sound and the Fury is one of the most brilliant books I've ever read. I want to read this one. I pull it from the shelf from time to time, but, for some reason, I keep putting it back unread. Maybe it's because Faulkner takes real commitment, and I'm too much of a commitment-phobe or something.

3. The Scarlet Letter by Nathanial Hawthorne
I was living in England when everyone read this one in ninth grade. Thus, I never read it. I know what it's about, though. Do I really have to read it? (I was thrilled a number of years back when both my parents admitted to me that they'd never read it, either. Maybe we Southerners just have a hard time with that Puritan stuff.)

4. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain
I never get around to this one, despite my love of Mark Twain, because I keep thinking I need to reread Le Morte D'Arthur before doing so, and, well, I never get around to that (despite the fact that I love it). I did, last year, try to listen to the audiobook version, but that just convinced me more than ever that I needed to revisit Malory, and so I gave up on it.

5. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
My sister told me, back when I was in high school, that I had to read this book. I've been having and planning to read it ever since.

6. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Can anyone think of a single good reason why I haven't read this book that is so up my alley it smells like garbage and has alley cat paw prints all over it?

7. Call of the Wild by Jack London
Is it horrible that I just really have no interest? Despite the fact that everyone tells me I'll love it?

8. Shogun by James Clavell
It's just so damn long, isn't it? The copy we have is actually in two volumes. I mean, no matter how good everyone tells me it is, who has time for that?

9. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
It's not long. I loved The Secret Agent. Why haven't I read this one?

10. Black Boy by Richard Wright
Again, I have no excuse. In fact, I ought to go pull it from the shelf right now and begin. But I won't (for the 100th or so time).

Oh well. At least there is one book I can say I've read that most haven't: the Bible (yes, the whole thing, although not the Apocrypha). I think that definitely makes up for never having read all these others. Maybe the next meme ought to be "books I've read that make up for those I haven't." (Madame Bovary three times, not by choice, certainly fits that bill).

So, now, everyone but Stefanie, because she basically already did it, who is reading this, must do the meme. I mean it. If I can confess, so can you. Or at least tell me: how many of those I've listed have you not read?

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

Does this one need any explanation whatsoever? I think not. Just play. Watch. Sigh. Repeat.

5 Things My Inner Feminist Hates About Me

1. Most men are at least five inches taller than I am. This means that, often, when I am hugged by male friends and family members, they have to lift me off my feet. Don't I sound so cave-womanish by saying I like that? "Me tiny little woman. You big, strong man who easily lift me off my feet."

2. I like to choose what I want from a menu, tell Bob, and let him order it for me. My inner feminist hates to go out to eat with us. I just snap at her, "I have to do so much in life. Why not let someone else who is willing to do so do this for me?"

3. If I am lugging heavy boxes/bags, trying to open a door when my hands are full, etc., and I see a perfectly capable man watch me without offering to help, I hate him. I have been known to decline an offer of help (very politely. I don't know who all these rude women are who have, apparently, cowed all the men I know from ever wanting to hold doors, because they all have stories of women snapping and yelling at them when they did so) when I really don't need it, but I consider it horribly rude of a man not to ask. I tell my inner feminist this has nothing to do with gender. I'd hate a perfectly capable female (especially if she obviously seems bigger and stronger than I) if she saw me and didn't offer assistance. However, I'd be lying if I said I don't like it when a man holds a door open for me even when I am hands-free and not burdened down with a thing (I won't hate him if he doesn't, though. I probably won't even notice, as it isn't something I expect).

4. I don't want to be asked, "May I kiss you?" I just want a man who so desires to do so, to do so and not to be wimpy about it. Just kiss me with all the passion you are feeling, if you are. Don't do it again, if I tell you not to, but if I like it, I am likely to say something like, "Could we do that again?" (I'm speaking theoretically here. I'm a happily married woman, but if men, other than my husband, were to start kissing me passionately, I don't think I would remain so.)

5. I don't mind at all if I get whistles and appreciative looks from strange men on the street (especially if they are attractive strange men). It happens very rarely, but I have never felt the least bit threatened when it does. No, I'd say it puts a spring in my step. It gives me a tiny little taste of how movie stars must feel. Inner feminist may be sulking, but I just say, "Look, it isn't as if they yelled something nasty or lascivious at me. That would be completely unacceptable." But that's never happened to me, and if it did, well, I have a middle finger for a reason.

That Old Attacking the TBR Tome Challenge

Some of you, especially those of you brave enough to have taken up my TBR Challenge, may be wondering how that's been coming for me. After all, if you've been paying attention, you may have noticed that I have not posted on any books for the challenge in...oh...months. Have no fear. This does not mean I have not been reading books for the challenge. I have definitely been reading from this list, just not as faithfully or as quickly as I would have liked.

You also may be wondering: does that mean that I have not bought any books since December? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! (Sorry. I think the laughter is now under control, or at least, no longer out loud.) Actually, I was doing very well when it came to buying no books until the annual library book sale last month. I'd only bought a few books (okay. okay. I don't know of anyone who would define "ten" as "a few." But it all depends on your perspective. Ten bees down your pants leg is not "a few." Ten drops of water in the ocean? Well, they're barely noticable). But then, the book sale came along, and I HAD to go (must. support. the. library.), and well, with paperbacks being only fifty cents a pop and hardcovers being anywhere from $1.00 - $4.00, let's just say I bought nearly as many books as I'm supposed to read for the challenge (you know, not too many, but a little more than "a few").

By the time I did that, though, I had actually already changed the rules (without telling anybody). The new rules were that I had to read at least 5 books on my original list, at least 10 others that I had already owned prior to 2010 and give away at least 20 books I either will never read or will never read again, and then I was allowed to start buying books again. By these new rules, I well deserved my library sale purchases. Not only have I, at this point, read 6 books from the list, but, including those six, I have read a total of 21 books that I already owned prior to 2010, and I have given away 22 books (mostly forgettable thrillers or cookbooks picked up at book shows and given to the library, but I have passed a few that I enjoyed, knowing I will never read them again, onto friends I thought also might enjoy them).

I have not changed the rules so much, though, that I do not still plan to read (or attempt to read) all the books that were on my original list. And I will begin to post on them, too. They've all been written about in my book journal, so it's just a matter of transcribing those entries here. Maybe (but don't hold me to it. It seems that the minute I lay out some sort of plan when it comes to reading and writing is the minute that plan goes awry) I'll start putting up one post a week or something.

So you see? It's, thus far, been a banner year for attacking the old TBR tome. I've just been attacking it from a different angle. Oh, and I've been keeping up all my math skills to boot.

A Brilliant Observation

If you are new to my blog, you can skip this post. If you have been reading my blog for some time, then my guess is that you have certain views of life that will guarantee your appreciation of this absolutely brilliant work of art, which a friend of mine was kind enough to link to on her Facebook wall, so I wouldn't miss it. I'm doing you the same favor, in case you haven't seen it yet. You must go take a look at it and tell me if you don't nearly wet your pants laughing like I did. That is, unless you are a twenty-something, in which case you must tell me whether or not it made you laugh out loud (when you get to be my age, that's pretty much synonymous with nearly wetting your pants laughing). While you're at it, you can also tell me whether or not you are now convinced someone's been spying on you all your life. Enjoy!

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

When I was a high school sophomore, if you had decided you wanted to steal my album collection, you wouldn't have found much. Albums were expensive; I did not yet have a steady job that paid me a decent wage; I was a money hoarder, rarely spending what I had if it wasn't necessary; and I had plenty of albums to listen to, thanks to my older sisters (although one had gone off to college by then, she hadn't taken everything with her, and she often came home for vacations with new stuff). What you would have found, besides a few Cat Stevens, Elton John, Jethro Tull, and Beatles records was almost everything by Queen and David Bowie. When I discovered you'd stolen what measly offerings I had to offer, I would have been absolutely devastated to find the latter two missing.

My family had just come back from living in England where the village boys and Ian and I had spent hours swapping Queen and David Bowie albums back and forth with each other. Of course, they hadn't been busy falling madly in love with David Bowie, but I had been. That's a love that has never died. You know, despite his wild youth (or maybe because of it), he's aged quite well, hasn't he?

Can you imagine the throes of ecstasy into which I was thrown when this hit was released? Everyone had to shut up if I was in the room and this happened to come on the radio. I bought Queen's Greatest Hits album, which I certainly didn't need, just because this was on it. Take a look at the video. Look how young (and alive) they all are. Now, shut up, while I listen to it and watch it over, and over, and over (watch Brian May play that guitar! Look how cool and sexy Bowie is when he snaps his fingers!) again. Sigh!

The Accidental Perfect Husband (Part II): A Tale by Emily Barton

(This post will make more sense if you read the previous post first.)


Princesses Becky and Marcy dismounted their steed and walked through the castle doors, magic trailing behind them in silver and gold sparkles, as they regaled Princess Emily with descriptions of their exciting and magnificent journey south. They had encountered amazing storms, lightening that lit up the Philadelphia sky (although how they ended up in Philadelphia is still a bit of a mystery) and had avoided such nuisances as plagues of frogs. They had brought books and music and chocolate and wine (red AND sparkling), along with clear skies and cooler weather. Immediately, their magic settling into every nook and corner of the castle, things began to change. Prince Bob announced that his migraine was gone (almost as quickly as it had appeared), and they all sat around to eat such delicacies as Pringles, Fritos, and Cheez Doodles while sipping their wine.

Prince Bob decided, at this point, that everyone needed to listen to The Byrds. Princesses Becky and Marcy humored him and his enthusiasm, even though the volume at which he insisted on playing it did not exactly lead to being able to converse without yelling. But by the end of the evening, after they had had their share of (not much of) the disastrous soup (but who cared by then, after filling up on all those delicacies?), casserole, and salad topped off with Amish chocolate cake, he had progressed to Simon and Garfunkle, which everyone could truly appreciate (and even sing along to when "At the Zoo" came on). They were in high spirits, if a little exhausted, when they all headed up to sleep, way past the princesses' normal bedtimes.

The next morning, the coffee pot decided to rebel when Princess Becky came down to make the coffee for everyone. Princess Emily was sure it must have given up the ghost, but with a little urging (and probably some more of that magic, which was still just climbing out of bed itself), it sprang back to life, and the princesses were able to drink large mugs of coffee before heading out to the royal farm stand to get Amish sticky buns and coffee cake to go with more mugs of coffee. All the sugar and caffeine provided them with a nice buzz to get the day going, and soon enough, they were almost ready for a trip to the neighboring village of Lititz to visit its marketplace.

The royal plumber arrived shortly before they left, and Prince Bob gallantly left the princesses to their own devices while he dealt with the plumber and then proceeded to amuse himself for the day. Princess Emily fully expected some sort of catastrophe, some urgent matter that would cut short the morning in Lititz, but no. Prince Bob called her to tell her everything was fixed fine and had no other problems that needed Princess Emily's attention (this is a rarity. Barely a day goes by that Prince Bob does not need Princess Emily's help with something. Usually, she is at least called upon to find some article of clothing that he must have now and can't find or to help him with some sort of preparation of food) the rest of the day.

Princesses Becky, Emily, and Marcy went on to have a lovely day. The marketplace in Lititz proved to be quite charming. Princess Emily bought herself some jewels and trinkets, and they all met the royal artisan who makes the marvelous throne, along with other beautiful works of art that double as comfortable places to sit and eat. They feasted on sandwiches, sitting outside in the fine, spring weather, and when they were done, it was time to set off for the village of Intercourse for more food and drink. This time it would be tea and scones and crumpets served on fine china in the lovely little tea room. Princess Emily was thrilled to discover that the tea shop now carries Mars Bars, so she no longer needs to beg Princess Becky to bring them back from England for her.

When they got back to the castle after their adventures, Prince Bob, who had slowly been morphing into Prince Charming all weekend, seemed to have completed the process. It was soon time for the Grand Horse Race that takes place every year in the Kingdom of Marlyand (a.k.a. The Preakness), and he suggested they should all watch it while they sipped the sparkling wine Princess Marcy had been kind enough to bring to the castle. This the three princesses did while lounging on Princess Marcy's bed (the royal television couch converts into a bed when Princess Marcy and Becky visit). Prince Bob/Charming served as bookie, keeping track of who was "betting" on which horse, as well as waiter, refilling glasses as needed.

Before they knew it, the race was over. And what an exciting race it had been, especially with Prince Bob/Charming eagerly getting everyone into the spirit. Princess Marcy's horse had won, and they all congratulated her before the princesses realized it was now time to dress for dinner. Everyone changed into their royal gowns (affording Princess Marcy yet another opportunity to change shoes), and Prince Bob/Charming changed into his finest suit of armor to escort the beautiful princesses to the Royal Pub.

It was at the pub that Prince Bob/Charming kicked into high gear. He ignored the odd looks cast at the three princesses, as they walked through the door, from a Wicked Party of Starers taking up a good deal of space at the establishment, and he blocked the Black Magic the Starers had tried to send the princesses' way. He escorted them to a table with three seats, politely choosing to stand until he could secure a seat of his own (which he was not able to do from the Wicked Party of Starers, despite the fact they had a chair that obviously was not being used by anyone). He then told the princesses to sit tight while he brought menus and ordered everyone's drinks and food for them, bringing it all back to the table, so that the princesses could sit and enjoy themselves without having to lift even a pinky finger.

Princess Emily barely recognized this Prince Charming (it's amazing what the company of beautiful princesses he rarely sees can do to a man, isn't it?). He seemed to be perfect in every way: perfect server, perfect chauffeur, perfect conversationalist... And that was when it hit her: Princesses Marcy and Becky had done it. They had sneakily cast their magic spells and had helped her find the Perfect Husband, while she was busy thinking they'd been in search of another Perfect Day. Of course, he is, quite obviously, only perfect when under a magic spell, a Perfect Husband who can only be found accidentally when Princess Emily is not looking for him and who is obviously easier to find when in the company of certain princesses, but still, he is there. And Princess Emily doesn't really mind that magic is necessary in order for him to appear. After all, she loves magic.

The Accidental Perfect Husband: A Tale by Emily Barton

Once upon (a not very long) time (ago), three princesses set out in search of a Perfect Husband, and decided he didn't exist. Thus, because they are all three so wise, they gave up the folly of searching for the Perfect Husband and decided to spend all future quests in pursuit of Perfect Days, which are much easier to find, especially when the three princesses join forces rather than trying to seek out such days on their own. Perfect days seem to be around every bend when they do that.



Last Friday, late afternoon, Princess Emily's (electronic) messenger delivered the happy news that Princesses Marcy and Becky had indeed begun the long journey from the kingdom of Connecticut to the kingdom of Pennsylvania where the three would gather to see if a Perfect Day could be had in these parts. Princesses Becky and Marcy were quite convinced of it. Princess Emily, although she loves her castle, wasn't quite so sure, having encountered multitudes of, let's just say "less-than-perfect" days in her kingdom. She knows that perfect days can be had here, that she has, on occasion, experienced them, but that they often tend to be quite elusive and surely are not as abundant as Less than Perfect Days. Princess Emily has a sneaky suspicion, though, that Princesses Marcy and Becky encounter all sorts of Less than Perfect Days in the Kingdom of Connecticut and that they need her to help them find Perfect Days up there, so she was quite sure that they could help her catch an elusive perfect day in the Kingdom of Pennsylvania. That's why she was so happy that they were on their way.



However, almost as soon as the messenger had delivered the happy news, all sorts of things began to happen that did not bode well for discovering a Perfect Day. First of all, Princess Emily's castle decided to suffer a few drainage problems. To be specific, the basin and washtub in the upstairs privy refused to drain properly. Princess Emily is hopeless when it comes to such matters, but luckily, the castle comes with its own crew of men to fix such things. If Princess Emily had managed to find the Perfect Husband, all she would have had to do was to ask him to call that crew to send people over and the drain problem would have been fixed in no time. However, Princess Emily is married to Prince Bob, who is lovable, but let's face it, is far from perfect. He laughed at the notion of calling in the crew to fix something as simple as clogged drains. He fixes such things all the time. Have no fear: he would fix it before the other princesses arrived.



Princess Emily was somewhat dubious, but she has witnessed his drain-fixing abilities in the past, so she decided not to worry and headed off to the local market to buy (the infamous Amish) sticky buns for the next day's breakfast. Princesses Marcy and Becky would still be recuperating from their long journey the next morning and would need such sustenance to accompany their coffee. Princess Emily arrived at the market only to discover, much to her dismay, that they were out of sticky buns. What? She'd never heard of such a thing! She had never arrived at the market to discover a bare spot on the counter where sticky buns ought to be (and she has frequented this market on numerous occasions to purchase sticky buns). She was informed that she would have to come back the following morning if she planned to get any sticky buns. She left that market empty-handed and carried on to the other market to purchase some last-minute items for dinner and to take her evening walk before getting together with members of her church to practice the service they would be holding on Sunday.



During all this time, Prince Bob was busy working on the drains. Princess Emily did not pay much attention to him, now worried as there had been tornado watches posted, and a sudden storm had blown up, causing the (electric) candles to flicker in the church while they were practicing. How could she and Princess Marcy and Becky possibly discover a Perfect Day if they lost power or (worse) were hit by a tornado? The storm passed, though, and she walked back into her castle to be told by Prince Bob that he couldn't fix the drains. As a matter of fact, after doing what he normally does to fix them, they actually seemed to be worse than ever. He was obviously demoralized in the way only A Man Who Can't Fix It And Has To Call Someone Else can be. He had called on the crew, and someone would be coming to fix it Saturday morning. So demoralized was he that, shortly before Princesses Becky and Marcy were to arrive, he found himself with a migraine and had to go lie down in the dark.



Princess Emily, I am sorry to say, was not very sympathetic. She was searching for a Perfect Day and a husband, sick in bed with a migraine, does not for a Perfect Day make. She decided to ignore him and focus on cooking, something she loves to do, something certain to set the stage for a Perfect Day. Unfortunately, it did not. The casserole she had planned to make was one she'd made plenty of times, one that is always a crowd pleaser. However, she had got it into her head that she wanted to make this "pesto soup" idea she'd had for some time, which would be the starter. The problem is, she ran out of ingredients. As she began making the soup, she realized that what she really needed was 2 cans of garbanzo beans, not the one she had thought she'd need. She only had one. She substitued a can of black beans, which probably would have been okay, if she had not then put too much salt in it. It was one of those cooking lessons well-learned, so that next time she decides to make the soup, she can make it perfectly. However, it was not a lesson one wants to learn when making soup for guests.



By the time Princesses Becky and Marcy arrived, here was what we had: drains that were still clogged, meaning no one could use the upstairs privy (which was also now a mess, because everything that usually lives in the cupboard under the basin had been removed and put on the floor), a tornado watch in effect until midnight, a husband up in bed with a migraine, soup that was not what it could have been, and no sticky buns for Saturday morning's breakfast. Could a Perfect Day be salvaged from this mess? Well, Emily had just uncorked a bottle of wine. Perhaps that might help ease the pain if the Perfect Day was never found.



(To Be Continued)

Things I Am Not Good At #1

Ms. Musings (who seems to show up in almost all my blog posts these days. Oh well, don't complain. You'd be hard-pressed to find company much better than Ms. Musings) recently asked us in a blog post what stresses us out. Well, I could probably write a whole book on that (maybe I should? No, too stressful), but, happily, she knocked off one of my stressors for me. Anyone who has been reading this blog for more than five minutes knows how much I hate public speaking. Apparently, though, according to those who have been subjected to one of my barely coherent ramblings, I am good at it, so it is not appropriate for a blog post with the title this one has. That's typical, though, isn't it? Only I would be good at something I so loathe. Could I be good at ice skating, which I love? No. Could I be a good singer? No. I have to be good at public speaking and hear over and over, "You're lying. You can't possibly hate it. You do it so well. I've booked you for a panel on dinosaur eggs that I'm hosting next month."

So, let's move onto another stressor, something that not only stresses me out but that people will actually believe I am no good at doing. That would be inviting people into my home. If you have ever been invited to my house for more than ten minutes in the foyer, consider yourself lucky. If you happen to be someone who has actually sat in a chair, say, and maybe even been offered tea (or perhaps something a little stronger), it's because you are someone I so love and whose company I so enjoy that I am willing to put aside all "house-isn't-perfect" and "Miss-Manners-would-lock-me-up-for-breaking-every-etiquette-rule-in-the-book-if-she-could" fears for you. If you've been invited as an overnight guest, well, you are either family or someone I wish were family. You also happen to be someone I am quite sure enjoys me for my company and couldn't care less that I am a terrible housekeeper and an even worse interior decorator (and that I can't be bothered and don't have the money to spend billions on a good interior decorator).

Basically, Bob and I live in a messy house whose sole focus is on books and reading. When we were newlyweds and bought our first home in CT, we were house poor. We couldn't afford to decorate or do much of anything other than eat whatever was on sale and marvel at the fact that we owned a whole house. I got into the habit of thinking I couldn't afford to do anything and never adjusted to the fact that we now can. Almost all of our furniture is either inherited or is stuff that was donated to us at some point. We have exactly one couch and one bed that we shopped for and bought together, and even that couch was found in a second-hand shop. This furniture has all merely been plopped down in our house with our biggest concern being comfortable places to sit/lie and read. Occasionally, we will do something wild, like hire an Amish man to custom make bookshelves for us, because, well, you know, they house books.

Some of our furniture is actually gorgeous, though. I mean, when parents pass on furniture, they tend to pass on family heirlooms that they want to keep in the family. Our dining room table was a given to my great grandparents as a wedding gift. The desk at which I work every day belonged to my grandmother. We have a beautiful corner cupboard from Bob's parents in our dining room that has been the envy of many a dinner guest. However, we have never done the sorts of things most people do with such pieces, like build a room around them (the corner cupboard definitely does not match the dining room table).

Despite our haphazard decorating style, though, there is only one room in the whole house that I really can't stand. It's the living room, where we only have two nice pieces of furniture. One is a Victorian chair that my parents gave us. The other is a birch bookcase (a bookcase, but of course!) that a friend gave us when we moved to PA. He's a lovely friend to have, one of those men with impeccable tastes who buys things impulsively and then, seemingly just as impulsively, decides to get rid of them (we also have a beautiful carpet, a fantastic quilt he commissioned a friend of his to make for his parents that they then didn't want, and a favorite wooden salad bowl, thanks to him). The rest of the living room, however, is nothing but junk, big old chairs and couches left over from pre-marriage days or from the people who sold us their house in Connecticut, who left quite a lot behind. None of it is attractive or particularly comfortable.

Yet, the living room is where one is supposed to entertain. And when one is a minister's wife, she often has to invite people whose company she does not particularly enjoy into her home. That feeling is probably mutual, which means they are the sorts who are not likely to overlook pieces of furniture that are out of place (that would probably be out of place anywhere other than a junkyard), screws that are loose, tattered rugs, and a hostess who serves them tea in the wrong sort of cup. They are the sorts who say, "Wow! You sure have a lot of books," and not as if they want to begin reading any of them, especially since they make no move to examine what might be on the shelves. If you want to know stress, just observe me when I know those sorts are about to arrive.

I can hear you now. You're thinking, "Well, why not just redecorate the living room?" The answer to that question will probably have to be saved for "Things I Am Not Good At #2: Making Decorating Decisions with the Man Who Thinks that Huge, Ugly Chairs Spewing Stuffing All Over The Floor Are "Nice, Comfortable Chairs.'" Maybe, one of these days, when someone has given me Valium intravenously, I will do something about it. In the meantime, I will do what I do expertly: avoid, as much as I possibly can, inviting people into my home.

Music Monday and Winners of the Bloggiversary Quiz

I like the way Ms. Musings has been doing Music Mondays, with a little help from YouTube, so I decided to steal her way of doing it (since she was just visiting) and resuscitate my own Music Mondays (which I recently told her I've been letting lie sprawled on the floor, gasping for air, while I callously tell them "Oh, quit being so overdramatic"). I love to make connections in my life, so today was a perfect day to connect this fantastic video of one of my favorite Bernstein songs from one of my all-time favorite musicals (West Side Story).

A while ago, I began to make a list of songs I ought to post for Music Monday and started making categories like "childhood pop songs," "great folk songs", "favorites from musicals," etc. This was at the top of that last category. Then, last week, I began to think, "Maybe Music Monday isn't just being a drama queen. Maybe I do need to provide a little help to bring it back to life. I'll post something on Monday."

Well, wouldn't you know it? Yesterday, one of Bob's professors from seminary came to town as a guest of our Lancaster Interchurch Peace Witness board and Lancaster Theological Seminary. Bob was asked to introduce his former professor Gary Dorrien before his first talk yesterday afternoon. (BTW, I am very proud of Bob. His introduction was fantastic and got Gary a little choked up, so that he had to pause before he could begin. Then, Gary said, "I have to add something. In the time that I have been at Union, I can assure you that we have had no student who was more brilliant than Bob, and I've been wanting him to come back ever since he left, and I plan to work on that this afternoon. Of course, one of the congregants from our church, at the end of the talk, came up to be introduced to Gary by Bob and immediately said, "Please don't take him away from us." It's nice to have a husband who is so wanted). Gary told Bob that his fiancee would be coming with him. It turns out his fiancee's ex-husband was Leonard Bernstein's producer. How appropriate that I should post this today, then.

I've loved this song ever since I first heard it. Of course, as a teenager who thinks she and her friends will never fit in anywhere, it's so appropriate, isn't it? How could any teenager not love it? But, all my life, I've kind of felt that I don't really fit in anywhere and have always thought there must be a place for me somewhere. I haven't found it yet, but I will let you know when/if I do.

And the winners of Emily's Bloggiversary Quiz? Dorr and Stef. Thank you to everyone who played, and I'm very sorry the rest of you didn't win, but this will probably become an annual event, so maybe, if you are able to stick with me that long, you'll luck out in the futre. Meanwhile, Dorr and Stef, you each need to choose four books for me to order.

A Quiz for the Bloggiversary

(Note: someone needs to come up with the standardized spelling for "bloggiversary." I feel like an Elizabethan whenever I type the word.)

My 4-year bloggiversary (can you believe it? I can't) is next Saturday. Appropriately, Princesses Becky and Marcy will be here to help me celebrate. They don't know this yet, but in honor of the occasion, I am going to put them to work, and I am putting all of you, who so choose, to work as well. I am giving you another quiz, similar to one I once gave as a meme (but with different questions and answers). Your job is to see how many of these oh-so-difficult-and-tricky questions about Emily you can answer correctly. All answers have been revealed on this blog sometime during the past four years. Those who get all the answers right will have their names put in a hat. I will then ask Princesses Marcy and Becky each to draw a winner from that hat when they are here next weekend.

What do the lucky winners receive? Every year, since I started my blog, I have posted lists of favorite books read that year. I post a list (usually in July) of my six favorite books from the first half of the year. Then (usually in January of the following year) I post a list of my six favorite books from the second half of the year. The two lucky winners get to choose any four books that have appeared on any of those lists, and I will order and send them via Better World Books (my favorite online bookseller).

Any questions? No? Then, ready? Set? Here we go:

1. Emily went to
a. Salem College
b. The University of Connecticut
c. I don't know. Emily doesn't talk much about her alma mater, but I think she once mentioned that she doesn't do so because she hates the way people are pegged in this country according to where they decided (when they were very young) to study for four years
d. Scripps College

2. Emily has been living in Lancaster County, PA
a. all her life (and makes the best chicken pot pie noodles around)
b. 20+ years (and people still act as though she landed in a spaceship, from Mars, not too long ago)
c. 2 1/2 years (and she still thinks dinner time is between 8:00 and 8:30 p.m., not between 5:00 and 5:30 p.m.)
d. Emily lives in PA? I thought she lived in CT

3. Emily is
a. soon going to be on a TV special, discussing all the true life ghost encounters she's had
b. almost finished writing the biography of her favorite author J.K. Rowling
c. almost finished knitting a gorgeous sweater dress
d. almost finished writing the firs draft of a novel

4. Emily is married to
a. Bob, the Republican Congressman
b. Bob, the Presbyterian minister
c. Bob, the Fox News Correspondent
d. Ed, the Televangelist

5. Emily hates
a. going to parties when she doesn't know anyone
b. cooking
c. scuba diving
d. being alone

6. If Emily were a billionaire, in which of these places would she not have a residence:
a. Manhattan's Upper West Side
b. Winston-Salem, NC
c. Mt. Desert Island, ME
d. Asheville, NC

7. Emily
a. wishes someone would invent an e-book reader that truly caters to readers
b. wishes print books would disappear
c. has no use for e-books and is sure they are merely a passing phase
d. buys just as many e-books as she does print books

8. Emily
a. was the high school homecoming queen
b. was the high school basketball star
c. won 4th place in the high school creative writing contest for a poem she wrote that was misprinted, thus changing its whole meaning
d. was class valedictorian

9. Emily hopes
a. gun laws become more lenient in this country
b. the Tea Partyers take over the world
c. all women will teach their daughters to be proud to say "I am a feminist"
d. everyone in America will soon see that health care for all (especially if provided by the government) is a stupid idea

10. If Emily ran for president she'd have to
a. come clean with the fact that she used to run a puppy mill
b. come clean with the fact that she once used drugs
c. come clean with the fact that she doesn't have children because she hates them
d. come clean with the fact that she thought she was a lesbian until she discovered the Good News of the Gospel, saw the light, and changed her wicked ways

If you're game, just leave your answers in the comments. I will post answers and winners next weekend.

The Murder of Roger Akroyd by Agatha Christie

Christie, Agatha. The Murder of Roger Akroyd. New York: Dodd, Mead & Co, 1985. (The book was orginally published in 1929.)

(I couldn't find a cover image for the edition of this book I read, so I chose this one. Isn't it fantastic?)

Somehow, the Connecticut detective book club had managed to go this long (over 2 years. Hard to believe we've been together that long, huh?) without reading any Christie. You knew we'd get around to her soooner or later, though right? I mean, you can't really be a detective book club and ignore The Dame.

I hadn't read any Christie since I was in my twenties, and most of what I've read of hers, I'd read long before that. As far as detective fiction goes, though (if you don't count things like The Hardy Boys and -- eleven-year-old-me's very favorite -- Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators), you could say I cut my teeth on Christie. In fact, you could say as far as contemporary adult fiction goes, I cut my teeth on Christie. I started reading "my first grownup book" when I was twelve. My sister had pulled an Agatha Christie from our shelves (sorry, but I don't remember exactly which one. I am pretty sure it was a Tommy and Tuppence, though) and told me to start with it. I was sure this adult book was going to be too hard for me, but I was determined (because my 13-year-old cousin had recently mocked me for still going to the children's room of the main, downtown branch of our county library). There we were, both lying on my sister's bed, reading, when I, all on about page 2 or so, came to the word "unshed" describing "snow."

"What's 'unshed'?" I asked my sister, pronouncing the word with one syllable, like "bunched."

"Huh? Unshed?" See? These books were so hard, even my sister didn't know all the words.

"Yeah. It says 'unshed snow.'"

"Let me see." I handed her the book.

"Un-shed. Un-shed," she said, laughing. I joined in, and thus, yet another family joke was born.

Once I got over that mysterious unshed snow, I went on to devour the book and then every other Christie we had in the house, as well as at the local branch of our county library, except the Miss Marple mysteries. To this day, I have yet to read a Miss Marple, because neither of my sisters liked her, and they convinced me not to read the books that feature her (and now you see what sort of sway two older sisters can have over a third daughter).

Now that I've read so many other mystery writers, I was curious to see how Agatha Christie would hold up. I was afraid this book might be as boring as The Yellow Room or that forgettable Ngaio Marsh we read, that my sophisticated palate would find her stultifying. Would Hercule Poirot seem like nothing but a pompous ass now that I've met the likes of Father Brown (who can be a bit pompous himself, but the stories are so much fun and so funny that you easily forgive him), Lew Archer, John Rebus, and (most recently) John Connolly's Charlie Parker?

I needn't have feared. Agatha Christie held up marvelously, and Poirot is no more pompous than he has a right to be. He's actually rather self-effacing and endearing, if judging him by this book. We first come across him throwing squashes over the garden wall in anger and frustration, because he had imagined himself capable of enjoying a nice, quiet retirement in the village of King's Abbott, and instead (reading between the lines), is finding it as boring as I thought this book might be.

The Murder of Roger Akroyd is definitely what, by today's mystery classifications, would be described as a "cozy" (a description I've always found amusing. I understand when you tell me that Miss Read is "cozy," even though I've never read her. I can just tell. I don't understand, however, how anything that involves murder can be considered "cozy." A "neat," perhaps, because it follows a formula and all is explained, with no loose ends, in the end. Or maybe a "no-blood-and-guts," but not a "cozy." I mean, if you had just discovered that your next-door-neighbor had been found with a dagger in his back, I don't think you'd respond, "Oh, how nice. Let's pour ourselves some tea and sit in front of the fire wrapped in blankets and play a game of Scrabble." At least I wouldn't. I'd be double-and-triple checking the locks on all my doors and calling up some of the biggest, toughest people I know to ask if they'd like to come over and hang out all night with a bottle of bourbon). We only have one body (not counting the obvious suicide on the very first page). The suspects are all known to each other. And the detective just happens to have moved into this village.

It could have been extremely dull, yet another chapter-after-chapter of questioning until you just want to throw the book across the room, because you care so little about any of it and are angry that it doesn't just end. Finally, something comes to light, and the detective manages to get someone to confess. By then, you've practically forgotten who's been killed and can't be bothered to decide whether or not the pulling together of all the clues, resulting in this conclusion, makes sense. The murderer confesses, and you just decide, "well, it must make sense. She confessed."

But here's where Christie's genius lay: the book is not the least bit dull. First of all, I am green with envy over her powers of description. She observes everything wisely and keenly, and nothing gets past her (I'm not sure I would have wanted to be her neighbor or a regular guest at her house, but these are just the sorts of qualities you want in a mystery writer), and she's just that little bit snarky enough to add fun without too much discomfort. As such, we really know her characters. She also knows her English villages. I loved this description of King's Abbot we got:

Able-bodied men are apt to leave the place early in life, but we are rich in
unmarried ladies and retired military officers. Our hobbies and recreations can
be summed up in one word, "gossip." (p. 7)

And she knows how to make a house that's full of secrets completely believable. Sometimes, when reading mysteries, I'm amused by all the secrets and all the odd things an author will have going on in, say, an English country house like this one, on any given night. Usually, I find myself thinking, "Oh, come on! Wasn't there a single person in the house who just ate dinner and went to bed? They can't all have had something to hide that might make them murderers." Here, I just found myself thinking, "Boy, she's so clever in the way she's managed to get me to believe all this."

Finally, she's got a great sense of humor that I just love. There's this fabulous scene in which some of the characters are all playing Mah Jong while gossiping and puzzling through the murder. The scene is beautifully executed, each character epitomizing different styles of play that suit their personalities perfectly. She certainly had me giggling.

I will say that I did figure out whodunit, but only for two reasons: a. I had a very vague memory of the surprising ending, despite the fact I hadn't read this in probably over 30 years. It's definitely an ending that ought to stick and b. the jacket copy, as well as friends, had gone on about the clever twist at the end. That put me on my toes and had me looking for the sorts of things authors throw in as clues that readers like I so often miss while being wrapped up in more exciting details of the plot (the old magician distracting the audience routine). I wasn't disappointed, though, just gratified to have been right, and I still found myself thinking, "Well done" at the end.

I imagine critics might say that she copped out at the end. To some degree, she did, but, really, I can't see what else she could have done. She'd done a brilliant job of setting up this whole thing, and I, for one, would have been quite disappointed if she hadn't ended it the way she did. Besides, when the death penalty is a guarantee, which it was in those days, my guess is that it wasn't quite so unrealistic for a case to end this way.

I wish I were going to be at the discussion this weekend, because I'm dying to talk about why this was such a great book to follow The Talented Mr. Ripley, and I'd like to make comparisons to The Moonstone. I won't do so here, though, because I am so loathe to include spoilers in blog posts about books I've enjoyed (and hope I didn't say too much in the previous paragraph). You're on your own to read all three books and to figure it out yourself.

The Neglected Classic Meme

I got this one from Litlove. I've had a blog post floating around in my head about books nobody reads that they should, and then this came along. As I commented to Litlove, it seems highly appropriate to begin with this meme, and then I might get around to writing about other books soon. So, here you go: the neglected classic meme.

What is your neglected Classic?
Emma Who Saved My Life by Wilton Barnhardt. It was first published in 1989, so it's barely 20 years old. With the exception of a few people I've raved to about it (and a couple of readers of this blog who commented on it a few years back when I mentioned it in one of my posts, oh, and my sister, who read it independently of me), nobody I know has even heard of it, let alone read it. Does that mean it can't qualify as a classic? I think not.

When did you first read it?
I don't remember exactly what year it was but sometime in the late 1990s. It could have been the early 2000s, but was most definitely before Bob was in seminary (which means prior to 2003), because it was before we'd lived in New York. I do remember finding it on the shelves at one of Bob's and my favorite bookstores, The Hickory Stick in Washington Depot, CT. I bought it for him as a gift, thinking he needed something light and funny to read, because he was going through a rough period, and he read it first. I can still remember lying in bed, both of us with books in hand, and his roaring with laughter over this one. As soon as he was done with it, I just had to read it. It turns out, it's funny, but it's not really so light.

Give a brief summary of the book
In 1974, a young Midwesterner named Gil steps off the bus that has brought him to New York where he plans to seek his fame and fortune as an actor. He meets his friend Lisa, who has preceded him by three months and who is seeking her fame and fortune as a painter. Lisa introduces Gil to Emma, seeking her fame and fortune as a poet. So there you have it: the actor, the artist, and the writer, and they start by all sharing a sublet together. The fact that none of these three is a native New Yorker makes them, as E.B. White once mused, even more New York, doesn't it (New York being the city that is made up of so many out-of-towners)? Gil falls madly in love with Emma, who does not fall madly in love with him (at least, we don't think she does, but we only know her through Gil's first-person narrative. I've always thought it would be neat if Barnhardt -- or someone -- would write Emma's side of the story), and we spend ten years with this threesome -- but really twosome -- in New York City, experiencing all their very real ups and downs with seeking fame and fortune and love in New York.

What makes this book stand out to you?
Always witty (I'm a self-deprecating humor junkie, and Gil is Perfection in this regard) and sometimes uproariously funny (one of Gil's off-off Broadway experiences still makes Bob and me laugh if we merely mention it to each other), I also loved this book for being so real. I found myself wondering why Gil was infatuated to the extent he was with Emma. She was annoying at best and often just plain cruel. Nonetheless, he manages to make her sympathetic. I couldn't quite hate her. I have felt that way many, many times about friends of mine's ga-ga infatuations.

I also loved Barnhardt's portrayal of New York and the 1970s. The book made me so wish I'd had that experience of living in the city when I was in my twenties, which I never was brave enough to do, always feeling I didn't have enough money (I marveled at these characters, determined to make it there even so). There is a poignancy to the book that is not just about the characters. It is also about the city and the decade. Not only about the characters' loss of youth and innocence, but also about the city's and the decade's losses of youth and innocence. That sounds absurd for a book that takes place in the 1970s, I know, but so be it. It may be absurd, but Wilton Barnhardt accomplishes it. The book also reminded me that I am as madly in unrequited love with that city as Gil is with Emma, which is why I don't see all its annoying and cruel traits the way friends of mine might.

Name some similar authors
Armistead Maupin, sort of, but not really, because Maupin is more farcical. Richard Russo, but Russo is a bit older and more jaded, although less edgy. An American Nick Hornby, maybe? I don't know. If anyone has read this book, please feel free to help me out here.

What sort of person would you recommend to read this book?
Anyone who loves New York City, most especially those who, as twentysomethings, actually set out to seek fame and fortune in The Big Apple and hung out with other twentysomethings doing same. Anyone who wishes they'd known that city prior to the 1980s, when it was being over-run by yuppies, but loves it anyway. Anyone who has ever been an idiot in and for unrequited love. Also, anyone who loves a book with fantastic characterization and (one of my favorite author tricks) an author who knows how to make the setting one of the characters.

Do you have any quotes you'd like to share?
Here's Gil when he first arrives in New York:

Now, I very much wanted to look like Coolness, so I went to male prostitute/Pot-Heroin-Cocaine Central, the men's room, to Freshen Up and there I am before a dingy mirror trying to look tough, New York tough, Gil in the big city...nope, it's not gonna work. I'm still five-ten, I'm still a wimp, I can barely lift my suitcase.

(Even though I am a woman, I know exactly what he means about trying to look New York tough.)

This is Emma's take on nutrition (this quote is part of the marketing copy and helped sell me on the book when I first found it):

"It is important to have one representative from each of the four food groups. A caffeine, a sugar, a booze, and a grease. Now I had coffee and a doughnut this morning, and I'm going to drink cheap beer tonight. That leaves a grease--Fritos."

(That quote perfectly sums up why, no matter how annoying she may be, I can't hate Emma.)

And, there we have it. I have just convinced myself that I need to reread this book. The whole purpose of this meme is to spread the word about great neglected books. If you are reading this post, consider yourself tagged.

Reading in 2020

Don't get me wrong. As many of you know, I am, by no means, anti-e-book. I have an iTouch, and I have downloaded free e-book apps (including The Kindle) and have played around with (oh yeah, and read) them. I have discovered that I don't have much trouble reading a book on the small screen (something I had thought would be a problem), and I love the convenience of it: instant books (I have not yet paid for a single e-book, which probably is not good, since I work in publishing. This will change when Bob and I get an iPad -- we're waiting for the second generation), one small gizmo to carry around in my bag (on my last business trip, I only took one print book with me. That would have been unheard of in my pre-iTouch days), and the ability to quickly look stuff up online while reading a book, if I want (I know. I know. Many say that sort of thing is ruining the act of reading, but I do it anyway, because...well, I can. The novelty may wear off at some point). And, as I've always suspected, I was thrilled when I began reading my e-book version of Eothen, or Traces of Travel Brought Home from the East by Alexander William Kinglake (great book, by the way. Download it and read it if you've got the Kindle app), got to my first endnote, tapped on the number, and was instantly taken to the note. When I was done, I tapped again and was instantly taken back to my place. Such service! What else could a reader want?

As it turns out, quite a lot. Sure, e-books provide plenty of conveniences, but conveniences always come hand-in-hand with inconveniences. You'd think they were sixteen-year-olds in love for the first time. You rarely ever see them apart.

We readers are an imaginative lot, and my imagination seems to love to play around with e-book scenarios. It's been making up all kinds of scenarios that might become reality if the likes of Jeff Bezos have their way and manage to kill print publishing. Even if, say, they don't make the mistake of catering to ADHD techies instead of readers, attaching all sorts of bells and whistles to the latest Neil Gaiman novel, and merely give us what we now have, the book in a downloadable format, I don't think I'll be too happy living in such a world. Here are a few of the scenarios my imagination has been serving up:

Scenario #1

Emily's Friend (EF): So, did you finish Cool Mysterywriter's new book yet? What a great book. I was so surprised. I just didn't see that ending coming at all.

Emily (E): Well, actually...no.

EF: No? But you told me you started that at least two weeks ago. I couldn't put it down. I read it in, like, one day. Don't tell me you didn't like it. How could you not like it?

E: No. I loved it.

EF: You loved it, but you haven't finished it? God, you've got so much more self control than I have. I had to put my life on hold for that one.

E: It's not that. I wanted to finish it, was putting my life on hold, too. Then, it disappeared.

EF: What? Oh, God, not with that book. I'm always afraid that's going to happen to me with a book like that. Luckily, it hasn't so far.

EF: Yeah, well, it's the third one this year that's disappeared on me. I'd just started the next to the last chapter, and that was it. Gone. I checked all the files, everywhere it could possibly be. Nothing. Lost forever. And I refuse to pay for it again. Now I'm on the interminable waiting list at the library. But don't tell me how it ends. I don't want to know.

EF: Don't worry. I won't. But, God, I don't know how you can wait. I'd lend you my copy, but well, of course, you know, I can't.

E: I know. And to think, I thought I hated Amazon back in 2008. I knew nothing about hate back then.

Scenario #2

EF: Oh, I just finished the most fun book. It's Katie Chicklit's most recent, and it's so funny. You downloaded that one when you went to London, didn't you?

E: Yeah, but I never read it.

EF: Too bad. It would've been perfect airplane reading.

E: Oh, I'm sure it would've been. I had saved it for the plane ride back. But then, we got stuck on the ground before taking off from Heathrow.

EF: Oh no!

E: Yep. They loaded us all on board, wouldn't let us get off, and then we sat for 3 1/2 hours before we finally took off. I'd forgotten to recharge my battery the night before, which would have been fine, if we hadn't had that extra 3 1/2 hours tagged on. Of course, my #$%! battery died. I had enough power to finish up the one book I was reading, but not enough for Katie Chicklit.

EF: God, what did you do?

E: I was stuck watching some Godawful, barely memorable movie.

Scenario #3

Tech Store Clerk (TSC): I'm sorry. We can't fix this.

E: What do you mean you can't fix this??! I've got 1500 books loaded on that thing. You've got to fix it.

TSC: It's nearly two years old. We don't have the parts to fix something that old. There's nothing we can do.

E: There's nothing you can do? I just lose all my books? That's it?

TSC: Well, you could try "We Fix Everything." They sometimes have some of the really old parts.

E: And where are they?

TSC: Let me get their address and phone number for you.

E (while TSC is typing and looking at her computer screen): Do you have any idea how much that might cost?

TSC: It varies, but it usually starts at around $3000.

Scenario #4

Online Headline News:

"Amazon Spanks Readers with Worldtakeover II"

Jeff Bezos announced today that the Worldtakeover II, Amazon's new e-book reader, will be on sale in time for Christmas 2020...blah...blah...blah...blah. "Well, yes," he says, when asked to confirm rumors that those who want to read the latest John Grisham novel will have to purchase the $1500 Worldtakeover II, "it's true that none of the new e-books we'll be publishing will be compatible with the Worldtakeover I. But once readers see what these new machines can do, they will no longer want to read books on machines with that 6-month-old technology." Blah...blah...blah...blah.


Luckily, my imagination is truly unable to picture a world without books. It tells me that, although creating these scenarios is fun for it, I need not worry that I will ever actually have to live any of them. We'll see. In the meantime, watch me: I'm going to start stockpiling print books like crazy. Okay, okay. "Continue stockpiling print books like crazy."

Childhood Favorites

Dear Ms. Musings seems to pop back and forth between America and GB in a way that would probably exhaust me. Luckily, in this day and age of FB and blogs, I can live vicariously through her without suffering the exhaustion, and I also benefit greatly, because she brings me back Mars Bars. Eating Mars Bars on a fairly regular basis, which is something I hadn't done in years, has led me to think about how some foods that I loved as a child have changed almost beyond recognition. They are no longer any good. I would question whether the foods themselves have changed or whether I just have so many dead taste buds now that I can't taste them the way I did as a child. Possibly, it's just my faulty, aging memory.

But no, there are enough examples of foods that have not changed to convince me that it's the manufacturers and their obsession with "new and improved" (you can guarantee when you see that, that the "improved" is referring to an improvement in what was the high cost of producing whatever it is, not in the quality of whatever it is itself. The quality will suffer greatly, while the manufacturer saves a bundle by, for instance, using some cheaply manufactured substitute instead of real cream, thus "improving" their margins), not my poor taste buds or memory, that have caused some foods to go bad. I've decided to share with you some examples of the foods that are still just as good as ever:

Mars Bars (the English version, not that American thing with snow white nougat and almonds -- although that was pretty good, too. Do they even make those anymore? I haven't seen one in years)
Do not mistake the American Milky Way for some sort of substitute. The Milky Way Bar (even the dark chocolate version) does not measure up in any way, shape, or form. It is a testament to how much I love this particular chocolate bar (must call it a "chocolate" and not a "candy" bar in deference to its nationality) that it is milk chocolate, and I (a dark-chocolate-the-darker-the-better-kinda-gal) still love it. It hasn't changed a bit in the 41 years I've been eating it: very thick chocolate, stringy caramel, and not-too-soft nougat. It's so sweet it can make your teeth hurt, so you need to eat it slowly, and it's the perfect accompaniment to any book.

Cheez Doodles
These are not to be confused with Cheetoes (although those are quite tasty too). I could easily eat a whole barrel full of these tasty little snacks. I don't care that my insides would then probably be stained that hideous orange color for life. Nothing else has the same salty, fake cheesiness as the original Cheez Doodle. Nothing else has the right combination of soft crunchiness (Pirate Booty tries, and comes close, but it's just a bit too crunchy at the end, the point at which it should be completely soft). Nothing else melts on the tongue quite the same way, if you let it. Nothing else hurts the roof of your mouth in the same way, if you eat way too many of them way too fast, giving you that 2-day reminder, every time you drink a hot liquid, of how good they were.

The Whopper, Jr.
This little hamburger was my first foray into the world of fast food. Sometimes, my mother would pick me up from kindergarten and I'd be all alone with her (a rare treat when you have 3 siblings), and we'd go out to lunch. I loved the Woolworth lunch counter and a local restaurant/ice cream shop called Mayberry's, but my favorite place to eat was Burger King, where I could eat exactly 1/2 a Whopper, Jr. and drink a small chocolate shake (back in the days when "small" meant "small," not "a tad bit less gigantic than large." By the way, the chocolate shake is one of those foods that has changed. They are still as thick as ever, but are not the least bit chocolate-y anymore and are pretty much indistinguishable from the vanilla shakes). I still love the Whopper, Jr -- the food that taught me that mayonnaise and catsup together were a great combination for a hamburger. I like that char-broiled flavor, which is why I've always preferred Burger King to McDonalds. The regular Whopper is too big and messy, still, but the Jr. is just the right size. I eat them very rarely, but they are my fast food of choice when I'm on the road.

Swedish Fish
Not much in this world provides a better sugar fix than these wonderful, chewy, sweet little gems. And there are so many different ways to eat them. You can bite into the head and pull and stretch the body. You can pop it into your mouth and suck on it. You can pop it into your mouth and chew. Or you can combine these various ways of eating one fish. Really, they are one of the world's most perfect candies. I like the multi-colored, multi-flavored, original sized ones the best, but I'll take all-red, if that's all you've got. I'll also take the mini-size (so cute but harder to stretch), if that's all you've got. Oh, and here are some words of advice from someone in the know: beware if you ever visit Lancaster County, PA. In some of the country stores around here, they sell these jellied fish that are not the same and that are very disappointing if you think you are getting Swedish fish. You must make sure they say "Swedish fish" on them to get the real thing. Luckily, the candy shop that is within walking distance of my house, makes the right kind. Also, beware the adult drink known as the Swedish fish. As good as the candy, but lethal. You have no idea you are drinking alcohol.

Frozen Chicken Pot Pie
Here in Lancaster County, there's this stuff everyone calls "chicken pot pie" that isn't. It's a chicken stew with big, flat noodles on top. Everyone else in the world knows that chicken pot pie should have a crust (it's a "pie" after all). And it should come in its own tiny little pie pan. It shouldn't have too many frozen peas and carrots, but a few are fine. It most definitely needs to be very salty and to be so hot that you probably burn your tongue on the gravy with that first bite. Oh, and it's best served by the babysitter who ignores all bedtimes and no-television rules when your parents are out for the night (or, better yet, away for the weekend).

Lucky Charms
They've added some new marshmallow shapes and colors, but the taste hasn't changed a bit. In composing this list, I'm beginning to realize I must have been a little masochist as a child (so, what's changed?), as this is yet another food that could rub the roof of the mouth raw if eaten too fast. But isn't it delicious in its perfect mix of sugary oat crunch and even more sugary marshmallow bits? I love the way those marshmallows are hard and crunchy until they soak a little in the milk. I love the way they sweeten the milk. I just plain love them.

Campbell's Tomato Soup
The comfort food to beat all comfort food. I like the heart-attack-in-a-can-full-salt version. I like to make it with milk, so it's creamy. It's especially good with a greasy grilled cheese sandwich. And again, a great accompaniment to any book.

Keebler's Pecan Sandies
They're so nice and thick. They're so buttery (even, if I suspect, it isn't real butter. I've never checked the ingredients). Again, they are that perfect combination of crunchy that melts correctly on the tongue. I had a boyfriend once who introduced me to the fabulous combination of putting pecan sandies in the bottom of a bowl and topping them with vanilla ice cream.

Now here's my question: if I remember correctly, my mother was, by and large, a health food fanatic. She strictly controlled our diets when we were kids. Junk food was rarely to be found in our cabinets. How is it that I developed such strong attachments to all this junk food?

And now, as you may have guessed, I am starving. Alas, I have none of these foods in my kitchen. I hope I didn't make you hungry as well.

Nerds on Parade

I spent last weekend in DC attending the annual meeting of the Organization of American Historians (OAH). I've been to many librarian and teacher conferences in my day, but this was my first academic conference. You know what I observed? We nerds may call ourselves by different names ("librarian," "teacher," "editor," "historian..."), but basically, we all look alike. And no, it isn't that we are all wearing high waters, white socks, and pocket protectors.

Some of us actually look quite hip. Women have tattoos on their ankles. Men have diamond studs in their ears or long hair pulled back in pony tails. Still, you can tell we are editors, librarians, professors. Not a soul at any of these conferences would be mistaken for a model or a movie star or an athlete (well, except that one author of mine who is a history professor but who really does look like he could fit into any one of these categories. He seemed completely out of place. People probably thought he was someone else's guest).

I was perfectly comfortable at this conference. I felt like I'd been gathering with all these people for years. I could have plucked people off the exhibit hall floor and plopped them down on the exhibit hall floor at the next meeting of the American Library Association or the National Conference of Teachers of Math (yes. I said math. I know people think there is a huge difference between history nerds and math nerds, but really, a nerd is a nerd), and nobody observing them would be able to tell the difference.

You can tell us editors, though. We're the only nerds in the world who are also whores, the ones shoving our cards into the hands of every nerd who walks our beat, asking "What's your specialty? Would you like to write a book or perhaps an essay?" I'm shameless, preying on the younger, less-experienced when I ought to let them keep their innocence a while longer. As I mentioned to my friend Bob, who is very familiar with these conferences and us editor-whores, a frog could hop into the booth, and I'd thrust my card into its hands and say, "Might you be interested in writing about blue frog migration in green frog territory?"

The professors, of course, are just as easy to recognize. They aren't whores. They are beggars. They want to know if they can get a free review copy of this or that book. They want to know if we'll publish their dissertation on the history of the shoelace from 1960-1961. I'm sure this was an extraordinarily significant period in the history of the shoelace, but when confronted with such a proposal, I (whore that I am, not likely to let any potential writer slip through my fingers) am likely to respond, "Well, we might, if you broaden it a little. Here's my card. Email me, and I'll send you our proposal guidelines." The thought bubble above my head reads, "Broaden it to, oh, maybe the entire history of fashion. I'm sure he can do that." A year later, I will get a manuscript with eight chapters on the history of the shoelace from 1960-61 and one chapter on the history of fashion as a whole.

You can tell why I fit in so well with all these nerds. As I wrote that completely facetious paragraph (which might be more representative of the truth than you think), I found myself thinking, "I wonder what the history of the shoelace is. How have shoelaces come in and out of style over the years? Were laces used on such things as corsets before shoes or on shoes before corsets? And then there are the big questions: are these really dumb questions? Are these things everyone already knows except me?

Nerds: you can dress us up, but you can't take us anywhere. We will always be embarrassing you with all our questions and obsessions. We will always drag you into book stores, be forever thrusting books at you, and be most comfortable when surrounded by other nerds.

Letters That I'll Never Send

(I got this from The Daily Meme.)

Dear President Bush,
I so wish you were back in office.
Your Big Fan,
Emily

Dear Bob's Ex,
Did you have to leave it all for me to do? Couldn't you at least have trained him to put magazines and newspapers into recycling bins?
Your Curious Successor,
Emily

Dear Mr. Gates,
Could you please add 500 other ways to accomplish each task in all of your Office programs, on top of the 500 that already exist? Oh, and, just to let you know, I most like the ones nobody ever needs or wants -- like sending half-composed emails -- that can be done with a single keystroke (specifically those keys most likely to be hit accidentally when typing on a laptop).
Thanks!
Emily

Dear Angelina,
I really don't think there has been enough publicity out there about all your children. I hope you and Brad are planning on having and adopting more, so maybe you and they can get a little more attention. I mean, it's just so amazing how you've managed to be one of those very, very rare women who has children, and I don't know why the press doesn't play it up more.
Happy mommying,
Emily

Dear PA Department of Road Works,
I think it's just a swell idea to decide to do as much road work as possible over 3-day weekends, closing down lanes for miles on major highways and interstates when everyone is traveling. I'm so glad you are in agreement with me.
Your happy motor-er,
Emily

This is fun. Anyone else want to play along? If so, consider yourself tagged.