For Those Who Have Not Lost Interest in Yet Another Remake of the Bloggers Take Manhattan

I’m pretty sure I spotted a few mad dogs and Burberry-coated Englishmen as I pulled out onto the Lincoln Highway early Saturday morning, heading east. But, of course. I’ve been to NYC three times this year, and the forecast all three times has been “100% chance of rain” (despite the fact that here in the Northeast we tend to teeter on the brink of drought most of the time). It’s a 2 ½ hour drive from my house to Manhattan. During that time, I went through monsoon-worthy downpours, fog to make the aforementioned Englishman proud, lightning (yes. In November!), and a brief period of clearing with patches of blue sky.

However, once I arrived in Manhattan, the actual rain had stopped. Someone of our group must have favor with the gods. I’m guessing Charlotte, who was the first to arrive at The Hungarian Pastry Shop. I recognized her immediately from photos on her blog, glowing and happy, despite her horrible jet lag. You could tell she was being infected by the city (I know very few other places where it’s so easy to find so many people who are both radiant and exhausted).

We stood outside, chatting for a while, and then I spotted Becky and ZM, turning the corner the wrong way on Amsterdam, and called out to them. Miraculously, Becky heard me. We stood outside a while longer and then headed in to find a table. This was when I began to kick myself for not remembering, when I suggested we all meet here, that The Hungarian Pastry Shop isn’t the best place for a large-group meeting, being a typical NYC establishment (i.e. very small and narrow). But just as Dorr and Hobs arrived, the friendliness of the city made itself known, as people got up and told us we could have their tables, so we pushed tables together and waited for Cam.

Cam was also the only one I’d never met nor seen photos of, so I really had no idea what she looked like. She was easy enough to spot as she walked in, though, obviously looking for us (and I waved to her, hoping she didn’t turn out not to be Cam). One cherry cheese strudel, a cup of coffee, and lots of “getting to know you” conversation later, I decided this had been the perfect place to meet after all.

From there, it was down to The Strand (because, of course, we were determined to take poor jet-lagged Charlotte from one end of Broadway to the other. For those of you who don’t know, the pastry shop is at 111^th St., a block over from Broadway, and The Strand is 99 blocks down at 12^th St. Oh well, at least we didn’t take her cross-town as well). We decided to walk part of the way, since it had turned into a nice, warm day and then to catch 2 cabs. ZM, Charlotte, Cam, and I went in one cab. We got to The Strand well before the others, at which point Charlotte was beginning to look like she needed a bed much more than books. She gamely followed us all in but eventually had to seek out a café across the street to renew herself.

We all went our separate ways in the bookstore, occasionally crossing paths, as we browsed the “18 miles of books.” I was busy consulting with Bob by cell phone every other minute. I wanted to get him a treat (since he hadn’t been able to come along), and I can’t keep track of which thrillers he has and hasn’t got/read.

A word of warning: don’t go to The Strand with the likes of Hobs. While I was busy looking through Harlan Coben and John Sandford, I bumped into him to discover he had the likes of a huge James Fenimore Cooper biography, Victor Hugo, and The World without Us in his hands. I immediately began to feel I should stop filling up on candy floss and sit down to a good, long meal of duck a l’orange, roast potatoes, and spinach soufflé with a fancy side salad and chocolate mousse for dessert (in fairness to me, I did look for a copy of The Faerie Queene, but I couldn’t find the Penguin edition I want to read).

Eventually, we all met back on the street, signature bright-yellow bags in hands, sharing the contents of said bags like children on Halloween night. At this point, we all realized that all this book shopping had made us very hungry. Macaroni and cheese at Chat ‘n’ Chew sounded like an excellent idea. Make that macaroni and cheese and mimosas. Ahhh! New York! 4:00 p.m. on a Saturday, and they still have their brunch special: $5.00 mimosas. In Lancaster, 4:00 would be cocktail hour, for those who drink, what with dinner typically being served at 5:00.

After food and drink, Charlotte really did need a good nap. ZM was getting tired, too, and decided to head back to CT. That left only Cam, Becky, Dorr, Hobs, and me to head off in the direction of Ground Zero to explore The Mysterious Bookshop (which made perfect sense, since four out of five of us are members of the detective book discussion group). What a wonderful gem of a place this turned out to be.

We were greeted by a little skeleton as we walked in the door, who, apparently, stands patiently there all day, dressed in his oversized shop t-shirt (wonder what he does at night, when no one’s around). It’s a small shop, but it’s floor to ceiling books, all of a mysterious nature (although I’d quibble a bit with that, as my fellow browsers did. I don’t remember a Mr. Body in either Twilight or Harry Potter). One side houses new books, one old, and the back wall is dedicated to all things Sherlock Holmes. I had a great time browsing the shelves and, of course, feeding my candy floss book addiction some more.

After that, it was time to call it a day. Hobs and Dorr needed to get home to Muttboy. I still had a long drive ahead of me (for which the skies did a very nice job of opening up, yet again), and I’m sure Becky and Cam were eager to start reading their books. Next time, I think I’ll take the train, so I can have some uninterrupted reading time, too (that is, if bookstores are in the offering again). Cam was staying where we’d met and I’d parked, so we said “goodbye” to the other three at the Times Square subway stop and took the #1 train back up to Cathedral Station, which is a ride I’ve taken many, many times (only one stop short of the Columbia stop, where I used to disembark). It makes me kind of sad, so it was nice to have my new friend for company.

All-in-all, a wonderful day. Wish you’d been there, too. Oh, and for those of you dying to know, my booty for the day:

FROM THE STRAND

The Haunted Looking Glass: Ghost Stories Chosen by Edward Gorey. Do I really need to explain this one? Ghost stories by the likes of Algernon Blackwood, L.P. Hartley, and M.R. James? Illustrated by Edward Gorey? How could I go wrong?

Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichel, because I’ve been looking for some good food writing, wasn’t impressed with the one M.F.K. Fisher I found in the cookbook and food section, forgot that The Strand files her under literature as well (until we'd left and Becky informed me she’d found quite a few, but didn’t know which one to get), and I’ve been meaning to read this one for some time.

Secret Prey by John Sandford, for Bob, who discovered Sandford a couple of years ago and loves him (and probably for me one day, too, if I ever get around to discovering him myself).

FROM THE MYSTERIOUS BOOKSHOP

Hag’s Nook by John Dickson Carr, whom I haven’t read in a very long time, but who is a master with puzzles of the “door locked from the inside” sort. This is the first Gideon Fell novel, which I’ve never read.

The Fiend by Margaret Millar, who was Ross Macdonald’s wife. I’ve never read any of her stuff, and this musty old copy (written the year I was born) seemed like a good place to start.

A Question of Blood by Ian Rankin, because I’ve just met Rebus through the detective book discussion group, love him, and want to read more (also want Bob to read him, so I got this one “for him”). This is an author-signed copy in which he scribbled a dead man’s face, so I couldn’t resist.

And that puts me in something like 72-book deficit for 2008 (the year I was supposed to read 3 books I already owned for each one book I bought). Better start reading all those picture books up in the attic before the year ends.

A Short Post

I had planned to post on the NYC blogger meetup today, because I had, yet again, forgotten that I don't have a clone to do such things, while I soak in a hot bath before falling into bed. You see, I got up at 4:30 this morning to drive up to Newark, NJ to spend the day visiting classrooms full of 5-8-year-olds doing math. I just got home, and needless to say, I couldn't possibly write a coherent post that would do justice to the day on Saturday. Instead, I'm giving you five interesting things I learned today (because, you know, I went to school):

1. If you're thinking, "Why isn't the GPS telling me to take the New Jersey Turnpike to the Garden State Parkway?" listen to your instinctual reply, "Because the GPS hasn't a clue what it's doing," and stay on the New Jersey Turnpike, instead of thinking the GPS might know some cool, new, better way to go.

2. Newark, NJ has a little Italian bakery where you can get the best chocolate canoli you've ever had in your life. Who would've thought?

3. Despite the fact that lots of things have changed in schools today, second-graders still throw up on the floor in the middle of class, just like they did when you were in school, and all the other kids react exactly the way you remember kids reacting.

4. Even when kids wear uniforms and are only six years old, you can still spot the future nerds, hipsters, rockers, and jocks. The difference is that at this age, they are all adorable (most especially the miniature nerds -- the only ones with their shirts tucked into pants with elastic waists, cinched by belts, which no other kids are wearing).

5. Being a teacher is absolutely THE hardest thing anyone could choose to do. Forget Obama "socialism," I'd like to set up a little "wealth redistribution" plan of my own, in which all CEOs swap their salaries with teachers.

And now for that bath...

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

After spending Saturday in New York and driving along the Henry Hudson Parkway, it seems highly appropriate to choose one of my favorite songs centered around one of my favorite bodies of water, The Hudson River. The song is Dar Williams's "The Hudson." Some of you know that Dar is my cousin. That doesn't really mean too much, because I grew up in North Carolina, and she grew up in Chappaqua, New York, so we rarely saw each other. Nevertheless, I am so often so moved by her lyrics, I can't help thinking it must have something to do with the common gene pool.

As the song says, the Hudson holds the life. I can remember days in New York, when I was a little sad or depressed for some reason. I'd deal with it by walking over to Riverside Park and sitting on a bench with a view of the Hudson. Immediately, my mood would lift as I watched the current and thought about all the many, many, many people who have traveled that waterway. What a magnificent history it has. The river is a great one for those of us with overactive imaginations.

I love it in every single season. Nothing sparkles more brilliantly than its ripples when a golden autumn sun is shining down on it. When it's frozen in the winter, it begs me to slow down, to stop and wonder at its icy cold beauty. The ice flows in the spring, formed from the long, jagged cracks, and the rushing water underneath, promising warmer weather soon, are thrilling. And is anything more fun than sipping a cold drink at Hudson Beach Cafe on a hot summer day and watching the boat traffic out there?

The song captures all my feelings beautifully. I remember the first time I heard it, I immediately had to replay it about four times, sighing over its perfection. And I dare any New Yorker to tell me there's never been a time when the Hudson stole a breath or two. I think there's a time or two it actually knocked the wind out of me.


The Hudson
by Dar Williams


If we're lucky, we feel our lives,
Know when the next scene arrives,
So often we start in the middle and work our way out.
We go to some gray sky diner for eggs and toast,
The New York Times or the New York Post,
Then we take a ride
through the valley of the shadow of doubt.
But even for us New Yorkers
there's a time in every day,
The river takes our breath away.

And the Hudson holds the life.
We thought we did it on our own.

The river roads collect the tolls,
For the passage of our souls
Through silent silver woods,
And flowers and snow,
And past the George Washington Bridge
Down from the trails of Break Neck Ridge,
The river's ancient path is sacred and slow.
And as it swings through Harlem,
It's every shade of blue.
Into the city of the brand new.

And the Hudson holds the life.
We thought we did it on our own.
I thought I had no sense of place or past,
Time was too slow, but then too fast.
The river takes us home at last.

Where and when does a memory take hold?
The mountain range in autumn cold,
And I thought West Point was Camelot in the spring.
If you're lucky you find something that reflects you,
Helps you feel your life, protects you,
Cradles you and connects you to everything.
This whole life I remember has led back unto itself.
Never turned me into someone else,

And the Hudson holds the life.
We thought we did it on our own.
The Hudson holds the life.
We thought we did it on our own.

Irrational Thoughts (Continued)

(The first installment of this story was posted Nov. 2nd.)

Owen had suggested twenty minutes at a time; that was all. Last night, she’d heard nothing at the windows, but she hadn’t even made it ten minutes without grabbing up her book, hitting the light switch at the door, pulling the door shut tight, locking it, and scurrying up to the safety of her bedroom. The bedroom was safe; no one could peer in at her through the second floor windows. Even if they could, even if they climbed a ladder or something, her bedroom windows had shades and curtains that could be drawn.

Tonight, however, despite the fact she had heard something, she was determined to make it at least twenty minutes sitting in the sun parlor before heading up to the safety of the bedroom. Wouldn’t Owen be proud of her? She kept ignoring the noises, even peeked out one of the windows when her watch indicated it had been twenty minutes. As Owen had predicted, she saw no one peering back in at her. Thus bolstered, she stayed an extra five minutes and then calmly headed up to her bedroom.

She smiled as she climbed the stairs, picturing Owen patting her on the back and praising her. How far she’d come in just a year. Last year, when she first met Owen, she couldn’t even enter the sun parlor, hadn’t entered it in years, kept it locked at all times. Martha was the only one who ever set foot out there, cleaning it every other week, just as she cleaned the rest of the house. Sandy had no need ever to go out there. Most of the time, it was a rather impractical room, too chilly in the winter on a sunless day and too hot in the summer before sunset. The secretary had long since been emptied of all useful contents, and the room had nothing of value in it, except the old furniture and a few standing lamps. These were completely dominated by the bad memories that took up every inch of the rest of the space in the room, and Sandy couldn’t bear to face those or to try to get rid of them.

However, Owen insisted confronting the bad memories would free her from them, so six months ago, she had made the first big move and had started keeping the door unlocked. Since then, her progression had been fairly rapid. She stepped into the room during the daylight hours. Over the summer, she had slowly but surely learned to sit out there five to ten minutes at a time, during the hours just before sunset, when it wasn’t too hot to do so. That was when she’d made the decision to have the furniture re-done. While the furniture was gone, she’d begun stepping out there when it was dark, and now that the furniture was back, it was time to learn to use the room in the dark, before she lost her courage, before the winter really set in, and it was too cold to do so.

How wonderful it was to be freed from having to check the door several times a day, ensuring it was locked. How nice it might be for her in the spring and early summer to sit out there with all the windows open, just as her family had done when she was very young. Visitors had always loved the room, and many overnight guests had chosen to sleep out there, as they could open all the windows for cross-ventilation and run a fan during the hottest months of summer. Of course, that had all been before they’d stopped having many visitors, before Mama had become so sad, before Sandy had been left with most of the responsibility of raising Elizabeth, and before Grandma had died. Tonight, she felt brave. Tonight she knew she could get over all the sadness that had hovered around the house most of her life; it was time to do so. She was going to make new friends to sit in the sun parlor with her. They’d, in turn, invite her to sit on their decks and eat barbecue.

As she crawled into bed, she realized these were all wonderfully rational thoughts, as she and Owen had come to define them together. Worrying about shining, beady eyes imbedded above large sagging cheeks, in pasty-white heads, staring in through windows at night, large lips parted in grimacing smiles, displaying over-sized, yellowing, and rotting teeth was irrational. Thoughts that focused on thick, white, gnarled and hairy hands sporting yellowed and broken fingernails scratching at windowpanes were irrational thoughts. Accepting the fact that these thoughts were there, labeling them, then ignoring them was rational. Grown women sat in rooms surrounded by windows and read books without feeling the hair rise on their necks. They even looked out those windows. They even came home after dark without being the least bit afraid.

To be continued...

Nobody's Home Today

Thanks to the wonders of technology, if all goes as plans (despite the fact I am writing this Friday night), I will not miss a NaBloPoMo Saturday post. Not only that, but this will be posting at exactly the same time I will be meeting up with fellow bloggers from far and wide in NYC. Since tomorrow is more "Irrational Thoughts" day (have access to that again, so I can post it. Yea!), and Monday is Music Monday, I guess you won't get my take on the day until Tuesday. But how can it help being anything but great fun? I mean, getting together with great friends? Meeting new friends? NYC? And we're all bookish sorts who like the idea of eating Hungarian pastries and spending time at The Strand? It just doesn't get much better than that.

And on that note, I will leave you with my Dewey Decimal classification section (thanks to Stef), pointing out that this is not the first time I've taken a test whose results proved I'm a nerd. But fossil mollusks (I know I'm getting old, but hey...)? However, look at that: science AND math! Maybe the overall description of what I'm supposed to be like will explain to you why I'm dying to know what kind of equation was put together using very basic facts like my name and birth date to come up with the number 53925.

Emily's Dewey Decimal Section:

564 Fossil mollusks & molluscoids

Emily = 53925 = 539+25 = 564


Class:
500 Science


Contains:
Math, astronomy, prehistoric life, plants and animals.



What it says about you:
You are fascinated by the world around you, and see it as a puzzle worth exploring. You try to understand how things work and how you can make them better. You might be a nerd.

Find your Dewey Decimal Section at Spacefem.com

Haunting Good Reads

(First of all, before I get started: everyone go over to Ian’s blog and wish him a happy birthday in his comments today. He deserves it, even if he never posts anymore.)

I’ve mentioned in prior posts that, supposedly, a ghost wanders around in my house. Despite the fact that two people claim to have seen him, I really don’t believe this. I’ve been living in this house for over a year now, here all day and all night long when I’m not traveling for business. I’m an insomniac, which means there have been plenty of times that I’ve been up, doing my own wandering at 2:00 a.m. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the man who is supposed to climb the stairs in his night shirt.

However, I do believe he exists. He just doesn’t like to show himself. He is a bookish ghost who likes to steal from our collection. He’d probably go unnoticed by someone who had less of a literary obsession, but he has not escaped my keen senses. Last winter he both pissed me off and spooked me enough that I came truly to admire him. At the time, I was reading Somerset Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence. The copy we have of this book is an old, small, hardcover whose dust jacket must have bitten the dust long ago. I was reading it for the outmoded authors challenge, which meant I always had pencil in hand, so I could underline passages and take notes in the margins.

I was reading that book in our library one evening and set it down on the ottoman before going to bed (something I often do). When I came back down the next morning, both the book, and the pencil I was using to make my notes were gone. I searched all over the library for both. The blanket I keep on the chair was tossed over the ottoman, and in that desperate way I often do when looking for something I can’t find, I kept lifting up the blanket and looking under it for the book. Finally, I decided I must have been so tired that I’d taken the book off somewhere else, and I began to search other rooms, to no avail. During this search, in that other desperate way I so often do when I’ve lost something, I kept coming back to the library and looking under that blanket. Finally, I got fed up and threw the blanket off the ottoman as a reminder that absolutely nothing lay beneath it, that the book was nowhere in the library (I’d already taken both chairs apart, checking under and behind their cushions). I temporarily abandoned my search and went upstairs to start my work day.

Bob went off to the church to work. Around noon, I started getting hungry and ventured downstairs to pull together some lunch. For some reason, I decided to check the library again for the missing book. When I walked in, I was flabbergasted. The cushions on my chair were all in disarray, and both the book and the pencil were sitting on the ottoman. So happy to have found the book, at first I wasn’t too concerned about this weird turn of events. But then I thought about it for a while, immediately coming to the conclusion that Bob was playing some sort of trick on me, especially since we’d only recently been informed that we had a ghost in the house.

I called him at the church, but he promised me he had not been playing tricks on me. As a matter of fact, he got somewhat spooked himself and came home to check to make sure nothing was missing and that no one was in our house. How absurd was that? I’d been home all morning. I would have heard if anyone had been in the house. Besides, why would anyone breaking into our house decide to mess around with chair cushions and old copies of books by outmoded authors? I was still convinced he was playing a joke on me, doing a fine acting job, but when he seemed to be just as convinced that I must have somehow managed to miss the book earlier in the morning, I really did get a little spooked. I’d looked way too many times for it to have been there all along. I might have second-guessed myself if I hadn’t had the moment in which I'd thrown off the blanket, assuring that the ottoman was completely empty. It definitely had been a bookless ottoman when I’d gone to work that morning. I locked the basement and attic doors (because, you know, that will keep a ghost at bay) and went back to work.

That brings us to the second spooky book story. Last October, I decided I was going to read Ghost Story by Peter Straub as one of my “Halloween treats.” I happened to take a trip up to office headquarters just after I’d started reading it, and I had it with me. When I got home, I didn’t completely unpack my book bag and didn’t think about it, because I was busy reading something else at the time (probably The Moon and Sixpence). The next day, I went in search of it and couldn’t find it. I checked my (now empty) suitcase about ten times. I went through the contents of my book bag about a hundred times, and finally (sadly, because it had been such a good book) concluded that I must have left it somewhere. I figured I’d get another copy of it at some point, but I didn’t. Fast forward a couple of months to my next trip up to the office: I opened my suitcase to pack, and what did I find inside it? You guessed it. I tried to pick up where I’d left off, but couldn’t remember all the different characters, so just decided I’d save it for some other Halloween and start it all over.

So, September rolls around this year, and we’re headed up to spend the month in Maine. Bob’s looking for a good Halloween treat himself. I suggest he take Ghost Story, which has since managed to stay put on the shelf in the guest bedroom. He obliges, takes it along, starts it while we’re up there, and finishes it once we get back home. He loved it. He’s dying for me to read it. He tries to get me to take it with me when I head up to the office again in mid-October.

“No. That’s how it disappeared last time,” I tell him. “Besides, it’s pretty scary, and I don’t think I really want to be reading it when I’m all alone up there. It kind of got to me last year.” I left it behind and took my book about vampires (because, of course, that wasn’t likely to spook me in the least when I was all alone) instead. Once back home, and disappointed that the vampire book was good but not as scary as I’d expected when I started it, I told Bob it was time I found some fiction that would really scare me; I was in the mood. His response? Ghost Story, of course.

“Does it stay scary? Did it really, really spook you?” I wanted to know. He assured me it did, but he said Ramsey Campbell’s The Overnight was another good choice. Thus began the search for Ghost Story. Guess what. It was nowhere to be found. Nowhere, which made no sense. There are only about three different places Bob would ever leave a book after finishing it, and I knew I hadn’t picked it up and moved it at all. I looked, again, about a hundred times in those three different places: on or around his bedside table, on or around one of the chairs in the library, and on or around one of the chairs in the room we call the Santa Fe room. It wasn’t there. I started looking elsewhere: coffee tables, bookshelves, around my bedside table. It was definitely gone. I surmised that the ghost, for whatever reason, just didn’t want me to read that book.

About two weeks later, Bob found it on his bedside table. So, tell me: do you think the ghost is taking these books, reading them, and returning them? Or do you think I’m just under the influence of The Overnight (which is all about a haunted bookstore)? I say “yes” to the first question, “no” to the second, and raise my teacup to this very clever ghost, who obviously has good reading taste.

The Commenters Meme

Thanks today goes to Charlotte (see #7 below), who has helped the NaBloPoMo cause by tagging me for yet another meme (actually, I suppose you could say I tagged myself for this one, once you read the rules). I have to say that at first I was a little nervous about this meme. I mean, unlike Charlotte who gets scads of comments on every one of her posts, I consider myself successful if a post gets five comments. I wasn't sure I'd have the requisite 10, and then I'd have to come up with some sort of lame excuse for not doing this meme (even though desperate for post ideas), because who wants to have to admit that she's had a blog for over 2 years, and fewer than 10 people has ever commented on it? But then I started scrolling through my comments and realized I do have ten (in fact, more than ten -- woohoo! -- because some of my regulars don't even show up on this list). I also noticed that the list suspiciously resembles those who were on my "I Love Your Blog" post. You are not to interpret that to mean that I only love those who comment on my blog. It's just that maybe I love those who do a wee bit more. I mean, how can you love someone you don't know is there?

Here are rules:

1. List the last 10 commenters on your blog.

2. If you’re on the list, you’re tagged.

Here's my list:

1. Sara at It's Sara with No H

2. Stefanie at So Many Books

3. Pete at Couch Trip

4. Cam at Cam's Commentary

5. Marcy at ZoesMom

6. Nigel at Hand Made Luck

7. Charlotte at Charlotte's Web

8. Becky at Musings from the Sofa

9. Debby at She Knits by the Seashore

10. Courtney at The Public, the Private, and Everything Inbetween

And here are the questions:

1. What's your favorite post from number 3's blog:
Oh, I just loved his Diary Monday (on a Tuesday). He got the idea from Courtney to post diary entries from a particular time in his life and made it his own, being so honest and giving us a little self analysis. All that, and he also proved to be a man after my own heart when the #1 thing on his list of ten things to feel good about was "choc dessert." That is most definitely a thing to feel good about (as was the "mashed potato with cream." I was a little more skeptical about the "papaya in the fridge," but had it been grapefruit, well, then I would have decided I'd met a long-lost twin brother).

2. Has number 10 taken any pictures that moved you?
She takes gorgeous shots of her home-state of Michigan that make me long to visit it. And then she writes gorgeous poetic prose about it that makes me want to visit it even more.

3. Does number 6 reply to comments on his blog?
Oh, he is one of the most faithful responders out there, even when I play catchup and post comments on, like, six posts in a row. He goes back and responds to all of them. If you want to feel like someone cares about what you have to say, go visit Nigel.

4. Which part of blogland is #2 from?
She is one of the best litbloggers out there. Occasionally, she also posts on other things like her library school experience. Always, always, she is entertaining and makes me think.

5. If you could give one piece of advice to number 7, what would it be?
I'm assuming other than "post more often," (which would be the advice I'd give everyone)? Visit more beautiful cities and give us your take on them (something I know she's doing right now, actually).

6. Have you ever tried something from number 9's blog?
Well, I have been trying to knit, but I have to say, I am nowhere near as accomplished as she is. Maybe one day...

7. Has number 1 blogged something that inspired you?
Well, I've only recently "met" number 1, so it's really kind of unfair for me to answer this question, because it isn't like I've been reading her for two years. However, I absolutely LOVE her sidebar of "Things I Find Irritating." That should inspire anyone who visits her blog to feel free to speak out against life's irritants and maybe to put something similar in her own sidebar (if she isn't as much of a Luddite as I, whose #1 irritant would be "trying to add things to blog sidebars," am).

8. How often do you comment on number 4's blog?
I try to comment on every post, unless I'm just way behind in my blog reading (which is certainly happening during this NaBloPoMo).

9. Do you wait for number 8 to post excitedly?
Oh, absolutely! In fact, if she checks her site meter, she'd probably notice that even though I have her on my google reader, I check and re-check her blog constantly for new posts, new comments, and new books added to the list of books she's reading.

10. How did number 5's blog change your life?
In many ways. I've gotten to know her as a real life friend. I've gotten to know her daughter. I'm getting to know her mother, who might write a book for me. Oh, and she's turning me into someone who might start visiting a few cosmetic counters.

There you have it. That was fun. And (yea!), one more day of NaBloPoMo done.

Challenges and Faerie Queenes

Yesterday, I was talking about hangovers and swearing off drinking. Today, I'd like to discuss Novembers and swearing off blog challenges. Let's take a look at what happens in November for those of us stupid enough to take on too many challenges, the way some of us are stupid enough, at times, to take on too many drinks.

November 1st rolls around, and I think, "Well, I'm almost done with all my challenges for the year. A new year will soon be upon us. I wonder what sorts of interesting challenges await in 2009. Better finish up what I've got to do before then." Then I take a closer look. What? I took on four challenges equaling seventeen books? I've only completed 1 (and that because it began in 2007)? I've got 2000+ pages to read in the next two months (plus books for two book discussion groups to which I belong)? That's it. Absolutely NO challenges next year! Here are the details.

Outmoded authors challenge: done. Completed. Okay, so I only had to read three of the six books I'd chosen by February, because I'd already read the other three in 2007, and one of them was almost done by Jan. 1. I did it. Finished that one on time. I'm so proud of myself! (Lots of patting self on back.)

The Science Book Challenge: (Self-patting hand has stopped in mid-air.) Ummm, had the whole year to read 3 books of a scientific nature, on any topic, and only made it through 1 1/3. I, a math and science editor couldn't make it through more than 3 books in a whole year? Yes, I will probably make it through the other 2/3 of the second book before the end of December, but still. I am truly pathetic.

The Graphics Novels Challenge. All right, most graphic novels take what? all of about 3 hours to read? Nevertheless, I just don't seem to have found that extra three hours to read my final book in this challenge. Want to place bets on whether or not those three hours come knocking on my door sometime between now and Dec. 31?

Finally, we have the Soup's On! Challenge. Now, we all have to admit that this one was a little bit tricky. Not only did we have to read the cookbooks, but we also had to cook something from them. We were to choose six. Does it count that the first one I chose required that I write two posts, because it was practically unusable? No, I didn't think anyone would be forgiving on that point. I've read three of the six thus far. Does it maybe count that I chose two that are War and Peaces of cookery, because I was somewhat out of my mind, or something, at the time the challenge presented itself? No? Then I guess you won't accept any excuse for the fact that I actually read and cooked from the third one in August but still have not posted on it. Okay, I promise to get through the last three (reading and cooking and everything), if you'll just give me an extension till the end of 2009.

Oh, and then there was that fifth challenge I forgot all about until I did a "challenge" word search on my blog and discovered Kate's Modest Poetry Challenge. That one, which only required one post in April, I did manage to complete. Maybe 2009 will be full of other such do-able challenges.

And speaking of 2009. November's nearly half done. I'm beginning to feel a little better. Maybe I was being too harsh on myself when I swore off all challenges. After all, a new year is nearly upon us! The chance to start fresh. This year I'm gonna do it! Not only am I going to finish all the 2008 challenges I began, but I'm going to be wise and sober about any challenges I undertake. I've got twelve new months of reading ahead of me. Isn't it exciting? I think it's time I created a challenge of my own (besides the ecojustice challenge, which will be completely revamped for 2009. Stay tuned for more info. on that during NaBloPoMo month), don't you? Meanwhile, here's what I've (gulp) already agreed to for the new year:

The Faerie Queene Challenge

This one has been started by Heather over at The Library Ladder. Technically, I guess, it's really a group read, not a challenge, because we're all going to read this one together in 2009. However, I consider the undertaking of this reading to be a great challenge. I thought I'd take this opportunity to let others know in case some of you would like to join us. As I've already noted on Heather's blog, I hope you won't really consider applying unless you think you might be a fellow, "Huh? I don't get..." sort. That means, say, Dorr and Hobs, as much as I adore you two, you probably ought to stay away. Others, however, who think you might get lost somewhere in Faerie Land and need someone to come find you (hmmm. Maybe we need the likes of Dorr and Hobs after all), please feel free to join us and let Heather know (she plans to post more details in December).

The Alcoholic Meme

This meme is forever indebted to its wonderful friends, those friends it could not live without, who brought it home in the wee hours of the morning and made sure it made it through the front door. Once through that door, it stumbled into the kitchen, ate half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream it doesn’t remember eating, apparently put some Peter, Paul, and Mary on the stereo (probably for a little childhood reminiscing with Puff), because the CD is still in the CD player, and then staggered up to bed. It woke up this morning, sprawled out on the bed, only half undressed (happily, there is no weird stranger in bed beside it), immediately decided -- despite the fact it's a misty, foggy day -- it was just too bright to get up, finished undressing, and crawled under the covers. Soon it will creep out from under the covers -- head throbbing, no doubt -- and will venture downstairs for some tea and toast. Meanwhile, I’ve arrived on the scene to pose its questions for it, with the hope that this will be of help to those of you who are stuck in the middle of NaBloPoMo.

1. What’s your favorite drink?

3-way tie: Bombay sapphire martini straight up with olives, mint julep, gin and tonic. I'm also partial to the following "girlie" drinks: dark and stormies, apple martinis, and mai tais (if they're made right, which they usually aren't unless they're being made in my own kitchen).

2. Do you prefer red or white wine?

Red and so dry a dust storm swirls around every time I set down the glass

3. Do you prefer dark or pale ale?

Like my chocolate: the darker the better, and I like it so heavy it could stand in for dinner, especially if it's served with an array of cheeses. Better yet, though, it's accompanying a pub lunch somewhere in the Lake District.

4. What was the worst hangover you ever had?

That would be the night I introduced Becky to mint juleps at her house. We drank not only (how many? Three?) mint juleps but also had wine with dinner and whiskey afterward. I remember eating some delicious ginger chocolate chip cookies Becky had baked, drinking some tea and musing from her sofa with her while the boys watched baseball, then passing out in the car and falling down in the yard (I must have sprained my pinky finger doing that, which hurt for months afterward) when I got home. The next thing I remember is the worst hangover of my life (I didn’t drink any alcohol for weeks after that night), followed by a book discussion group in which the other members (mothers) seemed to be a bit envious of Becky’s and my carefree lives, while I was thinking, “Maybe children are a good thing if being responsible for them would keep me from ever feeling this way again.” And that's what a hangover will do to you, which is why it's much, much better just to have one or two and then stop.

5. Would you describe yourself as a mean drunk, a happy drunk, or a maudlin drunk?

I am most definitely a happy, albeit argumentative, drunk.

6. Are you a two-fisted drinker or a light-weight?

I am such a light-weight, I’m surprised I haven’t floated off into some black hole in outer space long before now.

7. Do you drink while reading?

Bob and I have a “cocktail hour” every evening that doesn’t always involve cocktails. Quite often it’s tea or lemonade and a light snack before dinner. Other nights (depending on the type of day we’ve had), it’s a true cocktail and a light snack. We often read during this period, so yes, I do drink while reading. I’ve also been known to sip sherry while curled up with a ghost story collection on a chilly, stormy Sunday afternoon. However, I much prefer tea and something sweet (cake or cookies, it doesn’t much matter) or hot chocolate with a good book (habits developed as a child that I’ve never outgrown).

8. Reading what makes you want to drink?

(Barring, of course, many of the manuscripts I have to edit) that would be any hard-boiled mystery.

9. Which favorite fictional character of yours has got to be an alcoholic?

Lauren Henderson’s Sam Jones. The way I drank that night with Becky is a pretty standard night for Sam. I would imagine her liver could probably win a pickle contest at a state fair. I love her, though. I'd like to go bar-hopping with her (she ends up in some very interesting bars), which just gave me an idea for the next question.

10. Which fictional character would you most like to bar hop with?

Any of Marian Keyes's Walsh sisters (even Rachel who, since her "holiday," no longer drinks. I'd be perfectly happy to sit at the bar and drink seltzer water and lemon with her), most especially if it meant we would be doing our bar-hopping in Ireland.

11. What’s your favorite scene from a movie involving drink?

That has got to be Katharine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart in A Philadelphia Story (who wouldn't want to be kissed like that?) and her oh-so-realistic hangover the morning after. A close second would be Harrison Ford with Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, for his being SUCH a gentleman -- sigh! (What girl, working or not, wouldn't want Harrison Ford to put her to bed?)

12. Watching what movie makes you want to drink?

Any James Bond, despite the fact he drinks vodka martinis. And Sideways (which also makes me want to hop a plane to wine country).

And there you have it. I think I hear the meme stirring under the covers. I’ll be nice and bring it some tea and toast, along with a bottle of Excedrin, in bed, because don't we all want someone to do that for us on such mornings?

Tagged:

All NaBloPoMo participants who are reading this

Anyone who has ever woken up with a hangover and sworn never, never to drink again

Anyone who felt like mixing up a favorite drink/pouring a glass of wine/pouring a glass of ale while reading this

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

I remember in college when we were reading Lolita, we discussed the whole idea of the love story and parody and irony as they related to the book. Our T.A. threw out the idea that no one wants to read a perfect love story, that it would be too boring, that love stories need tension, misunderstandings, uncertainty. They need to be imperfect, even if they have happy endings. At the time, being young and even more idealistic than I am now (if you can believe that), I remember thinking, “Oh no. I DO want to read a perfect love story.” (I’m sure I was reeling from what I thought were all my own imperfect love stories up to that point and not yet ready to admit that perfection didn’t lie just around the corner somewhere, still attainable.)

These days, of course, I completely agree. I no more want to read a love story that's perfect from beginning to end than I want to hear about the perfect parent-child relationship (in which there is no fighting or rebellion, and everyone moves blissfully into adult friendships when the time comes) or the people who bought the perfect home (not the one I would buy, you know, whose water tank springs a million pin-hole leaks the day I move in, and whose back deck collapses) or adopted the perfect pet (the one that automatically knows its name and doesn't even have to be trained to come when it's called and that housebreaks itself). I want stories that are human, ones to which I can relate. And, yes, "boring" is probably the most appropriate word for a perfect love story. I'd probably stop reading before I was too far into it (although I certainly don’t mind if a non-perfect story ends up all – realistically. You know, they stay together, but they still squabble over who has to go get the newspaper every morning and whose turn it is to empty the cat’s litter box – happy in the end).

A colleague of mine introduced me to The Magnetic Fields a few years ago. She lent me 69 Love Songs Vol. 1. I listened to it, fell in love with its quirkiness (which for some reason reminded me a bit of The Jazz Butcher from the 1980s), and immediately purchased the boxed set that included Vol. 1, 2, and 3. I love so many, many of the songs on these three CDs, but the lyrics to this one get me every time. They tie in so well with the notion of perfect love stories being boring. How could a reader not love them? I mean, who would want to read the boring book of love? Then again, who wouldn’t? Especially when it includes music (invented here. I just love it!) and flowers and dancing and, most especially, if the love of your life were reading it to you, sitting by the fire, and you were both sipping red wine from beautiful glasses and eating chocolate. The song is so clever, so true, so cynical, and yet so romantic. See what you think.

The Book of Love by The Magnetic Fields

The book of love is long and boring

No one can lift the damn thing

It’s full of charts and facts and figures

And instructions for dancing

but I

I love it when you read to me

and you

you can read me anything.

The book of love has music in it

In fact that’s where music comes from

Some of it is just transcendental

Some of it is just really dumb

but I

I love it when you sing to me

and you

you can sing me anything.

The book of love is long and boring

and written very long ago

It’s full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes

and things we’re all too young to know

but I

I love it when you give me things

and you

you ought to give me wedding rings.

I

I love it when you give me things

and you

you ought to give me wedding rings.

A Short Sunday Post

Due to technical difficulties with the ancient laptop that has my ghost story "Irrational Thoughts" along with my overall laziness that is keeping me from wanting to type it out tonight (especially after having typed out that long piece on cockroaches. You'd be exhausted too if you'd spent that much time thinking and typing about cockroaches. However, you'd probably be serene and rested if they'd been palmetto bugs), I'm copping out on my automatic Sunday continued ghost story post today. However, I'm giving you something far more important in its stead. I saw this a while back on Noble Savage's blog and decided in light of what happened in CA this past week, it's a good time to post it.

Copy this sentence into your blog if you’re in a heterosexual marriage, and you don’t want it “protected” by those who think that gay marriage hurts it somehow.

Please do the same if you are likewise. And let's hope that sometime in our lifetimes, ALL Americans have equal rights. Meanwhile, I'll get back to the ghost story soon.

Of Palmetto Bugs and Cockroaches

I'm pretty sure that the difference between Florida and New York can be summed up by one simple observation. This is that in Florida, if you're not careful, you might step on a palmetto bug, while in New York, if you see one of these creatures skittering across the floor of your apartment, you are more likely to call it a HUGE (maybe while adding a not-very-polite adjective that, although it sounds like it, doesn't really have anything to do with maternal sex practices) cockroach. A palmetto bug! What the hell is that? It sounds like some cute little must-have stuffed critter that parents are going to be fighting over at toy stores across the country come Black Friday. Or perhaps some bright, color-coordinated, bulbous and antenna-ed air freshener that sits on top of the toilet tank. It even sounds like it could be some Floridian drink specialty. It does not sound like it could be a cockroach the size of Michael Jordan's sneaker. And only in Florida would they try to cover up the fact that it's a cockroach the size of Michael Jordan's sneaker by giving it an innocent-sounding (pretty, even) name.

I'll never forget my first year in college when one of my hall mates, who was pre-med, was telling me how they'd dissected a pig in her biology class, and they would soon be dissecting cockroaches. Cockroaches? I wondered what kind of shrinking potions they were all going to be taking in order to be able to dissect something so tiny. You see, up until that point, the only cockroaches I'd ever seen were no bigger than your average wasp. They were nasty little things with long antennas. They were sometimes quite long, but never wider than about a quarter inch. I couldn't imagine sloppy, inexperienced undergrads getting any dissecting tools inside such a creature without crushing it completely. Certainly a student who happened to breathe too hard on it might disembowel it and have no idea that his subject's intestines had gone flying through the air and landed on the back of the student in front of him. The whole undertaking sounded icky to me. I was glad I wasn't pre-med (not that the thought to be so would ever have occurred to me) and made a mental note not to take biology (a decision for which I have been kicking myself ever since).

That was my first year in college. By the end of my last year in college, my cockroach shema (for those of you familiar with Jean Piaget's theory) had expanded greatly. I suddenly understood how my former hall mate had been able to dissect a cockroach. This is because I now had a house mate who was from Tampa, FL. His family lived on the water, and they graciously invited some of my other house mates and me to come down for spring break and stay in their guest house, which (if my memory serves me right. We're talking over 20 years ago now) was out back, down a ways from the main house and sat almost right on the water's edge.

One evening, the family had invited us up from the guest house to have a cookout with them on their back veranda (that sounds pretentious, but by now, you must have realized that we weren't exactly staying with The Little Match Girl. There's really nothing it can be called but a "veranda"). We were all having a grand time, eating hotdogs and hamburgers and drinking beer, etc., when I happened to make the mistake of glancing into the dog's food bowl that was sitting on the brick floor by the glass doors that led into the house. There, feasting on the dog's food, were three of the biggest (adjective that has nothing to do with maternal sexual practices) cockroaches I'd ever seen in my life. I lost my appetite. I sat back in my chair, lifting my feet and curling them up under me, lest one of those creatures decide to come crawling up my legs. I pretended to be interested in everyone's conversation, but all I was really doing was keeping an eye on that bowl, waiting for the beasts to come scampering over its edge. I was quite sure they would lift it above their heads, balancing it on all six of their thick antennas, and fly off with it back to their dens, where they'd have leftovers tomorrow without having to leave the comfort of their home.

After dinner, our other friends headed back down to the guest house, and my house mate coerced me into staying at the main house to watch Nightmare on Elm Street, which I had not yet seen. Do I even need to tell you that it was a treacherous trip back down to the guest house late that night? Or that I spent a sleepless night vacillating between who was most likely to get me: the three huge cockroaches or Freddy Krueger? I think I ultimately decided Freddy was going to be flying in on them in some dream of mine and that I'd better not fall asleep.

For years after that, my cockroach schema included cockroaches, and then those huge things found in Florida that I eventually found out everyone called palmetto bugs. I even eventually found out that they weren't local to Florida. Although I'd never seen them there, other Southern states (even my own home state of North Carolina) hosted these mutant cockroaches referred to as palmetto bugs. However, it wasn't until Bob was in seminary that I discovered New York City plays host to these monsters.

The first year Bob was in seminary, we had a laundry facility in the basement of the dorm where our apartment was. It was a beautiful spring day. It was finally warm. The minute days like that start surfacing, I'm in the habit of kicking off my shoes and going barefoot everywhere. Thus, I had decided to do a load of laundry and was walking barefoot down the back stairs to the laundry room, thinking about ghosts as I always did on those stairs, because the building so lent itself to such thoughts. Just as I reached the landing, I looked down to see something skittering across the floor in front of me. I'm sure I did a double-take, barely believing my eyes, but I am just as sure that right before it disappeared in a crack in the wall, it revealed itself to be a HUGE (not-very-polite adjective) cockroach. I skittered, just as quickly, back upstairs to put some shoes on, and no one ever saw me wandering around the seminary barefoot again.

I saw many of those cockroaches over the next few years in New York (even one, once, in our apartment. Not a happy moment). Like the rats that ran around on the street or dug around in the trashcans, I soon came to accept them. I didn't bother them, and they didn't bother me. But I never once heard anyone refer to them as anything other than cockroaches. Cockroaches the size of Michael Jordan's sneakers. You can find palmetto bugs in Florida (but don't drink too many of them. They sneak up on you and leave you with a fearful hangover the next day).

I Love Your Blog

Okay, so first Charlotte (to whom, thank you, for giving me an automatic NaBloPoMo subject) gave me this award. Then I got it again from Zoe's Mom. And I think the most recent one to give it to me was Sarawithnoh. That's an awful lot of love I'm getting, and I'm very flattered that I'm not the only one who loves this little blog that, for over two years now, has helped me keep my sanity. And now, my obligation, since I've received this award, is to make sure others out there are aware that we love their blogs, too. I'm going to try to include those I don't think have yet received the award, because with Charlotte, ZM, Becky, and Sarawithnoh all having done this already, many of the blogs I love have already been covered.

Here are the rules:

1) Add the logo of the award to your blog.
2) Add a link to the person who awarded it to you (as shown above).
3) Nominate at least seven other blogs.
4) Add links to those blogs on your blog.


1. Danny from Jew Eat Yet -- I've told you all this before, but it's worth saying again. If you read my blog, you have Danny to thank. He's a former co-worker of mine, and he was one of the people who encouraged me to start a blog. His blog is fabulous. Check it out.

2. Ian's Blog -- he's been static for a while now, thanks to the demands of grad school, but his posts are always, always worth reading (not that I'm biased, being his sister, or anything).

3. Quinn of The QC Report -- because there are many, many days when I feel like posting on my own blog, "Don't bother with me today. Go straight to Quinn, do not pass 'Go,' do not collect $200, if you're in the mood to fall out of your chair laughing." (Yes, I actually have fallen out of my chair laughing while reading her). Look for me in line at Border's the second her book hits the stores (next month, I think).

4. Mandarine -- if you've ever wondered if there are kind, thoughtful, funny, sane geniuses in this world, visit Mandarine and question no longer.

5. Stefanie at So Many Books -- I've finally met my match when it comes to someone who reads all over the map. And I love to hear what she thinks about all she reads. And I also like to hear of her adventures in library school. And basically, anything else she cares to share. I just love her.

6. Nigel at Hand Made Luck -- I'm so jealous of his ability to be so succinct and so right-on-the-mark all the time. However, my jealousy doesn't keep me from loving him.

7. Ms. Knits at She Knits By the Seashore -- she is such an inspiration as I slug my way through learning to knit. One day, I might be able to do what she does, which is to create real beauty with her knitting needles. I also have the added bonus of knowing her in real life.

Do I have to stop at 7? I don't want to, so I'm going to give you two more:

Pete of Couch Trip for his extraordinarily interesting perspective on so, so many things. And, of course, he is another book-lover.

Susan of You Can Never Have Too Many Books -- first of all, because she's so right. You can never have too many books, but she's also got a fabulous sense of humor about it all, and she and I seem to have quite a lot in common (which always helps if you're going to love someone).

Okay, that's it. I'd mention my sisters' blogs, too, but they never seem to post. They'll show up one day when they start posting more frequently. All those of you who have now received this award from me are honor-bound to pass it on to others.

Phooey on Kakutani

I really feel sorry for any author who has to suffer the indignity of having his or her work reviewed by Michiko Kakutani. I have never known anyone who so consistently proves (over and over and over ad nauseam) that when it comes to writers, and books, and readers, she just does not get it. Of course, I have only myself to blame for the fact that I’m aware of how clueless she is. She’s like those horrible videos that came out right after 9/11. When I see her byline, I know I don’t really want to read what she has to say, that I’m going to be shocked and feel a bit sick, but my eyes wander in her direction anyway, and before I know it, I am yet again, sighing in disgust. I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t feel she has the power to do a lot of damage, a power she uses far too irresponsibly. My only hope is that she has more readers like me than readers who actually take her seriously.

Why this rant from me against this NYT reviewer? Because a while ago I finished listening to Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. As I was putting the last disk back into the case, I noted for the first time that the back cover copy had a quote from Kakutani. Here’s what she had to say:

“To give you an idea of what Mark Haddon’s moving new novel is like, think of The Sound and the Fury crossed with The Catcher in the Rye and one of Oliver Sack’s real-life stories.”

Okay, so at least she said it was moving, which must mean she didn’t trash it, which seems to be her favorite thing to do. But how can anyone who has read this book and read any of the others she notes ever trust anything she has to say again? The Sound and the Fury? What? Well, I guess The Sound and the Fury does happen to have an idiot in it, and I suppose some might call Haddon’s protagonist an idiot (more like an idiot savant), but I see no other similarities whatsoever – not in story-line, not in character development, not in type of story (tell me, was there some sort of Southern Gothic piece to Haddon's book that’s somehow gone missing in the unabridged sound recording? Biblical allegory I missed when my mind wandered a bit?), not in writing style. Nothing. And The Catcher in the Rye? I found no resemblance whatsoever between Salinger’s cynical, spoiled, full-of-himself Holden Caulfield and Haddon’s so sweetly sad and innocent Christopher Boone. I suppose that just because two books happen to be coming-of-age novels they are automatically like each other.

How on earth does her editor let her get away with such baloney? I’d be taking her to task all over the place. For me, it’s gotten to the point that if she compares a book to some classic, I know the two will have absolutely nothing in common (of course, I have not yet gotten to the point that it doesn’t annoy the hell out of me). It’s also gotten to the point that if she hates a book, I know that I must immediately put it at the top of my TBR list, most especially if it’s a new book by some beloved author. Did anyone else see the crap she wrote about When You Are Engulfed in Flames? The fact that she could have thought Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (which has got to be Sedaris’s weakest effort. All my friends who are fellow fans agree with me on that point, although we, of course, still read it and laughed, because, well, it’s Sedaris. He could make a grocery list funny) was better…well, that’s really all the proof you need when it comes to how unreliable she is. She seems to have this odd pattern that has absolutely nothing to do with the actual book. If she praised a bestselling author’s last work, she has to mock his or her latest effort. Does that somehow prove she’s being objective?

All this is to say that I hope none of you aspiring writers out there has ever been discouraged by reading a brilliant book and then reading a Kakutani review of said book. If you found yourself contemplating suicide, because such thoughts as this, “Well, if even that didn’t receive high praise, I’m doomed” keep floating through your head, please come to me. I will tell you exactly how she got it all wrong. Meanwhile, I’m impatiently waiting for you to publish. You can send me ARCs of your books, and I will write reviews here on my blog to put her to shame. And you know what? If you’ve written two (or four or eight…) really good books in a row, I’ll go on and on about how you just can’t seem to fail, you genius, you. And even if I didn’t like your book (hard to imagine, because I love all the blogs kept by those of you who read my blog), I will be far kinder and gentler in my critique of it, because even I, Ms. Blunt-Klutz, have more grace and tact than she does (I’m also aware of the fact that writers are sensitive creatures). Now, get on with your business of writing, and ignore her, please. After all, she can trash John Irving all she wants, but how many 500+ paged novels with that kind of characterization has she written?

And now, despite the fact I wasn't thrilled with the last Diane Johnson book I read (which probably got a rave review from Kakutani), I'm off to see if I can get a copy of her latest book, which Kakutani recently declared as Johnson's "ridiculous new novel." I bet I'm gonna love it!

Not Much Here Today

Well, wouldn't you know it? It's one of the best days in American history, and I happen to be sick as a dog. When I stop feeling as though I've drunk a pitcher of margaritas by myself, I will post something coherent. Right now, I will just say: YAY! YAY! YAY!

(And now that I have fulfilled my NaBloPoMo obligation for the day, I am going back to bed.)

Pro-Choice NOT Pro-Abortion

(Before I get to today's post, just want to say to those of you who have been frustrated by trying to comment on my blog unsuccessfully -- and that would include me -- I have switched to a pop-up format, which seems to be working. If it doesn't work, please let me know via email: emilymb95 at gmail dot com. Thanks!)

So, today, on U.S. election day, I want to make something perfectly clear to those sorts of politicians who seem to think that all they have to do is say something to make it true. I am pro-choice. I am not, nor have I ever been pro-abortion. Just because you want to call me pro-abortion does not mean that I am. The fact that this country, with all its money and resources, does not have a lower abortion rate is very sad. I'm ashamed of us (which, by the way, does not mean I don't love my country any more than it meant I didn't love my parents when they used to shame me by wearing outfits in public that I thought were hopelessly "uncool").

I know that there will always be some unwanted pregnancies (no form of birth control is 100% accurate), and there will always be some pregnancies that end in abortion because the mother's life is in danger or because the baby will not live if brought to term, but for 22% of all known pregnancies to end in legal abortions is tragic. We should be doing everything we possibly can to lower that statistic. And let me give you a little hint here: teaching teenagers abstinence as a preventative measure isn't going to work. It's like sticking a box of candy in front of a young child (or even in front of many adults, for that matter), telling him or her not to eat any, and then walking away.

So, if I'm not pro-abortion, what am I? I don't know. Some might call me pro-long-lasting marriage. You see, I don't happen to believe that marriage is easy. I don't happen to believe it should be taken lightly. I don't happen to believe that just because a sixteen-year-old girl has found herself pregnant that she and her sixteen-year-old boyfriend are ready to take on the responsibilities of marriage and child-rearing (as a matter of fact, if they've found themselves in this situation, that's pretty much proof that they're not real good at thinking through the consequences of their actions). Let's face it, those of us who were in love with boyfriends and girlfriends at age sixteen thought we were in be-all, end-all relationships, didn't we? These were the loves of our lives. We'd get married and live happily ever after. How many of you today think that you could have married that person and had it last past the age of 20? I know, it does work for some, but those are few and far between. And who suffers most in those unhappy marriages? The children.

Or maybe you could call me pro-life of the baby. I don't believe that all babies have the same opportunities. Some babies are born into extreme poverty and never grow up. Some babies are born to drug-addicted parents, are neglected, and never grow up. Some babies are physically abused and die at the hands of their own parents. Some babies become victims of incest and venereal disease. Just because a baby makes it from conception to birth does not guarantee life. My guess is that unwanted babies run a higher risk of falling into these categories than loved and wanted babies do. And what do we do to take care of them, to make sure they get the chance to grow up, to help keep them from becoming violent members of society themselves? If abortion is going to be illegal, I want to see some sort of system in place in which our society takes complete responsibility for all unwed mothers, all victims of incest, all victims of rape, all unwanted children, all children who go to bed hungry at night, all children who are more familiar with a fist than a hug, etc. Until then, please don't keep dragging out your examples of people who are "so glad their moms, rape/incest victims, didn't choose to abort them." Because you know what? I've met others in my life who have lived through untold horrors, and who have told me they wish their mothers had aborted them.

Then again, possibly I'm pro-life-of-the-mother. In case you are unaware of what it's like to live in a country in which safe, legal abortions are not available, may I suggest you go do a little research? Maybe read a little? Take a look at what was going on in back alleys before Roe v. Wade. Find out how many women, when abortion is illegal, die trying "do-it-yourself" methods, how many die visiting less-than-sanitary "facilities," oh yes, and how many die at the hands of men who didn't think about the fact they didn't want another baby until the woman showed up pregnant.

Oh, and speaking of men, abortions need to be safe and legal until we live in a society in which men take equal responsibility for unwanted pregnancies, rather than disappearing, leaving the woman to care for the child. It needs to be a society in which men are labeled "tramps" and "whores" and are looked down on when they father a child out of wedlock. And it needs to be a society in which laws against rape are strictly enforced, a society in which thirteen-year-old girls do not become pregnant by their fathers and stepfathers. This society also needs to be one in which all women have equal access to affordable health care and birth control. While we're at it, all babies and children need equal access to affordable health care, too. It needs to be a society in which women don't have to make choices between work and childcare. It needs to be one in which we don't merely give lip service to caring about children but actually care about them.

Unfortunately, I don't see anyway that our society can possibly support making abortion illegal. Thus, I am pro-choice. But don't tell me I am not pro-life. I just happen to believe that life continues after birth and that, rather than arguing about whether or not abortion should be legal, our energies ought to be focused on doing everything we can to make sure that every single child who is born is wanted and loved and cared for by somebody.

Music Monday or Lyric Lundi

The first year we were married, one of Bob’s former students came to visit us. When she was in school, the two of them had been in the habit of exchanging music with each other. On her visit, she brought CDs from this group she knew he was going to love called The Wild Colonials, excited about how they seem to incorporate almost every instrument into what they play. She was right. He did love them. What she didn’t know was that I was going to end up loving them as much as he did (maybe even a little more).

It’s hard to choose a favorite Wild Colonials song. I love so much of what they do. “A Philadelphia Story,” however, will always have a special place in my heart. You’ll understand this when I say that the movie is one of my all-time favorites. This song does such a wonderful job of capturing the essence of the film, while being a very special piece in its own right. Like Katharine Hepburn in the movie, she’s lucky. It all turns out all right in the end, and really, as she says, isn’t that what we usually want from a love story, since we’ve all known so many that didn’t?

When I was in my teens, I thought all real love stories worked out in the end. He came back, and they lived happily ever after, of course. Now that I’m in my forties, I’m convinced that love stories that do work out are very, very rare. I’m more likely to be thinking, “Okay, so he came back. Did it last this time? (I hope it did.)” What do you think?

PHILADELPHIA STORY

Wild Colonials

Everyone wants a love song

that’s happy in the end

Let me tell you a story

that helped a broken heart mend.

He walked in through the doorway

like something lost and found

My heart jumped out of my pocket

And round his hand it wound.

It’s a Philadelphia Story

this love has got a slant

With you I’ll never worry

You’re my Cary Grant.

We laughed and cried and sang

together until he had to go

halfway across the world he went

My heart back on death row

Midnight calls and lots of tears

he arrived back at my door

What can I tell you

What can I say

My voice was just a roar.

It’s a Philadelphia Story

this love has got a slant

With you I’ll never worry

You’re my Cary Grant.

You know I often wonder

How you brought him back to me

the boy with the wandering soul

is happy to be free

He tells me love is all we need

To keep us rich with joy

How can I ever thank you Lord

For sending me this boy

It’s a Philadelphia story

this love will never die

With you I’ll never worry

there’s no use asking why.

Irrational Thoughts

Sandy sat in one of the big wing chairs, recently re-upholstered in the same sort of smooth pale yellow fabric in which it had always been clothed. Mama claimed the furniture in the sun parlor should be covered in pale colors, so as not to show the fading, inevitable from all the sunlight pouring in through all the windows. Thus, the day bed that, along with Grandma’s old secretary, monopolized the one wall with no windows had a white slip cover; the love seat was a striped yellow and white; and the two chairs picked up the yellow in the love seat. However, having recently made the decision to start using this room again, she’d discovered the ignored furniture was badly in need of reupholstering, the pale colors having not only faded but also yellowed with age. Sending it off to have that done had been the perfect excuse to postpone the inevitable: having to actually sit out here, in the evenings, after dark, as Owen had instructed her to do.

The furniture now returned, this was the second evening in a row she’d brought her book out here to read. Last night, she hadn’t lasted long but had been spared a visitor. Tonight would be different. No more than ten minutes had passed when the familiar scratching and light tapping at the window began. She ignored it, focusing all her energy on the pages in front of her. Those noises were nothing more than one of the many overgrown tree branches being blown by the wind. To believe otherwise was completely irrational. She knew that; she’d spent so many hours discussing with Owen the difference between rational and irrational thoughts. Nobody was out there, staring in at her, keeping an eye on her; he didn’t exist. What did exist was an anxious temperament that could lead to irrational thoughts and fears such as this one. Still, she refused to look up from her book, didn’t want to direct her attention to any of the windows. Still, she was beginning to feel the hair rise on the back of her neck.

(To Be Continued)

NaBloPoMo Starts Today

So, the question is: will I stick with it? Will I actually be able to post every single day? Your guess is as good as mine. If I were a betting woman, though, I'd say the odds are pretty high that I won't. After all, I have yet to complete any Challenge in the time frame in which it is given. I haven't even been able to complete the science book challenge, which only involved reading and posting on three books this year. I've read one book. I'm halfway through my second (loving it, but it's been slow reading). In fairness to me, I read math and science manuscripts and articles all day long for work, so it isn't exactly like I'm not reading science. However, I did choose three books to read for this challenge, and I was almost certain I'd have had all three read long before now. I will finish this challenge, but at this point, I'm pretty sure the third book will have to wait till next year.

Then there's the Soup's On! Challenge. I've read three of the five cookbooks I said I was going to read. I've posted on two of them. (The third, quite obviously, will be a post for this month.) The other two books, huge tomes that each would take me a year to read, inspire the "What was I thinking?" thought bubble to float above my head every time I look at them.

Writing is different, though. I already write every day. I just don't necessarily write blog posts every day. And I haven't committed myself to writing about anything in particular. This should be something I can do. If I don't post every day, though, I'm sure I will have some really good excuses, excuses that will make great blog posts. In fact, I've already got an excuse. I'm not going to be posting on Sundays. Sundays are supposed to be my days to "unplug." I try not to turn on the computer unless I've had some other day during the week in which I didn't turn on the computer (like I was stuck in an airport all day on Saturday or something) or I'm off at a conference and am basically working all weekend. I had recently decided to recommit myself to "unplugged Sundays," because I'd found I was getting back into the habit of turning on the computer on Sundays. NABloPoMo would be a very good excuse to ignore that new commitment, but I think I need the discipline of staying away from the computer more than I need the discipline of posting every day.

I might try writing two posts on Saturdays and relying on blogger to listen to my command to publish my second post on Sunday, but blogger is very unreliable, so chances are, this won't work very well. We'll see...

Meanwhile, welcome aboard this crazy ride during this crazy month. I can guarantee two things or your money back: 1. Mondays will be devoted to song lyrics (isn't it fortuitous that I happened to come up with that idea just before I decided I'd give NaBloPoMo a go this year?), and 2. thanks to a suggestion from Mandarine (who really should be King of the World. He's always got such great suggestions), I will be posting segments from an old ghost story that I pulled out from the depths of a cobweb-encrusted file in the basement of the old laptop's hard drive. Who knows? If the ghosts decide to cooperate, the first segment of that might even show up tomorrow while I'm off reading and hiking, completely ignoring the computer.