Laid Off Part II

This time I...

...will finish the second draft of my novel.

...will write some more ghost stories.

...will submit stuff for publication over and over and over again, knowing full well it will probably all be rejected but knowing I'll never know unless I try.

...will not take the first job that comes along (especially when those who know both me and the company warn me that I won't be happy).

...will not let the pull of a steady second income be more important than a rewarding life.

...will do more volunteer work in new, unexplored areas that might lead to a more rewarding life.

...will write more letters (hope all my sadly forgotten pen pals are reading this).

...will try to come to grips with the fact that the good old days of publishing, when brilliant people who were readers and writers themselves actually ran the companies, are gone.

...will admit that the likes of Eudora Welty, William Faulkner, and Wallace Stegner would probably never be published in today's world, and I will think hard about how to start a revolution to turn that around, because I would hate it if 100 years from now, the only books left to represent the early 21st-century are by Tom Clancy, Mary Higgins Clark, and Danielle Steel.

...will do all the things I'm always saying I will do and never have time, like exploring hiking trails in Pennsylvania, visiting museums in Philadelphia, going to Pittsburgh, etc.

...will read more books (of course!).

...will watch more movies.

...will cook and bake more.

Sounds like it's going to be a pretty good life, huh? Please keep reminding me of that for the days when it's not Easter, I'm not surrounded by loving friends and family members, the sun isn't shining, and the flowers aren't blossoming.





...

Once Upon a Time Challenge Book One

Shulman, Polly. The Grimm Legacy. New York: G.P. Putnam Sons, 2010.

(This entry is cross-posted and adapted at Pequea Valley Reader's Blog.)

It's tempting to complain about this book, because it's not terribly well written. I decided that for me to do so, though, might be a bit unfair, because a: I don't read tons that's written for today's young adult audience (and maybe this is very well-written compared to most of what's out there) and b. I am very picky about fantasy, don't read much of it, and when I do, it tends to be things like Lord Dunsany's The King of Elfland's Daughter. To compare any writer (y.a. or not, but especially y.a.) to that poetic genius and truly gifted storyteller would be unfair. Still, even if short, "sound-bite-ish" writing is all the rage for 21st-century y.a. literature; and even if this book had been a real-life take on suburban teen living, fantasy and Lord Dunsany the last things on my mind while reading it, I probably would have wished I'd had the manuscript to edit before it was published and could (kindly) have suggested that Shulman work on the areas that seemed a bit choppy to me and to rewrite some of the dialogue to make it a little less stilted.

But forget the, at times, choppy writing and stilted dialogue. It's easy to do once you get lost in the pages of this book, because it's so wonderfully imaginative (thus, despite temptation, my inability to do anything but say I truly liked it). Elizabeth Rew, our heroine, is someone to whom it's easy to relate (and probably doubly so for the intended teen audience): an awkward teenager attending a new school and still missing her dead mother. School isn't much fun. She's had to abandon the dance classes she enjoys, because her father has a new, larger family to support, and she's feeling the need to earn a little money of her own, especially after she finds herself giving away her sneakers to a homeless woman. When her favorite teacher suggests she apply for a job at a special library, she agrees to do so, having no idea what to expect.

Soon, enough, she discovers exactly how special this library is. It lends out objects, not books -- all kinds of objects. As if that isn't cool enough, the library is also home to a very special collection: magic objects from Grimm's fairy tales. I liked the fact that these objects were stored in an area known as "the cage," because once upon a time, I worked in a large public library that had a "cage" of its own, basically an area down in the basement that was locked off by a "cage" of chain-link doors and that wasn't open to the public for browsing (nothing magical in that one, though, unless you consider archival material magical). Imagine a place that houses such artifacts as the mirror from Snow White, flying carpets, and the twelve dancing princess's slippers. As you might have guessed, this special collection leads to a big, magical adventure (and, like many a good fairy tale, a little romance).

One of the things I loved about this book were all the little nods to classic fairy tales. Elizabeth has two, older, annoying, stepsisters. Her stepmother isn't wicked, but she's not exactly nice to Elizabeth (and does seem to think of her as a built-in maid). Characters in the novel eat gingerbread. Some of them are princes and princesses. It also takes its cue from some of the scarier tales from the brothers Grimm, adding a nice touch of light, spine-tingling, suspense. How do I know it's taking a cue from the Grimm's brothers? The book made me pull our copy of The Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales from our shelves (a book, I discovered, that has gathered quite a bit of dust -- unfortunately, not of the fairy sort). I bet it makes everyone who reads it want to refer to that, and what's more magical than a book that leads the reader to other great books? Unless it's a book that not only leads readers to other great books, but that also happens to end on this side of "happily ever after," and is maybe all the more gratifying for doing so.

Give it to your 12-14-year-old daughter/niece/granddaughter/friend. She'll love it.

Chasing David Sedaris II

This time, unlike last time, I actually had a ticket for April 3 at the Keswick Theater in Glenside, PA that said "David Sedaris" on it. I'd had it, in fact, since Christmas, thanks to the Best Husband Ever, who had somehow managed to pick up on my extraordinarily subtle hints that a date with him to see David Sedaris rivals diamonds when it comes to this girl's best friends. To those who aren't married to ministers, it might seem highly unlikely that possessing such a ticket would keep me from seeing my idol in the flesh, but I was worried nonetheless that the ticket was no guarantee. You have to understand that one of the Pillars of the Church could have died on April 3. Or a child in our congregation could have decided to run out in front of a horse and buggy and be in the hospital in a coma. Barring those sorts of catastrophes, something more mundane (say a car catching on fire due to an overheated clutch, like mine recently did on the New Jersey Turnpike) could have kept us from getting to Glenside, an hour's drive from our home.

Happily, I was able to check off the "none of the above" box and found myself sitting in a seat, staring at a stage, where I was going to have a great view of Sedaris when he walked onto it. I'd meant to bring along my copy of Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk for Sedaris to sign, but in my excitement, I'd forgotten it. Not to worry. The Best Husband, after we'd taken our seats, turned to me and asked, "Which of his books do you want me to buy for him to sign? Which don't you have?" Like the star-struck idiot I am, I answered, "I've got all of them. But you could get a copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day, because that's the first one I ever read."

He went off to buy it, and I sat in my seat thinking, "What's the matter with me?" Once the glory of staring at the stage and the podium and seat where He would soon be sitting had worn off, I realized -- uh-duh! -- that, although I've read them all, I don't happen to have all of Sedaris's books. My collection lacked both Barrel Fever and Naked. I contemplated racing out and intercepting Bob to tell him to get me Naked instead. I love that one for, among other things, the vivid picture it gives us of Sedaris's mother. While I sat undecided about what to do, Bob returned with a hard cover (which I didn't have) of Me Talk Pretty One Day. I was glad some part of me had leaped to suggest he buy it, since it now seemed appropriate that I have a signed hard cover copy of the first book of his I ever read.

Shortly thereafter, Sedaris took the stage. He read two original pieces, which I assume will one day wind up somewhere in print. One was about a recent trip to China and eating while there. The other was about being on the swim team as a kid (but was really about his father and his relationship). Then he read a bunch of entries from his diary (the writer in me despairs when she hears/reads entries from Sedaris's diary. All diaries and journals I've ever kept would seem like nothing but scruffy, worn-out, ready-for-the-Goodwill articles next to Sedaris's polished pieces) and followed that by highly recommending a book, Tobias Wolff's The Barracks Thief, which I haven't read (judging from Wolff's Old School, however, I'm inclined to agree with Sedaris that Wolff is a Great American Writer, and that we're lucky to be living while he is alive and writing. I'm not sure I would agree, though -- will have to read it -- that Wolff's book is far better than anything Sedaris has written). He described himself as a "scary fan" of Wolff's, and all I could think was that I'm a "scary fan" of Sedaris's. Finally, he opened up the floor to questions.

What I liked most about seeing Sedaris live was finding out how much he laughs. Not so much while he was reading the two pieces on China and the swim team that he's probably reworked and read to the point of being sick of them, but rather when he was reading jokes others had told him or reading about bizarre events/articles he'd recorded in his diary, and he laughed a lot while answering the questions people asked him. In other words, he wasn't really laughing at his own hilarious genius, but rather, he was proving to us that he focuses on what's funny in life. By the time I left the theater, he'd verified for me that he just plain chooses to find life, no matter how painful it might really be, funny.

He'd also verified something else: he's extremely kind. I think I'd always suspected he might be. He's brave enough to write all those often unkind thoughts we all have, but his writing reflects the sort of sensitivity underneath it all that causes people to feel pulled in two directions, "God, I hate people," and "God, I'm so horrible to hate people." He compensates for the latter by being extremely kind and generous to his idolizing fans like me.

How do I know that? Well, first of all, his schedule for this tour (33 venues in 34 days) is pure hell. It's the sort of tour one only does if desperate for money (which we all know he's not. He informed us that he and Hugh have just bought another home, this time in Sussex) or very appreciative of his fans and wants to accommodate them (visit his Facebook page. His fans are constantly begging him to come to their hometowns). I also know because he signs books for his fans, and he takes the time to chat with each and every one of them. Believe me, I've been to plenty of author signings in which the author barely acknowledges the person in front of him or her and whose goal seems to be just to get through the line of people. Sedaris arranges it so that each person (or couple, as the case may be) goes up to his table alone, and gets one-on-one time with him. This is why he can be done with his reading at 8:30 and still be signing books past midnight.

But the most convincing evidence of his kindness of all? Just as Bob and I were approaching the table to have him sign both Me Talk Pretty One Day and Naked (which we'd also bought while waiting in line), he asked the person in charge of monitoring the line to go see if anyone was waiting in line with children. It was getting close to 10:00 by then, and he was worried about kids who had to be up for school the next day. Granted, I doubt that many parents with elementary-aged children take them to see David Sedaris, but for those with older kids, that was very generous of him to be concerned.

We waited in line for over an hour. The whole time, I was observing how others interacted with him. They bantered with him. They laughed. He laughed. All I could think was, "Why do I have to be this extremely shy, pathetic person who could never manage to banter with the likes of him?" I so longed to be someone who had impressive, stand up comedian genes in her body, instead of throw up on your idol when you finally come face to face with him genes. Do any of you recall the feelings you had as a kid when the brand new, scariest ride opened at the amusement park, and you were waiting in line? I was always torn between, "I can't wait to get there" and "I hope this line never ends." That's how I felt.

Bob and I quietly rehearsed what we'd say and do when our time came. He never wants to look like the domineering male who doesn't let his wife talk. That's sort of hard to do when his wife wants him to do all the talking. We decided that Bob would explain that I was the huge fan but that I was too shy to talk (hoping he'd understand). Then, we basically agreed on three things. Bob wanted to know if he finds it hard to write about his family. He also wanted to tell him about some of the more amusing names of the towns in Lancaster County. Finally, I wanted to tell him to keep in a joke that had fallen somewhat flat when he read his China piece. The brilliance of David Sedaris is that you have to reread him. The first time, you're laughing yourself silly at the obvious humor. The second and third time, you pick up on the more subtle, and often even funnier, parts. I hadn't caught his joke myself, at first, but I know I would have on the second go-round and I wanted him to know that. We focused on what we wanted to say and didn't really discuss what we didn't want to say, except that the one thing I didn't want to do was tell him I'd grown up in North Carolina, like he had. I don't know why, but to me, that just sounds so sycophantic (and, you know, I was so un-sycophantic otherwise).

Eventually, the line did end with us, and we were standing before Sedaris, and he was busy signing our books (he drew a bird in Naked, and wrote, "I'm so happy you can walk" in Me Talk Pretty One Day), and Bob was asking if it was hard to write about his family. Sedaris didn't really answer the question (he assured us his father really is a mean man, while also seeming to be surprised that he comes off as such. I think he honestly makes an effort to be fair to his family members and may not always be aware at how often he calls a spade a spade), but it was obvious that the answer was "yes." He seemed genuinely appreciative to be told about such Pennsylvania towns as Intercourse, Blue Ball, and Paradise. What probably confused him was Bob telling him I was shy.

You see, I proved not to be the least bit shy. I told him I was a "scary fan," and when he chatted with me about that, I opened up more and, much to my disgust, found myself telling him I'd grown up in North Carolina, asking him, "Could you not wait to get out of North Carolina?" to which he replied, "No, I couldn't wait to get out of North Carolina," and then, laughing, added "but it took me 27 years." Then we chatted a minute about how people will visit and say, "It's so beautiful," and there I was, exchanging that knowing look with him, I've exchanged with many a former or current resident, while saying, "But they haven't lived there." Bob piped up that I do like places like Asheville and Boone, and I had to agree I do, which led to Sedaris making a comparison between North Carolina and Oregon (not politically, he made it clear) and my making my comparison between Maine and Oregon.

Finally, acting as though we were the oldest of friends, I advised him to keep that joke in the China piece. But then, the star-struck, babbling idiot of a crazy fan resurfaced, and went on about the beauty of his writing and how it needs to be reread. Somehow, though, being the genius that he is, he was able to wade through all the babble and focus on the nugget within,

"You really think I should keep it? No one got it. I had to explain it."

"Definitely." I said.

Believe me, I'll be checking to see if he took my advice when the piece makes it into print. If he does, don't be surprised if you one day hear me say, "I helped David Sedaris edit that piece, you know."

21st-Century Things That Really Annoy Me

1. Boxes of crackers in which only about half the crackers are whole. What is it with cracker companies in the 21st century? It used to be you bought a box of crackers, and maybe one or two were broken. Now, it seems, you're lucky if you don't find the majority of them to be mere pieces of crackers, barely big enough to hold a quarter olive let alone a nice hunk of cheese. I'm not fooled, are you? I don't think shippers have suddenly decided to start using boxes of crackers as punching bags en route to delivery. No, I think someone, somewhere, back in the 20th century, was hired to figure out how to get people to buy more crackers. His brilliant idea? "Let's break half the crackers before we package them. Nobody likes broken crackers. They'll eat the whole ones, throw the rest away, and buy more crackers." Someone even smarter than that guy ought to start a new company whose motto would be, "Unbroken, or your money back." I'd be willing to pay more for that box of crackers.

2. Sinks whose garbage disposal area is barely big enough for a glass. What are the people who design sinks and garbage disposals thinking? Most of the food that I need to dump down the disposal is stuck on big pots or on large round plates or in plastic storage containers that have been sitting in the back of the fridge way too long. I need the space where the garbage disposal is to be able to hold a frying pan or a 2-quart Tupperware container, so I can wash and scrub stuff without clogging up the sink. It defeats the whole purpose of the thing for the main part of the sink to have an old-fashioned drain, ready to snatch up any food debris that might clog it forever, and to have the garbage disposal off to the side, in it's own precious little compartment, something that seems to be saying, "Pay no attention to me. I really don't want to get all dirty with those nasty food bits you've got there, thus, I'm going to make it as inconvenient as possible for you to do so." It seems to me that when I was a kid and visited people who had garbage disposals (because my family would never have such a thing), it just sat right there in their sink in place of an ordinary drain.

3. Electronic devices (you know, like DVD players) that don't work (suddenly decide that, no matter what, they are not going to open and close when the appropriate button is pushed so that DVDs can be loaded and unloaded) or appliances (toaster ovens, say) that do the same (beep uncontrollably when left plugged in and flash an "error" message that won't go away). Nothing lasts anymore. Okay, granted, the DVD player is something like eight years old, but it's not as though it was used every day (or even once a week) for the past eight years. The toaster oven is only two -- yes two -- years old. My guess is that it would be more expensive to fix than to replace. Whatever happened to the days when your parents owned a black and white TV, and they promised you that when they finally needed to replace it, they'd get a color one, and you had to wait eighteen years before it broke, and they got that color TV?

4. Things that aren't the same. You know what I mean. You find a fabulous pair of yoga pants. They're just the right kind of soft. They're snug but not so tight they show every mole on your legs and every dimple in your butt. You love them. You could live in them. Unfortunately, after wearing them into the ground for two years, they develop a small hole. You go online and order "yoga pants" from the exact same company (all right, admittedly, you are dumb enough to think that just because it's the same company, and they sport the same name, they will be the same thing). They arrive, and you discover that what used to be something like 90% cotton and 10% spandex is now 95% spandex and 5% cotton. They're awful. They'll never be as soft as your old ones, no matter how often you wash them, and forget about what people can see when you wear them. You might as well walk around nude. Remember when you could buy a pair of jeans in 1974 from a particular company and buy another pair in 1976, and, if it was called the same thing (Levi's 501, for instance), it would be exactly the same?

5. "Conveniences" that aren't or that are forced on you. No, I don't really find it more convenient to do absolutely everything online. I want to make that decision myself. For instance, yes, I find it more convenient to pay my bills online. No, I don't find it more convenient to go online when my phone service is out, especially when my phone company may be my Internet provider (it isn't right now, but it could be), but I have been told by my phone company, when calling to report trouble, that I can avoid a wait by visiting its web site and reporting my problem online. Also, seeing as I hate to go shopping, if I happen to be in a store shopping for something, it's likely that I want that something now. I don't want to "check online" to see if they happen to have any available in their online store. Please, take me back to those old late-twentieth-century inconveniences, like employees at phone companies who answered the phone and knew that, yes, all the phones in your neighborhood happened to be out right now, because someone had hit a telephone pole, or when stores couldn't rely on the Internet and kept up their stock (remember the days when if you couldn't find it on the rack or the shelf, the nice sales clerk would just go to the back and get it for you?).

We really do turn into our parents, don't we? I sound like them more and more everyday.

Alphabet Meme: C is for Charlottesville, VA

My father was born and raised in Charlottesville, VA. When I wrote my post about my mother, I mentioned that she was living there when she started dating him. Although I grew up in North Carolina, we had no family in Winston-Salem. When my mother's father died (shortly before I was born), my mother's mother ended up moving to Charlottesville (to that very same apartment where my mother had lived when she and my father got engaged). My father's mother (long a widow by the time I came along) lived in Charlottesville, as did his sister (my aunt), her husband, and her daughter. My mother's brother and his first wife moved there, too, and so my cousins on that side of the family (a boy and two girls) also all lived there.

Since basically our whole family lived in Charlottesville, you can see why we visited often when I was a child. It seems to me that we made that long 4-hour drive about every six weeks or so, especially once my mother's mother moved into assisted living, then fell and broke her hip, and began to suffer from dementia. Typically, we went up for a weekend, but there were blocks of time in the summer when we'd go stay for a week or two. I think there was one summer when we actually went up for a whole month.

It was worth the interminable drive. I loved Charlottesville and visiting with my grandmothers and cousins. It was a far more exciting place than Winston-Salem. Everything was better there: swimming pools; overgrown box bushes at my aunt's house that made great "houses" to hide and play in; books to read that we didn't have at home; horses to ride and barns to explore at the farm where my cousins lived; my grandmother Michie's (Grandmic, we all called her) cool "modern" house (built in 1969. My parents live there now) nestled in the woods, with the Blue Ridge and Ragged Mountains as beautiful backdrops; even chocolate pudding that tasted far better than anything we could get at home. Also, it always seemed to be snowing in Charlottesville when it was raining in Winston-Salem, and, well, you all know how I love snow.

When we were really lucky, we got to go to my great uncle's house, which had a pond where we could swim and a row boat when we got tired of swimming (my father swam in that pond when he was a boy, too, and my guess is the often-leaky-and-frequently-patched row boat had been around just about as long). This old family estate was where my grandmother had been raised and was supposedly home to a ghost (a beautiful bride dating from the Civil War era. If I recall correctly, she and her husband had hidden in the attic, so he wouldn't have to leave her to go off and fight in the war -- or maybe that's just the romantic tale I made of it. Does it really matter? -- where she'd died). My grandmother had woken up one night to see that ghost brushing her long hair in the window and had mistaken it for one of her sisters, until she turned to realize her sister was in bed beside her. I haven't changed. I heard that story many times as a child, and every time we visited "Spring Hill," as it's still called, I both hoped I would and hoped I wouldn't see that ghost, just like I do when I enter the church here at night, all alone, and both hope I will and hope I won't happen to see a ghost from the nineteenth century sitting in a pew.

Is it any wonder that when it came time for me to go to college, I chose Charlottesville? My teenage years are full of memories of being taken to things like football games and homecoming parties by my father, who pretended he wasn't thrilled when I began to show a decided interest in attending his alma mater. I was convinced I'd never get in (mainly because my lousy guidance counselor had been terribly discouraging), and no one was more surprised than I when that acceptance package arrived in the mail (ironically, during a weekend when I was visiting my sister in Chapel Hill, NC, where she was in school, and where I had already resigned myself that I'd be going. My parents called to ask if I wanted them to open it. My father had a bottle of champagne waiting when I returned home).

Charlottesville was a whole new place for me during my college years, a place where I met dear friends who are still dear friends today. When you go to college in such a beautiful setting, it really is hard to be depressed too long, even when you think you've just failed an econ test (which I hadn't. I just thought I had), you walk out of the classroom building, sit on one of the walls that surrounds it, look up at Thomas Jefferson's magnificent Rotunda, the sky as "sky blue" as it can possibly be, the St.- Patrick's-Green lawn stretched out below you, and think, "I am so damn lucky to get to be in such a place." My days were spent studying all kinds of fascinating subjects, and my nights and weekends were spent doing things like going to parties; going to see classic movies, both at school and at the marvelous Vinegar Hill Theater (the only time I've ever really made an attempt to do something about my movie ignorance. There was just so much to see, and it was all relatively cheap); going to concerts (standouts were Talking Heads, UB40, and B.B. King, all of whom came to play at the school) , watching my team play football, and basketball, and soccer, and lacrosse -- and actually playing football and soccer myself, when I got roped into being on an intramural team (that was disastrous for our team, I promise you, but no one made fun of me the way they had during recess when I was a kid).

Once I graduated, Charlottesville was a place I went back to visit relatives (who'd been severely neglected while I was in school -- even the cousin who'd attended the university the same time I did. She and I "ran with different crowds") and friends who were either still in school or who'd never left town. Often, I was bringing other friends along with me, which gave me the chance to revisit places like Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's fascinating home (pictured above. So much of the Charlottesville architecture looks like that), and The Michie Tavern, a historic tavern that is distantly related to my family but is no direct connection. Unfortunately, by then, favorite spots from my childhood that had better food than the tavern, like The University Cafeteria, which closed after my first year in college, were long gone. They live on in my memory, though. I can still taste their fried chicken (the best!), mashed potatoes, and green beans, heavily salted and cooked in fatback (the way green beans should be served. Heart attack be damned).

Over ten years ago now (and I cannot believe it's been that long), my parents moved back to Charlottesville, so now it's the place I go to visit them. I still bring friends along when I can, which still gives me the opportunity to visit my old haunting grounds. Every one of them has a ghost of Emily at a different age -- 6, 12, 18, 25. She's smiling and skipping, stopping to admire the flowering dogwoods in the spring or to pick up a perfect, dark red leaf in the fall, or to make a snow angel in the snow. It's one of the few places on this planet where I feel at home, and if something horrible were to happen to Bob, you'd probably find me moving back there.

That's why C is for Charlottesville.

Once Upon a Time Challenge

Spring is in the air. Yes, it's been freezing cold here for the past four days, but spring is in the air nonetheless, because the birds are chirping, the days have gotten longer, and the lilac bushes have buds on them. That means it's a good time to embark on a quest or two.

I've never participated in Carl's Once Upon a Time challenge, but I am doing so this year for Challenge V, basically because I can't believe I've been reading about it all these years and have never decided to do it. The challenge began on the first day of spring and runs through June 20th. Carl kindly gives us many different levels from which to choose.

Seeing how I am typically so successful when it comes to challenges, I probably ought to take on The Journey (read at least one book between now and June 20, and that's it. Reading more is fine, but the only commitment is one), but seeing how I also tend to be someone who bites off more than she can chew, that level isn't doing it for me. I've decided to take on Quest the Third, which is to read at least five books that can be classified in any of the following categories: fantasy, folklore, fairy tale, and mythology. This one also includes reading A Midsummer Night's Dream in June (well, how could I not want to do that?).

I'm not going to make a decision at this point about any specific books to be read. I want to be open to changing my mind or adding new titles at whim. However, I thought I'd give you a (much longer-than-five titles) list of some of the things (because half the fun of challenges is making decisions about what to read) I'm considering for this challenge (alphabetical by title here, to satisfy my anal retentive nature):

The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman. I've been saving the last in the trilogy, but I'm ready to read it now.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman. It's another one I've been saving, because it's supposedly his best. Anyone, is it? Of course, I could also just read some more Sandman collections, but they're probably more appropriate for Carl's R.I.P. Challenge.

The Annotated Alice: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll. I last read this when I was a teenager, and I've been wanting to reread it for quite some time now.

The Blessing of Pan by Lord Dunsany. I want to read more Dunsany, and Pan is one of my all time favorite mythical characters.

Bullfinch's Mythology. Speaking of mythology, I'm constantly getting my myths confused and mixed up. Reading this might help set me straight (or, might get me even more confused, but how will I know until I read it?).

The Bull from the Sea by Mary Renault. It seems I probably ought to read Bullfinch's first, but I might skip that and read this instead.

The Complete Grimms Fairy Tales. I don't think I've ever read all of them. Keep reading this list to find out why I'm suddenly interested in doing so. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure I would have been reading this whether I'd joined the challenge or not.

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. So much Ray Bradbury to read, so little time...

The Earthsea Trilogy (A Wizard of Earthsea, The Tombs of Atuan, and The Farthest Shore) by Ursula K. LeGuin. I read the first in this trilogy years ago and loved it, but I've never gotten around to reading the whole thing. At this point, I need to start over with that first one.

Godmother: The Secret Cinderella Story by Carolyn Turgeon. Someone else read this once for Carl's challenge, and it sounded so good I went out and bought it.

The Grimm Legacy by Polly Shulman. This book is basically the reason I decided to join the challenge. I'm halfway through it, which means I've already got one book almost done. (And, yes, this is why Grimms is on this list.)

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I got this one at last spring's library book sale. I think it might be nice to read it in time for this year's sale. Also, I want a good fantasy written by a woman, as it seems so much lauded fantasy is written by men. This one has been highly lauded, and I'm looking forward to it.

L'Morte d'Arthur. Yes, it would be a reread, but I just can't get enough of it. And I think it's going on ten years since I last read it. It's something that ought to be read at least every ten years or so.

Mort by Terry Pratchett. Speaking of death...Also, I read my first Pratchett in the spring, and I think of him when the daffodils begin to bloom.

The Neverending Story by Michael Ende. I am completely superficial, as I want to read this one only because the copy of it that we own is so beautiful. I do know it's gotten rave reviews, though, and years ago, I was the nanny for a kid who couldn't get enough of the movie.

The Solitaire Mystery by Jostein Gaarder. What's not to love about Gaarder? It's been a while since I read Sophie's World. Time for this one.

Tom's Midnight Garden by Phillipa Pearce. This was a Slightly Foxed discovery.

And, of course, A Midsummer Night's Dream. I haven't read it since college, although I've seen it performed at least twice since then.

They all look great, and some have been in the TBR tome for ages and ages. Tell me which ones you've read and what you'd like to see me read and review. Then, be prepared for my choosing the five shortest ones on the list (and the Shakespeare to make six total).

Top Ten Meme

Top Ten Books I Absolutely Had to Have -- But Still Haven't Read

I got this one from Litlove. I know I'm being repetitive, but in case you're new to this blog, I feel I need to inform you that my house is full of books I haven't read. Usually, I blame this on Bob. I married a man who has no self control when it comes to buying books, and he fills up our house at an alarming rate. But then I start browsing our shelves and realize someone else is responsible. Bob isn't buying Margery Allingham and Georgette Heyer. Perhaps my friends are sneaking in here and putting books on my shelves. Finally, though, I have to fess up to the fact that I am not someone who goes out, buys a book, reads it, then goes out and buys another book to read. No. I am someone who goes out and buys a book (or 2 or 5). Period. Unless it's the latest David Sedaris, or something I'm reading for a book discussion group, or I am unexpectedly stuck somewhere with nothing to read (a rarity, but it's been known to happen a time or two while traveling), chances are, it will be some time before I actually read it (maybe a month or a year or 20 years).

Nonetheless, I am going to try to choose ten from my vast quantities of had-to-read-until-I-bought-it books for this meme. It just seems like a fun thing to do. I will, of course, be cheating a little (I prefer to call it creative math). You will see the numbers 1-10, though, so I say I've done my job.

1. Over half the Persephone Books I own. (I own 11. I've read 5.) Who can possibly resist Persephone? I'd own their entire bookstore if I could. But it's expensive to order their books and to have them shipped to the U.S. I figure they need to be parsed out and savored. Really, though, I probably don't need to be quite so parsimonious.

2. Every book by Jeffrey Lent except In the Fall (he's written three others). Bob and I were both so blown away by In the Fall that we got all his others. Could it be that I maybe wasn't quite as blown away as I thought?

3. Every book John Irving has written since he wrote A Prayer for Owen Meany. John Irving was a pivotal influence when I was in my teens and early twenties. I've actually read both The Cider House Rules and A Prayer for Owen Meany twice. Ask me to list my favorite contemporary authors, and he's right at the top of the list. And yet, once he published A Son of the Circus, I basically quit reading him. In the beginning, it was because he took so long between books that I wanted to wait a while before reading A Son of the Circus, so I didn't have to wait so long for the next (poor logic, I know, but I never claimed to be rational when it comes to books). I think I've been waiting something like sixteen years now, and he's published plenty of other books since then (all of which I had to and do own). I have no idea why I'm still waiting.

4. Almost every Library of America book we own. That may not sound like much, but Bob used to have a connection who would get these for us free. You wouldn't be too far off if you guessed that we have practically an entire bookcase full of them. I haven't completely ignored them. I've read at many of them -- a novel from this one, several short stories from that -- but the only one I've read all the way through (despite insisting we must have this one and we must have that one) is their collection of light verse.

5. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski. Christmas 2008, I told Bob this was the only book I really wanted. I didn't care if he didn't get me anything else. I had to have it. I couldn't wait to read it. That was over two years ago. Okay, okay. I actually happen to be halfway through it now, but that's only because a. it's in my TBR challenge and b. my book discussion group just discussed it on Sunday (due to all kinds of extenuating circumstances, like getting stuck out of town without it, I didn't finish it in time for that, but I will. It's a great book!)

6. Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghesi. Last summer, when I was visiting Connecticut, I met friend-not-husband Bob and his wife Ann for dinner and a play. Ann told me I had to read this book. The next day, I headed off to Borders with Zoe's Mom and bought it. It looks fantastic. Everyone I know who's read it has liked it. Have I read it? No. Why not? Let's blame Zoe's Mom, because I'm sure I keep picking up books she's lent me instead.

7. Little, Big by John Crowley. Back in the summer of 2009, when I wrote my blog post on Lud-in-the-Mist, one of the comments I got suggested I might like this book. I turned to my friend Mr. Fantasy, the same one mentioned in that blog post, who has a keen sense of my "picky-ness" when it comes to fantasy, and asked if he thought I'd like it. His answer was a very enthusiastic "yes!" That week, I went out and bought it. It's been sitting unread ever since. Sigh!

8. A Family and a Fortune by Ivy Compton-Burnett. Speaking of Mr. Fantasy, he introduced me to Ivy Compton-Burnett when he lent me A House and Its Head, which I loved. Shortly after that, he and I went to a library book sale together, and he found this for me. Okay, I was living in Connecticut at the time, which means it's been at least 3 1/2 years, and I'd say probably, realistically, you could double that number. God, it looks so good. Why haven't I read it?

9. The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy. And speaking of library sales, they're certainly a source for must-have books, aren't they? I bought this one at the Lancaster library sale two years ago. I still remember how excited I was to find this nearly pristine copy that looks as though it's never been read. I guess I've decided to keep it looking that way.

10. The Complete Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson. Bob loves Calvin and Hobbes, so it was easy for me to pretend I was getting this birthday gift for him a number of years ago instead of for myself. Our shelves just wouldn't be complete without this handsome set. I can't remember exactly when I bought it. That's how long it's been that I've been meaning to read it.

Looks like I need to finish that TBR challenge and start a "Books I Had to Have" challenge, doesn't it? Maybe I'll do so in 2012. Anyone want to join me for that?

Mystery Man by Bateman

Bateman. Mystery Man. London: Headline, 2009.

How could I park the No Alibis van near the shop when the place was swarming with police and reporters and the van had Murder is our Business on its side? Would it not be a surefire indicator that I was involved in the murder of Malcolm Carlyle? How many miliseconds would it be before the long arm of the law grabbed me by the throat? And it wouldn't even require a long arm. A short arm. A stunted arm. A police officer suffering from growth hormone deficiency in the general arm area would throttle me the very instant he saw the No Alibis van with its oh so witty catch line. (p. 179)

I wish I'd written that.

Throwing caution and brain tumors to the wind, I removed my cell phone and called Jeff. (p. 179)

That, too. But I didn't. Those thoughts are coming from Bateman's (Colin Bateman, but here he refers to himself, in Madonna-like fashion, as "Bateman") protagonist (the mystery man who has no name) who owns a mystery bookshop in Belfast (the "No Alibis" mentioned above) and who seems to have taken over a good deal of the caseload from the private detective who used to have his shop set up next door to No Alibis before he went missing. And I was treated to thoughts like that first quote from beginning to end while reading this book, the latest for the CT mystery book club. I probably don't need to tell you, then, that I found the book laugh-out-loud funny.

It got off to a bit of a slow start for me, though. I picked up on the humor immediately, but then I began to wonder if it wasn't a little forced. Was Bateman trying too hard?

Soon enough, however, I got wrapped up in the story. To make it easier to write about it here, I'm going to have to resort to naming No Alibis's proprietor. He adopts various authors' names when taking on cases, and at one point, he calls himself Walter Mosely. Walter fits him, so let's call him Walter.

Walter starts small, solving mysteries like The Case of the Missing FA Cup and The Case of the Fruit on the Flyover (in a nod to Conan Doyle, Walter names his cases and refers to some -- e.g. The Case of the Fruit on the Flyover -- that I'm presuming will never be related to Bateman's readers. This book, among other things, is a great big nod to many, many writers, as well as an opportunity to attack contemporary well-knowns). It can't remain simple, though (this is a mystery after all, not Encyclopedia Brown). A man who is dabbling in another detective's business is bound to stumble upon a murder at some point. You know from the get-go that it's going to be said detective (truly. He doesn't come right out and say it, but, unless you've never read a mystery in your life, you know it is, so I'm not giving anything away here). This becomes The Case of the Dancing Jew, a case into which he ends up dragging Alison, the woman who works at the jewelers across the way. He's had a huge crush on Alison for some time; some -- although he will tell you he hasn't been -- might even say he's been stalking her.

Alison comes into his store one evening to attend one of the writing classes hosted by Brendan Coyle. Brendan Coyle...

...was already a much-garlanded author of literary fiction when he decided to write crime under a pseudonym before being "accidentally" unmasked. He gives the impression that it is just something he dashes off while waiting for divine inspiration to strike his real work. In reality, he offers nothing new to the genre, and instead merely rehashes some of its worst clichés. (pp. 67-68)

Hmm...doesn't that sound an awful lot like Benjamin Black (a.k.a. John Banville)? And are you beginning to catch on to how opinionated Walter is? I happened to love all his opinions about the writers he stocks (or doesn't, as the case may be) in his bookstore, mainly because I agreed with him most of the time. However, I loved his opinions even when I didn't necessarily agree, for example, when he said, "Life is too short to spend an hour and a half on a mystery that will ultimately be solved by a cat." (pp. 23-24) I haven't actually read any of those mysteries-solved-by-cats-and-dogs, but I think, given the right time and place, I'd probably be perfectly happy wasting an hour and a half on one.

Anyway, back to Alison. She comes into the store, puts Brendan Coyle in his place, and Walter falls even more in love with her. So much so that he drags her into this most dangerous caper of his, the first to involve an actual murder. In fairness, Walter doesn't exactly draw Alison into it, more like he refers to it, and, next thing you know, she's forcing him to discover a dead body with her. He spends a good deal of his time trying to back out of solving the case, but she keeps pushing him.

What I haven't told you about Walter is that he's a character who could give Monk a run for his money. Check off every neurosis you can think of, and he's got it: O.C.D., phobias, paranoia, hypochondria, etc., etc. He doesn't really want to be involved, is very afraid to be involved, and yet he can't quite help himself, because (after years and years of being deeply immersed in the crime genre, as well as being very intelligent), he has an extraordinary talent for putting the pieces together to figure out whodunit. Meanwhile, Alison is the fearless one, the one with the guts to counter-balance his brains, the one willing to do things like accept a dinner date with a suspect, even though if he's a killer, he's likely to try to kill her.

These two make a great team as well as a wonderful romantic couple. Together, they do solve The Case of the Dancing Jew (it seems I've been reading an awful lot of books lately -- for instance, mysteries for the CT book club -- that have plots that figure around Nazi Germany, which this one does. I guess it's a subject that never gets old. Let's hope not, lest people forget or begin to believe the idiots who'd like us to think it never happened). The mystery is a good one, although, yet again, I found myself liking it more for the characters than for the plot.

I hope this isn't a one-off. I'd love to read more mysteries with this crime-solving duo. That is, if Walter doesn't turn out to be Norman Bates (which he very well could, but that's a spoiler I'm not willing to give you. You'll have to read the book to figure out what I mean by that. If you do, expect your TBR list to grow exponentially, as TBR lists have a tendency to do whenever one reads a book whose main character owns a bookshop).

Danskos: A Love/Hate Relationship

Everyone who knows me knows that, practically before I could speak, I was pointing at shoes in shop windows and thinking "I want." I don't know why I (someone who really hates to waste time shopping) have always been obsessed with shoes and will gladly say "yes" whenever someone suggests a trip to the nearest shoe store (even if that shoe store is only Payless, and even if my to-do list is so long, I'm thinking of turning it into a novel). The good thing about this obsession is that, unlike bathing suits, say, I never, ever get depressed while shopping for shoes. The bad thing is that I have crammed my poor feet into all sorts and conditions of shoes over the years and then done things like running in ill-fitting sneakers, and all this has taken a toll on said feet.

A few years back, when I started suffering from things like plantar fasciitis and other painful foot conditions, I began to fear I was never, ever going to be able to wear a lovely pair of shoes again. I was going to be forever stuck wearing ugly, comfortable ("sensible") shoes. However, by buying sneakers that fit well and were designed for the way I walk and using inserts carefully, I have discovered I can still manage to wear beautiful heels (at least, for an hour or two on Sunday morning, or to do something like go to the theater, being deposited and picked up at the door). Nonetheless, for everyday, long-term wear, I have to find things that are a bit more practical. Back then, I began looking for more comfortable foot wear and was told by everyone that the best shoe to buy was the Dansko clog.

Okay, with the exception of the Croc (btw -- you see, this shoe obsession really runs deep, to the point of owning shoes I find hideously unattractive -- I also have a pair of those, but they are never, ever been worn off my property. They were bought back in the days when Bob and I had a garden and lived on a plot of land that was often very muddy), is there anything uglier than the Dansko clog (don't let that touched up photo above fool you. Somehow, Dansko's marketing folks have managed to put their ugly duckling into the very best light. I almost don't recognize them)? I know they're ugly, because even Bob, who usually couldn't care less about such things, was not thrilled when I announced I was getting a pair -- that I was, in fact, spending a good deal of my Christmas money that could have been spent on something far more attractive (say three pairs of cheap, but dainty, little shoes from Target. Bob is nothing if he isn't into bargains) on a pair of Danskos. Luckily, they were all the rage at the time. At least I wasn't investing in something that was not only ugly but that had also gone out of style back when Jimmy Carter was president.

I bought them somewhat reluctantly, but then discovered something. They are (aren't all the ugliest things?), as everyone had assured me, extremely, extremely comfortable. I can walk anywhere in them, and my feet don't get nearly as tired as they do in other shoes. My plantar fasciitis is bothered almost less by them than it is by my sneakers, and I don't have to wear inserts with them. They are also convenient. I can slip them off and on with no bother (far more practical than some of those strappy sandals I own, for which I practically need a microscope in order to find the holes in the straps so I can buckle them. Such shoes have been known to make me late to events, when I find myself thinking, "All I need to do is put on my shoes, grab my bag, and I'm ready to go," and allot myself 30 seconds to do so).

The problem is, they make me feel like The Little Dutch Girl, which might be okay if I were Dutch and under the age of eighteen, but I'm not. I confess they look better with (some) skirts than that hideous "commuter" look of white socks and running shoes (that always reminds me of the movie Working Girl, big hair and all) women sometimes still sport in the name of comfort, and when I wear my longest jeans, they are almost tolerable, as they are mostly covered up. Still, there is no mistaking that I am wearing Danskos, and I hate the fact that I'm wearing Danskos, choosing comfort and practicality over pretty and/or sexy.

How comfortable and practical are they? Well, this week, I have been stranded at my brother-in-law's house, because my car broke down when I thought I was taking a quick and easy business trip up to Tarrytown, NY. My brother-in-law has been kind enough to put me up for three nights instead of the one night he thought I would be here. I came completely unprepared for three nights away from home, though, and had to get him to take me to Target to supplement my inadequate wardrobe . I did not, however, need to supplement my shoes, because I happened to have had two pairs of shoes with me (in case you thought I was exaggerating when I confessed to being shoe-obsessed, you should know that only the truly shoe-obsessed would have two pairs of shoes with her for an overnight stay). I had worn boots on Sunday to the work event and had packed my Danskos for the trip back on Monday. Four days without any form of exercise would be unthinkable for me. I have to do something (usually walk) at least every other day. Yesterday evening, I took a four-mile walk in my Danskos, and my feet were perfectly fine. I will do the same again this evening. Had I had only my boots with me, I would never have been able to do that without needing a visit to a podiatrist.

So, practical, yes, but how ugly are they? Let's just say that I recently had to go to the mall to buy an outfit for an upcoming event. I hate malls. I hate walking around malls. In order to do so, I need something comfortable. I also need something convenient if I am going to be going in and out of dressing rooms trying on clothes. There were piles of ice and snow melting all over the place. I didn't want to ruin any of my pretty little comfortable flats trying to walk from the parking lot to the mall, so I reluctantly slipped on my Danskos. The whole time I was at the mall, passing windows with all kinds of pretty and impractical shoes, I wanted to announce to everyone, "I'm not really a Dansko wearer. I'm being forced to wear these by aliens from another planet in a little experiment they're conducting." Ahhhh, but my feet were so grateful by the end of the afternoon when I rewarded them with a trip to Starbucks where I sat down for a leisurely cup of coffee and a scone, and they didn't throb, which they've been known to do when dressed up in something too tight and too high, even after I've sat down for hours.

Is it really possible to both love and hate a pair of shoes?

B is for Books (Alphabet Meme #2)

B is also for Bob, of course, but it's not as though I never write about him here. Then again, it's not as though I never write about books, either. But, oh well. Books are one of the few things that have been in my life forever, so books it is.

In fact, books have been in my life since the day I was born. I don't need to ask my mother to know that she did not go to the hospital to give birth in the days when doing so typically meant a week-or-so-long stay without taking a stack of books with her. I was the third child, so everything was old-hat and "easy" about my birth, or so she's told me (I can't imagine anything about birth being easy, but then again, I don't have several birth experiences to compare to each other). I like to imagine that because it was all so familiar and easy, that perhaps she even nursed me while reading, book in one hand, baby in the other. My mother is very adept at holding things like Georgette Heyer paperbacks in one hand. I learned my one-handed paperback technique from watching her.

Anyway, once we got home from the hospital, I was surrounded by books. I grew up in a house with books in every room but the dining room. Most of the rooms in our house had one wall devoted to books. We four children all had bookcases in our rooms filled with children's books. And the house also sported things like huge old secretaries with books behind glass doors. Having been raised in such a home, today, I don't feel that a home without books is truly a home.

Believe it or not, though, all these books in the house in which I was raised would be a source of embarrassment for me as I grew older and realized that most of my school friends lived in houses that were relatively book free. Don't let anyone tell you kids read much less these days than they used to. The dirty little secret is that kids didn't read in the "good old days" either. I lived a double life growing up, because I loved books as much as I do now. Yes, I was excited on Christmas morning to receive things like my stuffed Snoopy or my first sleeping bag, but the most exciting haul on Christmas day was a huge stack of books. Luckily, we could count on certain aunts and family friends who always gave each child a book (which meant more for us to read, because we shared them all) -- not to mention Santa, of course. I hid this love of books from the general public, though, from about the age of ten until I was in college.

When I was in junior high, I had to bring home a survey that asked all kinds of questions about my family's reading habits. I can still remember arguing with my mother over it, because I was low-balling all the numbers. I don't know why. None of my classmates were going to be privy to those answers. I guess it was just because the message had sunk in loud and clear: you're weird if you own a lot of books and read all the time. Our house was "weird," and I was not so keen on inviting my friends over to see it, which is why my older sister Forsyth will tell you that I was always off adopting other families when I was a kid. I wasn't really, but if I wanted to hang out with my friends, I preferred to do it at their houses rather than at mine, where I might have to explain why we had so many books (the irony in this is that once we were all grown up, I discovered that kids loved coming to our house, I think because things were quite lax there).

I have to admit that I did have certain friends who were in on my deep, dark secret, those with whom I swapped books and titles and who were as excited as I was when the Scholastic Book catalogs came and even more excited when the books arrived. By the time I was seven, I had learned that there is nothing. no. nothing. more exciting than getting a package of books in the mail, even when I knew they were coming (an experience duplicated these days by online shopping). My few book-loving friends and I had to pretend we weren't excited when our Scholastic books arrived, had to act as though our parents had made us buy these books (a complete lie on my part. The opposite was actually true. My mother frowned on wasting money on these cheap books that always fell apart when we had a house full of books I had yet to read and a public library we frequented).

Speaking of libraries, when I was in 7th grade, I was the first one on my school bus in the morning, and, the first one off in the afternoon. For some reason, when I was in 8th grade, they changed the route, which meant a much longer ride for me in the afternoon. At some point, I realized that the bus went right by the library, a 15-minute walk I took all the time, and that if I could get off the bus there, I would get home much more quickly than if I stayed on the bus until it got to my house. I asked the bus driver if she could just drop me off at the library. I had to get a special note from my parents, which they gladly gave. Truth be told? At least two days a week, I got home later than I would have if I'd ridden the bus, because I'd go to the library before walking home (making sure the bus had turned the corner, of course, before heading through its door).

Eventually, I got over my need to lead a double life. I'm happy to be someone who's a reader. Is it any wonder that when it came time to choose career paths, I chose those that involved books? Forget that psychology major (which, actually, comes in awfully handy when reading books), I was destined to work with books. Editing comes naturally to me and always has (except, as you all know, when I try to edit my own writing). Because I am a reader, acquisitions also comes naturally to me. It makes perfect sense that I am an acquisitions editor. It also makes perfect sense that I got a Masters in library science.

Finally, did you know that books are wonderful enhancements for the home? Home decor is not one of Bob's and my specialties, which I may have mentioned a time or two on this blog. In our house, we have tons and tons and tons of books. Really. They are everywhere (those of you who've been inside my home, please feel free to give your testimonies). Despite mismatched furniture that all desperately needs reupholstering (and not in a chic, old-money way, but rather in a we-have-no-control-over our pets way) and housekeeping and home repair habits that should bring to mind words like "abandoned" and "haunted," visitors have often used words like "relaxing" and "comfortable" when they describe our home. I am convinced that being surrounded by books is relaxing, so I surround myself with them (no, it doesn't work. I still find it very hard to relax -- unless, of course, I am completely immersed in a book). Somehow, the books are so relaxing that nobody seems to notice all the cobwebs and door handles that don't work, thus proving what we all know, which is that books have magical powers.

And, so there you have it: b is for books. I can't imagine my life without them.

Aging Can Be Great

Today is my 47th birthday. How on earth did I get to be 47 years old? I don't know. I think I'm just going to grab onto that cliché as it flutters by, contemplating its impending trip north this spring, and note that "time flies." I don't, however, want to grab onto the old cliché about how horrible aging is. To that effect, I am here to tell you some very good things about getting older.

1. I no longer feel ugly.
I wasted a good deal of my life (especially my youthful years, when society would have you believe I was at my most beautiful) thinking I was ugly. I looked in the mirror and found fault with everything I saw. Now, not only do I no longer feel ugly, but I feel beautiful. I still vividly remember about 13 years ago when a good friend of mine was turning 50, and she announced to a group of us that one of the great things about being her age was that she finally felt beautiful. I remember thinking, "Oh, my God, how do you get there?" (BTW, this friend of mine was not an Audrey-Hepburn lookalike or anything. She was just a "normal" woman: graying hair, weight where we all gain it, etc.) I didn't believe her at the time. I do now. The answer to 'getting there'? Nothing but time. The wisdom that comes with age has a lot to do with it. As I say, I used to see nothing but faults: too short, too white, too fat here, too thin there (no need to go on, right? We all know how the beauty industry makes us females berate ourselves, don't we?). Now, I embrace what makes me unique. I don't tan. I'm "petite." I wear hats well. It's all about attitude and not letting others define "ugly" and "beautiful" for me.

2. Speaking of beauty, it helps that I now feel good when I compare myself physically to my peers.
By "peers," I mean those plus or minus 5 years my age. When I was in my teens and twenties and thirties, I always felt inferior to my peers. They were always taller, skinnier, tanner, had better hair, had more fashion sense, had better luck with boys/men, etc., etc. Everyone always seemed to have a flatter stomach, longer legs, bigger breasts...I've discovered, though, that all my years of taking pretty good care of myself (exercising on a regular basis, eating mostly healthy food and avoiding junk, etc.) have paid off. Now, I, apparently, "look really good for [my] age" or "don't look [my] age at all." Sure, I'd like to lose a few pounds, but I'm not fat by any stretch of the imagination. The white skin I have always cursed has kept me out of the sun, so, with the exception of a worry line, I don't have many wrinkles. My hair is blond, so the gray looks more like highlights than gray. At this stage of my life, I very rarely meet women my age who make me feel like I need to eat nothing but lettuce leaves and exercise like an Olympic swimmer if I'm ever going to look like that. And fashion sense? Who cares? I wear what I like, what makes me feel good, and that changes from day to day (sometimes it's yoga pants and a fleece sweat shirt, other times it's a tailored suit). Then there are men. I no longer need to have "luck with men," but men seem to like me, so I must be doing something right.

3. I'm more self confident.
I'm not perfect in this regard, but oh my god, am I so much better than I was twenty years ago. I have so much less trouble disagreeing with people and stating my point of view than I did when I was 27. I'm convinced my opinion matters, and I don't easily back down when I feel something is worth pursuing. I don't worry so much that people may not like me if I disagree with them. If they don't like me, well...oh well. There are plenty of people in this world who do like me and who I like right back, so there's no need to worry about those who may not.

4. My hair has changed.
The hair on my head is nowhere near as oily as it used to be, which means I no longer have to wash it every day. I can go outside in public the day after I've washed it without feeling like I ought to be charging people $3+ a gallon. This may be because I've finally found the right shampoo, but after experimenting with various shampoos for 33 years, I highly doubt that. Meanwhile, how come no one tells women about the marvelous wonder known as "leg baldness?" I no longer have to shave my legs nearly as often (and I still can't quite get used to this fact). My hair just seems to have stopped growing. I remember, when I was 17 or so, my mother telling me she no longer needed to shave her legs. I, of course, didn't believe her. She must have been mistaken. How could she no longer need to shave her legs? (There's a lesson in here for younger readers. Believe older women when they tell you things.)


5. I can do so much more alone without feeling uncomfortable.
Can you believe that fifteen years ago, I'd never eaten out alone? I'd also never gone to a movie alone. Enjoyed a cup of coffee and a scone in a cafe alone. Sat at a bar alone. Okay, maybe there are those who wouldn't exactly call being with a book being "alone," because books are friends. Still, by most standards, I am alone. Oh, and I even go to the Ladies Room alone (then again, I always did that).

6. I pursue what I like instead of what I'm supposed to like.
I really don't care what others think if I know absolutely nothing about 21st-century pop culture. I watch very little T.V. and (with the exception of Mad Men) don't even really know what I'm supposed to be watching these days. I don't mind telling people I'm completely movie ignorant. I also don't mind telling people that I spend most of my down time reading. And I happen to think that most conversations are pretty superficial if you have to spend your time avoiding the three "taboo" topics of religion, sex, and politics. Anyone who brings up any of these topics in a conversation rises in my esteem.

7. Speaking of sex, it's no longer Sex.
Yes, it's still enjoyable. Yes, it still catches my attention. But, really, what was the huge deal when I was in my twenties? It's hard for me to fathom. This means that men have become so much more interesting on so many other levels, and I no longer have to worry about being tongue-tied just because some guy is cute (or even drop-dead gorgeous. In fact, my whole definition of "drop-dead gorgeous" has changed). This change has been extraordinarily freeing. I like to think that this isn't just a matter of having been married for fifteen years, that even if I weren't in a monogamous relationship, I would no longer make a fool of myself over men.


8. I have money.
I've been working full time and earning money for 25 years now. I've saved. I've invested. It helps that I never had children, but even if I had, I would not be in situations like I was at age 24 when I had to choose between an oil change in the car and groceries. I don't have extravagant tastes, at least, not when it comes to things like clothes and cars. I do like good, fresh, organic food, so that's where I am extravagant (and, really, that is a cheap extravagance compared to something like Jimmy Choo). That means that on the occasions when I want to be truly extravagant (taking a private sleeper car on Amtrak from New York to New Mexico, say), I can be so without having to worry that I won't be able to pay the rent (which, by the way, is no longer rent, but rather, a mortgage on my dream home in Maine).

9. I am aware that I am not old.
Okay, in fairness, I've been aware of this for a long time. When I was in my twenties, I figured out that no one is old until his or her obituary would no longer cause shock. For instance, if you were to read my obituary tomorrow (and you're not fifteen years old), my guess is that you would think, "Oh my God. She was so young!" Until someone has reached the age at which an obituary would make someone think, "Well, she lived a good, long life," she is not old. That means, in my book, you have to be at least in your early eighties to be old. My father, for instance, is now allowed to tell me he's old, but before he turned eighty, I wouldn't listen to him.

10. I can't think of a good #10.
Ten is a nice, round number, though. We mature folks like things to be nice and orderly and round.

You've Got to Read This! TBR Challenge Book (Book Eight)

Roth, Philip. American Pastoral. New York: Vintage, 1998.

(As promised, I'm starting to "catch up" on my TBR Challenge posts.)

Wow! Just plain wow! I read this last summer, and I know Philip Roth doesn't exactly spring to mind when one thinks of light summer reading, but at the time, I had sort of been "o.d.-ing" on light summer reading, which is like spending a day eating nothing but candy. After a while, your mouth begins to hurt from all the sugar, and you find you are still quite hungry (at least if you're me. I need more than carbs loaded with sugar to stave off hunger), while, at the same time, having lost interest in eating because you're feeling a little sick. I was beginning to think I was losing interest in reading. Then, I remembered how I'd been extending my evening walks in order to be able to keep listening to the audio version of this that I'd downloaded from the library onto my iTouch. A couple of times, I'd reached home and had sat on the back steps to continue listening. I decided to continue with the print version. Voila! My obsessive interest in reading resurfaced. I was mesmerized and finished it longing for something else as good and as substantial.

Anyway, it's another one of those books that so wonderfully lays out for the reader that the so-called American dream is nothing but that: a dream. In this case, you can work your way up from nothing, do everything that is "right," become a multimillionaire, move out to the suburbs. And still, still, the dream eludes you. Not on the surface, of course, but where it counts: inside the idyllic "country" home; underneath the expensive, fashionable clothes; behind the degrees and awards hanging on all the walls; buried in the basement of the high rises that are home to the corporate offices. In fact, you might think you are better off than your forebears, stuck living in a 2-room tenement apartment, working 12-hour days, six days a week in a sweatshop, when, actually, emotionally, you are no better off than they were, no happier. How did that happen? This is America, where once you achieve the dream, you are supposed to be happy.

If you were to travel back in time to spy on your great-great grandfather, you might even be surprised to find that he was happier, less confused, less tortured than you are. You might also be surprised to find that those living in the 21st-century equivalent of tenement houses, those for whom (if you are kind-hearted) you might even feel sorry or about whom (if you are mean-spirited) you might say, "Get a job. Make something of yourself," could be less tortured than you are. They may not be happier, of course (and if not, they can all blame each other for never being where they should be, never doing enough to make the money to get out of this hell hole, which is a different sort of "American dream" story, the sort Russell Banks or Wallace Stegner might put between two covers), but they very well could be.

You may wonder why that is, but Philip Roth doesn't. He knows it has to do with your family dynamics and how you choose to deal with them. It has to do with knowing yourself, not other peoples' versions of you, but you: who you really are, what you really want in life, and what is really important to you. It also has to do with knowing those you call "family." (Or not knowing, as the case may be.)

The book's main protagonist is Swede Levov (or "the Swede," as he is called), the sort of high school athlete that the majority of young boys idolize to some degree. Nathan Zuckerman, who narrates his story to us, certainly does. A neighbor, several years younger than the Swede, Nathan is friends with Swede's younger brother Jerry, and he describes the high school athlete thus,

Yes, everywhere he looked, people were in love with him...His aloofness, his seeming passivity as the desired object of all this asexual lovemaking, made him appear, if not divine, a distinguished cut above the more primordial humanity of just about everybody else at the school. (p. 5)

(That brief quote should be enough to demonstrate for you what a flat-out talented writer Roth is. There's breath-taking, quotable prose on nearly every page. He's the sort of writer who makes those of us who write feel like we ought to give it all up and go join the circus or something.)

The Swede, looking in from the outside, has it all. He's the beloved high school sweetheart in his small New Jersey town , earning admiration, not jealousy. He joins the marine corps, hoping to be sent to Japan, only to have WWII end just as he's wrapping up boot camp. Instead of shipping off to Japan, he becomes a drill sergeant and then returns to New Jersey to attend college, to marry Miss New Jersey, and, eventually, to take over as the president of his father's glove manufacturing company. He moves out to the wealthy Newark suburb of Old Rimrock.

That's an American success story, isn't it? Swede's grandfather did work in one of those sweatshops. Two generations later, the grandson is living in an old farmhouse on 100 acres of land, married to a beauty queen. And yet, the Swede's life is nothing but a tragedy, a tragedy he cannot escape.

He can't escape this tragedy because he can't escape his father's tyranny. He has learned to cope with it, knows it's there, but has buried the truth of it. His means of coping is to accept, not to fight -- his brother Jerry takes the opposite approach, fighting tooth and claw. He copes with it by trying not to be tyrannical with his own child, his daughter Merry whom he adores, not the mere apple but the whole apple tree of his eye. He tries so hard not to be like his father, and yet, he still loses his daughter. She still becomes something unrecognizable to him, something he cannot understand. And once this happens, his wife becomes unrecognizable, unknowable, as well.

The Swede loves his wife and daughter. He loves their life together. He gives them what he thinks they want and need, everything he thinks they want and need. Somehow, though, it isn't enough. The brilliance in what Roth has conceived here is that in his giving, he is, on some levels, as tyrannical as his father was, because, you see, he is giving them what he thinks they want and need. He's not always listening to them. He is rarely understanding them. He's not capable, it seems, of separating them from himself. If he's happy, then they must be happy. We can't really blame him, though. He was never taught how to get to know someone, how to listen, how to try to understand. Nobody in his birth family ever bothered to know him. And it's not as though his wife and daughter are making much of an effort to get to know him, either.

I've written this much already and have barely scratched the surface of what a Great Book this is. For instance, Bob, ever since I've known him, has stated that the story of Adam and Eve in Genesis is merely the story of "growing up": we live an idyllic life in Eden as babies when all our needs, wants, and desires are met. Then adolescence and young adulthood hit, and awareness sets in (we eat that "fruit"), and finally, we are left with the reality that to be human is harsh, that we have to work hard and will suffer greatly. Roth gives us a beautiful spin on this idea, even dividing the book into three parts, "Paradise Remembered," "The Fall," and "Paradise Lost."

There's so much more I could say here about this perfectly conceived and executed book, but I won't. I will just end by saying that I, most definitely, will be reading more Roth at some point. I am quite sure that anything else I read by him will do nothing but disappoint. This has got to be the man's Masterpiece. Still, I'm impressed enough to want to explore more.

Heaven

Everybody has his/her own idea of Heaven, and some people's Heaven would definitely be my Hell (a never-ending shopping mall, say, with a never-ending supply of cash. Or all-NASCAR racing, all the time). My idea of Heaven is more like this photo. You can't see it, but adjacent to the room where this bed sits is a library with shelves that fill and refill themselves with beautiful, illustrated editions of everything I've ever put into the TBR tome and more. There is no such thing as time, so, yes, I will read everything I want to read (and reread, too). The windows are self-cleaning, of course (in fact, everything is self-cleaning and maintenance-free), and all my favorite food, drink, and candy appears just as I begin to long for it while propped up in this bed, reading. I can eat, drink, and lie around in bed all day forever, if I want, and I will suffer no ill effects.

I don't think I want to do that forever, though, so there is also a huge bathroom with a beautiful claw-foot tub. When I want to do something a little bit different, I take my book into the bath with me and lie in a fabulously-scented bubble bath. Downstairs, there is a state-of-the-art and always well-stocked kitchen, where, when I'm in another sort of mood, I can cook to my heart's content (but I don't have to. In fact, I only have to eat when I want to. When it comes to food, hunger is no longer an issue, only desire), while listening to music on the best sound system ever.

I have lots of time to myself and no obligations. However, whenever I think of someone I love and want to see, he or she appears. We chat away, maybe out in the jacuzzi on the deck off the kitchen, or in the kitchen, if my loved one is someone else who likes to cook. Or maybe we choose to play board games, sitting in the living room in comfy, overstuffed chairs by a fire, because weather is whatever I want it to be. If I want a chilly, rainy day and a fire, I can have it. If I want a warm, sunny day lying in a hammock, I can have that. If I want a beautiful snow storm, swirling all around me, to watch while lying in that bed, I can have that as well. And, then, of course, there are those days when my friends think of me and long to see me, and I find myself visiting all kinds of other wonderful parts of Heaven, enjoying what they have.

Okay, time to come back down to earth now. What's your idea of heaven?

The Girl Who Couldn't Say No (Except to a Dragon Tattoo)

I have only myself to blame, so don't listen to me when I whine and whine about being too busy and having no time. I am incapable of saying "no." This is what my calendar looks like between now and April 1 (and let's not talk about April with all the Lenten/Easter obligations).

Feb. 12th
8:30 a.m.: breakfast meeting with local library board to brainstorm fund raising ideas (okay flatter me, and I'll tend to say "yes." I was chosen as someone the board "thinks might have good ideas").

10:30 a.m.: putting together a display for the church's community outreach committee (of which I am co-moderator) for the church's annual meeting on Sunday

3:00 p.m.: first birthday party for a friend's grandson (I'm particularly partial to this little boy, because his name is Ian, which you all know happens to be my brother's name.)

Feb. 13th
10:45 a.m.: Church's annual meeting
11:30 a.m.: Church's annual luncheon after the annual meeting (and, yes, I offered to make something. I'm going to make Thai peanut noodles. Sometime on Saturday. Please don't ask me "when?")

Feb. 15th
6:00 p.m.: puppy obedience class (I'm also, somewhere, supposed to be doing homework for that.)

Feb. 17th:
7:00 p.m. Session meeting

Feb. 21st:
No work, and it's my birthday, so I'm hoping either to drive down to DE and take a long walk on a deserted beach and explore deserted beach towns or else to do some used bookstore shopping in Harrisburg, PA. I haven't made up my mind. (Of course, I might just stay in bed and read and sleep all day for my birthday instead. We'll see.)

Feb. 26th:
8:30 a.m.: breakfast with a friend
10:00 - 12:00: brainstorming session at church about Presbyterian Women
Then headed down to Charlottesville, VA to visit my parents.

Feb. 28th:
Meeting with an author in VA

March 1st:
6:00 p.m.: puppy obedience class
7:30 p.m.: Christian ed committee meeting

March 6th:
Headed up to Tarrytown, NY for
4:00: cooking presentation by contributor of one of the books I edited
Whenever that's over: continue to Stamford, CT to visit brother-in-law and spend the night with him

March 7th:
7:00 p.m. Community outreach committee meeting

March 8th:
6:00 p.m.: puppy obedience class (yes, they do go on forever. We've got 8 weeks of them.)
7:30: p.m.: Mardi Gras pancake party thrown by church youth

March 9th:
Noon: Ash Wednesday service at church

March 10th:
6:15 p.m.: serving dinner at the center for our disadvantaged youth

March 15th:
6:00 p.m. puppy obedience class

March 17th:
7:00 p.m. Session meeting

March 18th:
12:00 noon: lunch meeting in NYC with author
Afterwards: getting together with friend who now lives in Miami who will be visiting her daughter who is in college in NY (I haven't seen either in about ten years.)

March 19th:
5:30 p.m.: Christian ed dinner for parents and kids

March 22nd:
6:00 p.m.: puppy obedience class

March 24th - 27th:
My college roommate is coming for her first visit to my home in PA

March 27th:
6:30 p.m. board game night

I don't suppose anyone would be willing to dress up as my double and replace me at some of these events while I sit at home, sipping "calming" tea and reading?

Help! I'm Turning into an Old Lady

The day was an extraordinarily busy one. Can I use that as an excuse? I hope so. Anyway, it was January, which means, at work, self evaluation, annual review, and goal-setting time on top of all the other normal work that eight hours every day never seems to be enough time to get done. After work, at 6:00, we had Clare's first puppy obedience class, and after that, we were going to arrive (a bit late) for the deacons' meeting at church (which started at 7:00). I'm not a deacon, but I was attending to propose an idea I had that would involve both elders (I am one of those) and deacons. Bob was attending...well, because he's the minister.

5:00 rolled around, and I was still finishing up responding to emails I'd been putting off responding to all day in favor of other stuff that needed to get done. Somehow, I managed to get them done and breathed a huge sigh of relief to think I still had plenty of time. Then, I remembered that, being a woman, I was married to a man (at least, right now, that's how "marriage" is defined in the state of Pennsylvania). This meant that Bob, being said man, would (sorry, other men who read my blog) work up until the very last minute, make sure he was ready to go, and then expect to leave. It would be up to me to think of such things as feeding the puppy and making sure she'd gone out before we left.

Skip ahead to 5:45. I'm standing outside, still trying to get Clare to "do her business" before we leave. She's busy sniffing around, digging up twigs to eat. Bob comes racing out the door saying, "We must leave now." I'm so flustered -- admittedly, I hadn't realized it was quite so late -- that I rush Clare back into the house to grab my purse and meet Bob at the car.

We've decided, since this is such a short trip, not to bother with Clare's dog carrier, so the 14-minute ride is spent trying to keep her from climbing onto Bob's lap, where she desperately wants to be. Bob's worrying about how late we're going to be (we weren't. We were actually right on time, but we live in Lancaster County, PA, which has its own ideas about time -- Bob and I joke about "real time" and "Lancaster County time". We were there on the dot of six, but everyone else had been sitting around for ten minutes by the time we got there). I was worried about how, since we obviously have very little control over her, Clare was going to be one of those dogs you hear about who flunks obedience school.

Finally, we arrive in the parking lot. With great relief, I open the door, carefully deposit Clare on the pavement, and climb out myself. As we walk towards PetSmart, Bob happens to look down at my feet.

"Oh my God. You're wearing your slippers!" he informs me.

Oh. My. God. I was. And these weren't like those cute Ugg-type slippers that it was very cool for teenagers to wear around town a few years back. No. These are Acorns, with a bright, embarrassing design that brings Spirograph to mind (for those of you old enough to remember Spirograph). I'd worked out and showered at lunch, and slipped into them, planning to change into my boots just before we left. But, obviously, I'd never changed into the boots.

I can't believe it. I've become one of those little old ladies who leaves the house in her slippers. What will be next? A bathrobe and hair curlers? Tell me: should I just shoot myself now?

Bob and Emily Talk IX

Emily is playing Colorku. This is an extremely cool game that Bob got her for Christmas a few years back. Think: "tactile-ly/visually- pleasing Sudoku." It's a wooden grid with indentations that hold wooden marbles painted in pretty colors. It comes with a deck of cards that indicate "playing boards" that tell you where to place different marbles to create puzzles of varying difficulty. Then it's played just like Sudoku, only with colors instead of numbers.

Bob (who has never done a Sudoku puzzle): So, tell me, what is it you're trying to do again?

Emily: Put all the marbles on the board so that no row, column, or segment has more than one marble of each color.

Bob (after studying the board for a minute): Oh, so you mean (indicating a spot), you could put a purple one here, maybe?

Emily (surveying the spot he suggests): Maybe. Which color?

Bob points to a marble.

Emily (surveying it some more): Oh yeah, I think a grape one can go there. And if a grape one goes there, the eggshell one can go here. (She puts the marbles in their places.)

Bob: The what?

Emily: The eggshell.

Bob: You mean light blue. And try putting a light green one here.

Emily: Ooo, yes. You're good at this. And if that apple one goes there, then the other apple one can go here.

Bob: But I don't see where you're going to put the light purple one in that row.

Emily: Oh, the periwinkle can go here, see? And then, that means the pine one has to go here.

Bob: Periwinkle?

Emily: Yes. I know it looks like we've got a lot of them left, but don't worry. They'll all fall into place, especially if we figure out where those last two pine ones go, which shouldn't be too hard to do now.

Bob: Pine? (Emily picks up a marble.) Oh, you mean dark green.

Question: When did Bob and Emily become such male and female stereotypes when it comes to color recognition and naming? More importantly: when did Emily start speaking like a J. Crew catalog?