My Little Man(servant)

Scene: Backseat of the car. Random squabbling ensues between six and eight-year old members of family.

Syd: Mom, he's annoying me. Make him stop!

Sam: I'm not doing anything.

Syd: Yes, you are! Stop it!

Sam: No, I'm not!

Me (from the front seat): You know, you two rarely fight. I don't know what's going on back there, but work it out. You usually get along so well. You're lucky that you don't fight so much.

Syd: But he's annoying!

Me: That's what little brothers do! They're annoying! That's their job! I speak from experience. I could tell you stories.... But I won't. I'll spare you.

Sam: Tell! Tell!

Me: No way. I don't want to give you any ammunition. I'll tell Sydney later. But Uncle Jeremy was the King of Annoying Little Brothers. So Sydney, I feel your pain. But this is life. So work it out.

(beat)

Sam: Well, if Uncle Jeremy was the King, I want to be the Butler.

Me: The what?

Sam: The Butler! The Butler of Annoying Little Brothers!

All in the Timing

This evening was a race against the clock--picked up kids from daycare (late), rushed home, baked chicken nuggets in the oven and boiled whole wheat rotini on the stove, chopped up cucumber and filled water glasses. Called them both to the table, reminding them to wash hands on the way over.

We had 30 minutes to scarf dinner, find shoes, and scramble to shul to fulfill our Jewry Duty (pun intended although not mine). It is our week to take Minyan duty and show up for services every evening at 8 p.m. so that if someone has to say Kaddish, there will be a quorum. M and I have split the responsibility; tonight he had a meeting, so I had to take the munchkins with me. And no, they don't count. Not until after Bar/Bat Mitzvah age.

Post-scarfing, we had about 10 minutes before having to depart. I wanted to get through the dishes and wipe the table, knowing I would be even more tired upon our return and would have to deal with bedtime and all its shenanigans. No sooner had the last bite of dessert been consumed, then I was up from the table and at the sink.

Me (to Syd): Bring me your plate and glass, and put away the ketchup please.

Syd: Why do I hafta do everything around here?

Me: I beg your pardon? I believe I just cooked you dinner. All I'm asking you to do is put away the ketchup.

Syd: But I didn't even use it.

Me: Sure you did. On your chicken.

Syd: No I didn't. Daddy must have left it out.

Me: (holding up the plate she has just given me) I'm washing ketchup off your plate right now.

Syd: Fine! I'll put it away! (flounces to fridge and puts ketchup away)

Me: Could you throw away that napkin on the table?

Syd: I need a time out!

Me: (sotto voce) Of course you do.

Sam: I want to help, Mommy.

Me: Thank you, sweetheart. I could use your help. The biggest thing you could do for me right now would be to pick up the noodles you and Syd dropped on the floor.

Sam: Where are they?

Me: On the floor.

Sam: Are there a lot?

Me: Just bend down and pick them up and put them in the bin.

Sam: Actually, Mommy, I think I need a time out too.

Navy Blue

Twenty-one years ago tomorrow, at 8 a.m., the phone on the wall in the kitchen rang, and I picked it up. The caller greeted me briefly and then asked for Dad, who was also in the kitchen, having some coffee. They had an even briefer exchange that finished with, “thank you for letting me know,” and him handing me the receiver to replace in the cradle.

He told me you were gone.

I nodded and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Emotions in the house had long since been forbidden, although we weren't allowed to tell you that. It had been a somewhat sleepless night, the remnants of the burger I'd attempted to eat the night before at Applebee's churning restlessly in my stomach to the soundtrack of Nona's wailing at your bedside as your fever kept creeping up and your organs shut down. Of course I didn't know that then. I've skimmed the surface of the memory a few times in the past 21 years, afraid to wallow in its depths, of losing myself and becoming that awkward 17-year-old again.

I'm no longer afraid.

I told Dad that I'd let Jeremy know, although why I volunteered to do so is beyond me. I approached his double bed with trepidation, not sure what to say or how to say it, only that I knew I was creating a memory—a horrible one—that we would have to share for the rest of our lives. I echoed Dad's phrase and told Jeremy that you were gone, and he cried. I had a nervous smile that I couldn't shake, which caused me to feel embarrassed and guilty for almost a decade, until I read in a psychology textbook that that was sometimes a normal reaction to delivering bad news.

The memories of the rest of that day are a wash of smell and and color. Your bloated face lying against a stark white bed pillow. The smell of urine that permeated the halls of the nursing home, pungent as I walked that final time to say goodbye. The navy-blue bodybag. The heat of the funeral home.

The sequence unravels somewhat after what I can logically impose as a grown-up, knowing what I know about what happens when there is a “death in the family.” I know we all got dressed. I know we drove to the nursing home to say goodbye. I know we went on a long drive to the funeral home—this was before Weil followed the Jews to the northeast part of Cincinnati—to plan the funeral itself and to learn what would happen. I know that Uncle Jack and Uncle Matt were there for part, or maybe all, of the day.

Oh god, and I had to buy shoes. I had forgotten about that. After all the planning was over, I had to go to the mall, of all things. I had had nothing to wear to the funeral, and I couldn't very well ask you, “Hey, Mom, what should I wear to your funeral in a few weeks?” Fortunately, Margaret was either back from Luxembourg or hadn't left yet, so we attacked the mall and she helped me find a navy suit. It was the first suit I ever owned. It had a peplum, which was so “in” back then, and four large blue-and-gold buttons. The skirt was a little long and the waist was a little snug, but as I knew I wasn't going to have much time, it was going to have to do. I can't remember if I had it altered, and as it has long since made it to another woman's closet, I have no way of verifying.

But I possessed no navy shoes. I had red and yellow flats, courtesy of Bat Mitzvahs in the mid-1980s. I had black shoes. I had white Keds, thanks to showchoir. I even had black character shoes. But nothing that would go with a navy suit.

I had been working at the JCC that summer, and was filling my evenings with a summer production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat—anything to escape the reality of what was going on with you. I hadn't had time—hadn't made time—to buy shoes. So I found myself at the mall on the day you died, frantically searching for navy shoes to match my new, almost-fitting suit.

Within five minutes of being there, I had run into Marla Sudman, one of my co-counselors from camp. She immediately asked how you were, and I was faced with a quandary. Should I lie and say that you were “hanging in there”? Or should I tell her that you had died that morning? If I told the truth, how would that make me look, being at the mall on the day my mom died? But if I lied, and the truth came out later, which it inevitably would, then I would have to explain why I lied. Why did I have to run into her? And why I had waited so long to get shoes? And why was this happening to me?

I told her that you had died that morning, and explained my dilemma about the shoes. Rather than judge (What sane person would judge? the grown-up me wants to interject here), she expressed her condolences, asked if there was anything she could do, and directed me toward Pappagallo for shoes. I thanked her and made a beeline for the store, hoping to enter and exit without running into anyone else I knew.

I found navy shoes in Pappagallo for $75—they were the most expensive shoes I'd ever bought, but I figured I didn't have much choice. It was the closest store to where I'd parked and I didn't want to go any farther into the mall than I had to. I wrote a check, tucked the box under my arm, and headed out the door.

The shoes had clip-on accessories—that had been one of the saleslady's selling points. One set were bows and the other rosettes. I wore the rosettes to the funeral, as the bows seemed too festive, but the teeth that clipped them to the shoes ended up snagging my pantyhose and digging into my feet—definitely a design flaw.

You would have steered me better. You would have taken me to L.S. Ayres or Lazarus and had me try on a dozen pairs, walk in them all, and asked me which was the most comfortable. You would have told me that neither the bows nor the rosettes were appropriate for a funeral. You would have probably insisted that we shop for the shoes at the same time as the suit, even if I was tired, to make sure that we got a good match, since the shades of navy can be so different. And you probably would have had a purse I could have borrowed.

Despite the shoe faux pas 21 years ago, I have learned, Mom. We have a wedding to go to in a couple of weeks. I bought a navy dress. I found silver-gray sandals that look just lovely with it, and I found a purse on sale at Marshall's (you would love Marshall's, it's just like T.J. Maxx) to match. I know what jewelry I'm going to wear, and I've got a little wrap in case it gets chilly, even though it's August and we're in the middle of an insane heat wave. I know, I know, you never know.

I hear echoes of your laugh in my laugh, you know. It catches me off-guard, but it no longer makes me sad. I'm happy that I carry a piece of you with me, and that piece of you comes out at the moments when I'm the most unguarded, the happiest, the most carefree.

Twenty-one years feels like a lifetime ago in some ways. So much has happened since then, it would take the rest of my life to fill you in, and then I'd miss what's going on right now. So instead I pause on this anniversary and acknowledge the gifts you gave me—life, unconditional love, and others too many to name—and say thank you. I miss you and I love you.

From Harry Potter to News of the World

“So Mom,” my eight-year-old daughter queried from the back seat of the car. “Is Rita Skeeter evil, or is she just, like, doing bad stuff?”

My daughter has been listening to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on CD for the past few months. We read the first three books in the series aloud together, but apparently, I wasn't quick enough for her on the fourth book. And really, despite my best efforts, who can compete with Jim Dale?

After being subjected to her begging and begging, I allowed her to watch the fourth film one day early this summer. We had seen the first three, the pattern being after we finished one book, we would watch the film together. Goblet on film proved to be a bit much—not because (spoiler alert) Cedric dies, but because she didn't much like having to watch Brendan Gleeson's rolling magical eye. I can't say that I blame her.

But her queasiness for the effect did not dampen her love of the story, and despite having finished listening to the tale at least once already, she has returned to the beginning and is having another go. Occasionally questions surface about plot details: “Was the Moody Dumbledore met at the beginning of the term at Hogwarts the real Moody?” and sometimes she's analyzing things on a deeper level, such as wondering what makes Rita Skeeter tick.

I immediately jumped into English teacher mode and turned the question back to her. “Well, what do you think, Syd? Do you think she's really evil? Or do you think she's just doing bad stuff and making bad choices?”

There was silence and I waited. I waited a while, and I remembered that she was only eight, and that wait time in elementary school is infinitely longer than in high school. And I felt fortunate that I didn't have to rush her along because there were 19 other students in the classroom, competing for my attention, exhibiting off-task behavior, or doodling in books.

“Well,” she said, finally, “I think she was just doing bad stuff. Making bad choices.”

“Interesting,” I responded, wondering how long I could stretch out this literary discussion without her losing interest. “Why?”

“I'm not sure,” she said, after a few seconds. “But didn't she put a spell on her Quick Quotes Quill? So it wasn't really her making bad choices?”

Hmm, I thought. Very literal interpretation. But she's eight.

“That's one way to look at it,” I said. “And I would tend to agree with you—I don't think she's evil.” I left out the diatribe about whether characters (and people) could be purely evil for the moment, as I don't think I can really get into that with an elementary-aged student. “But I do think that Rita will do anything to get the story. And that's where she gets in trouble.”

“Like where she knew about Hagrid? And no one knew how she knew about Hagrid?” Syd queried.

“Exactly. How did she know about Hagrid?”

There was silence, and I wasn't sure if my daughter didn't remember the plot, or didn't put two and two together. “Well,” I said, putting my teacher hat back on. “What's her full name?”

“Rita Skeeter,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Do you know what 'Skeeter' is short for?”

“No,” she said.

I sighed ever so slightly. This is where her being too young for the series comes in sometimes.

“It's a nickname for a mosquito. Do you remember at the end of the story? Hermione figures out that Rita Skeeter can transform herself into a mosquito. And that's how she knows about Hagrid—she was a mosquito at the time, so she was able to buzz around and overhear him talking to Madame Maxine.”

“Oh,” she said. “I get it.”

But I wasn't sure if she did. After all, she does fall asleep to the CDs, and Hermione's revelation comes near the end of the novel. Maybe she'll hear it on her next time through, now that she knows what to listen for.

I decided to try for one more angle. “Rita Skeeter is a journalist, Sydney. Do you know what that means?”

“I know what a journalist is!” she retorted.

“Okay, okay!” I laughed.

“And you know how journalists always have to tell stories, right?”

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw her nod.

“Well, there are right ways and wrong ways to go about getting a story. It's called 'ethics,' and it has to do with how a journalist gets the information for her story. Rita Skeeter did it the wrong way.”

“Like with the quill? When it wrote down the things that didn't happen?”

“Exactly. She made things up, and she listened in to conversations that she wasn't supposed to. And I think that J.K. Rowling....”

“Rowling.” Here she corrected my pronunciation, and I had to laugh.

“Rowling, by this point in writing the series, was so tired of journalists making things up about her, or taking one little story and blowing it way out of proportion, that she invented Rita Skeeter to get back at them. To poke a little fun at them. Do you get it?”

“Yeah.”

“So is Rita evil, Sydney?”

“No, I don't think so.”

We sat for a moment, digesting all of this, and then I decided to push my luck one more time. “You know, there is a story in the news right now about journalists getting information in an unethical way. In England. A newspaper—a tabloid—just shut down because some of the people who work there hacked into people's cell phones.”

“What do you mean, 'hacked'?”

“Like, listened into, without permission.”

“How did they do that?” she asked.

“I have no idea, and to be honest, I don't want to know, because I would never do anything like that.”

“What did they hear?”

“Who knows?” I said, not liking the direction the discussion was taking, but trying to roll with it. “Maybe what color shoes Miley Cyrus was wearing, or where somebody else famous was getting coffee.” I certainly wasn't going to give her details about what Rupert Murdoch's employees intercepted about a slain 13-year-old girl. “The point is, they didn't get their information in an ethical way, and now the newspaper is shutting down. Done. Finito. Kaput.”

“Why does anyone care what color shoes Mily Cyrus wears?”

“Exactly,” I said, exhaling. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath. “I don't know. But some people do care about those things. Some people care about what famous people are wearing and who they are dating. And they want to see pictures of those people. And that's what Rita Skeeter was representing.”

She was quiet for a moment, as traffic picked up a little and we crawled somewhat closer to our destination.

“Are we there yet, Mom?” she asked.

“Oh, I think so,” I said, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. “We've definitely arrived.”

so clearly i've had a lot to say

the crickets have been chirping for several months now, it would appear.

i have been reading up a storm, however. it feels like a sort-of cop out to just review instead of write, so i will scratch the critic's itch by saying, "go now to your neighborhood bookstore or kindle or nook and download/buy/freeview The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins." see? it's so important, i gave it capital letters even. so good. page turning. i read all three in about five days. no kidding. true, i was sick and in bed for four of them, and i read one of them on my phone, but to quote a pint-sized heroine my kids favor, "wowie, wow, wow." good stuff. nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat, what's-going-to-happen, who's-going-to-die, who's-she-going-to-kiss stuff.

i also watched twilight (the first one) again. i was indulging my inner teenager. so sue me. ah edward. your hair is so yummy. it would probably stick to my fingers, but ahhhhhhh. it's a ridiculous film. and they get more ridiculous as they go on--i actually laughed out loud in the theater several times when i saw eclipse. but it's eye-candy.

let's see. i also watched he's just not that into you, which i hadn't remembered seeing until about halfway in, and then, once i remembered seeing, i couldn't remember the end of it. i probably fell asleep. i have a queue of others i'd like to see that are definite chick flicks, but i was slightly delirious so i went in for fluffy, not weepy. can't do anything weepy at the moment.

i have knowing out from netflix. nic cage. it looks good but i've been told it's scary, so now i'm afraid to watch it.

see? i'm doing it again. procrastinating. i edited earlier today. i did, honestly. about 13 pages. of the poker manuscript. but i was not so happy with what i found. it's pretty crap, actually. lots of telling, with not so much showing. i'm worried that by the time i cut out all the telling, there won't be much of a manuscript left. but i did write the whole thing in a month, so it's bound to be a bit shit, really. i have to cut myself some slack. maybe two plus years literally in the drawer was exactly what it needed. but frankly, it's a little boring. maybe i'm bored of the concept. maybe i should just find one or two really good sentences and write from those--turn those into something else it can't be 100 pages of crap, can it? or maybe i'm just so used to editing now, i have a much more critical eye.

it's very hard to go back to writing after reading critically and editing for the past two and a half years. i swear i'm not making excuses. there are two halves of the brain, and editing is definitely way on the other side from writing. which is good, i guess, meaning that they won't get in each other's way. but bad because my writing side is WAY out of practice.

ah well. what did valerie say on our writers' panel? butt+pen+chair=book. one page at a time. leave off in the middle of a...

cross blogging

Trying to stay positive. It's hard on a succession of gray rainy days.
I posted on my other, once-every-six-months-or-a-year blog today instead:

Gratitude

work

ihateithere
ihateithere
ihateithere
ihateithere
ihateithere

WORD to your sistah

Man oh man has this chica got a good thing going on....
I wish I had time to do something similar with my blog. But that would involve specializing, instead of being a repository for all things that fallout from my brain.
Hmmm.
Something to muse on....

failure

Today feels like failure on multiple levels.

I actually had to leave the office because the noise was too much. A loud person on a conference call less than 18 inches from me--my headphones and white noise didn't do the trick. I felt like clawing out my eyes. So I am home, listening to the hum of the computers instead. Much more peaceful but I miss the camaraderie of the office.

It has been suggested to me that my increased noise sensitivity could be migraine-related. I have seen somewhat of a correlation between noise bothering me and then getting a migraine a day or two later. I am trying to track this pattern.

It will be a bitter pill, spending $300 on the latest noise-cancelling headphones (Bose Q15), but I might just have to in order to function at work. Lunchtime regularly makes me feel like I could climb the walls. All that crunching.... I hate crunchy foods. They taste good, but I hate the noise I make when I eat them, let alone when others do. The other day I got all over DH for eating grapes too loudly. I now know that I have a problem. I really do want to get better. I just have to figure out how.

What I Read in 2010

I decided to add the newest ones to the top, rather than the bottom, to save scrolling for frequent (ahem) readers. Duh. Blog architecture 101. 

In the interest of trying to keep an updated list before the next year starts (ha!), here is what I have read so far:

29. Worst Case by James Patterson and Michael Ledwidge. A good thriller but ultimately forgettable. Everything is starting to look the same by Patterson. Maybe it's time to find a new thriller author to read.

28. The Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs. Jacobs has again mined the depth of his waking mind to deliver a memoir that is worth reading and worth, in fact, digesting. After the success of reading the Encyclopedia from cover to cover, Jacobs decides he needs a new quest, and sets out to live by the Bible for one year. He visits various evangelical and liberal sects of differing religions--from the Hasidic Jews in Brooklyn to snake handlers in some place I'm too lazy to look up at the moment. He spends nine months in the Old Testament (or Hebrew Bible) and three in the New. In his quest of checking off commandments, Jacobs finds himself transformed from self-effacing "clueless agnostic" to reverent agnostic, and his journey enlightens--himself and his readers.

27. Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby. A little on the slow side to start but overall a good read. Hornby does well enough getting inside an almost-forty-year-old's mind, and captures Duncan, the protagonist's not-husband, and all his quirks with a practiced hand. The plot, while more than implausible, is clever. Since I always struggle with plot in my own writing, I wanted to file away the device he used to bring two unlike characters together to reappropriate in some form in my own work, if need be. I wish there had been a soundtrack to go along with the book. The echoes of music I have yet to hear emanated in my mind as I read and I kept wanting to load them up on my ipod, to really see which one of the couple I would have agreed with, and why.

26. Street Gang: The Complete History of Sesame Street by Michael Davis. This is more of an intellectual look at how the program came to be, as well as biographical information about lots of key stakeholders behind the scenes, rather than a pop-culture look at the history of the program. I was intrigued by how many of the production and management teams came from Captain Kangaroo, and I didn't know that Noggin, which has now unfortunately merged with Nickelodeon, was a CTW channel. I didn't feel like there was quite enough Henson in the book; and the resolution of the Disney/Muppet ownership rights fell flat. It was built up as an epic struggle and then somewhat summarily dismissed. Joan Ganz Cooney comes out looking like she could do no wrong, but I'm sure some of the other team members would have loved to have given their two cents (sadly, many have died in the past two decades--who knew?). I can see how Zoe was a contrived creation and was not allowed a genesis similar to her older muppet counterparts. I wanted more about Kevin Clash... but I guess there's a book for that.

25. Chasing Harry Winston by Lauren Weisberger. Pure, unadulterated brain candy, but just what I needed to escape from my life for 48 hours. I liked this one as much as The Devil Wears Prada, and it was much better than Everyone Worth Knowing. Predictable, of course, but seeing how the predictability played out was fun. And I love that her characters use "fuck" as much as I do.

24. Julie and Julia by Julie Powell. I watched the movie a few weeks ago and I was curious about the source material. Several people saw me reading the book and asked me my opinion. I hate turning people off to reading--reading anything--but I wanted to be honest. And I honestly thought the movie was better. Julie wasn't a truly likeable "character" in the book (as much as one can be a character in a memoir). She fared much better in the movie version of her life (and who wouldn't?). I wanted to like it, I really really did, especially since I liked the film a lot. But it left me a little cold. Maybe if I had read it as a blog, as she was writing it. It did make me question the supposed-new genre of "blog fiction" that seems to be in the back of every writer's mind. Not all blogs will translate well to larger works of fiction, and I think that is something the Big Six need to keep in mind when they are shopping in the near future.

23. Kabbalah: A Love Story by Rabbi Lawrence Kushner. I started and couldn't finish. It had to go back to the library and I wasn't sad enough to see it go to find it on paperbackswap. Interesting premise of a plot, but a little too "preachy" for fiction.

22. The Guynd by Belinda Rathbone. A little slow to start, but a well-written memoir of an ex-pat who moves to Scotland with her boyfriend, a laird. She learns that loving the man means also loving his family home and the quirks of class life in Scotland. It gives new meaning to the phrase "house-poor."

21. A Little Bit Wicked: Life, Love, and Faith in Stages by Kristin Chenoweth and Joni Rodgers. Just started this one today. It's cute and chatty, and gives some insight into Chenoweth's background and choices in her career thus far. I'm sure it won't be earth-shattering, but it should be an entertaining read.
ETA: entertaining; decent insight into the whole Studio Sixty on the Sunset Strip debacle of Chenoweth on The 700 Club. And like the clueless idiot I am, I had no idea she dated/dates Aaron Sorkin.

20. The Boleyn Inheritance by Philippa Gregory--better than The Other Queen. Gregory did a much better job developing three distinct but believable voices in this one. The first person POV didn't bother me in this one. Definitely a page-turner.

19. The Other Queen by Philippa Gregory--this was my least favorite of the historical fiction I have read by Gregory so far. The novel rotates between three narrators--George, the Earl of Shrewsbury; Bess, a new-monied lady who married George (he is her fourth husband); and Mary Queen of Scots, the ousted queen who vied for the English throne while Elizabeth I held it. The voices are definitive in a trite kind of way, and I just felt that the story was plodding along. Gregory employs first person and it is tiresome to read for so many pages. Admittedly it works well in some of her other novels, but not this one.

18. The Virgin's Lover by Philippa Gregory--more bodice-ripping, albeit with historical implications. Now I'd like to find out how much of the Elizabeth I loved Robert Dudley and was counseled by William Cecil is true. Guess I need to find a good biography to read. Gregory lists some source materials in her bibliography, and one of them is by Alison Weir, whose stuff I have read before and liked. I thought, however, that it was all fictional. I'll have to take another look. Interesting folks, those Tudors.

17. Fool by Christopher Moore--Oh the irony of reading two foolish books one after the other while on holiday in London. This was a phenomenal read. I think Moore is so clever; that I love Shakespeare only served to augment my amusement. Regan as a complete slut, Goneril as overweight and overwrought, Cordelia as conniving, and France and Burgundy as gay lovers. Oh my stars, what a romp!

16. The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory--well, I was going to say a bodice-ripper in historical fiction duds, but I think that's a bit redundant. I am such a sucker for historical fiction. This did not disappoint. I enjoyed that the main character was Jewish, and the portrayal of England becoming Catholic, then Anglican/Protestant, then Catholic, etc., was very enlightening. I think I finally get it now.

15. Limitations by Scott Turow--see, here's my problem with Scott Turow. I often think I have found a new book by him and start to read it, only to realize I have read it before. Sometimes I get to the end and realize, no, this is actually a new story. Sometimes I read to the end and confirm, oh yes, I remember this twist. Still other times I read and I remember some of the characters but not the plot, and at the end I'm not sure if I've read it already or not. It's a little annoying. I don't think his books have gotten more interesting as he's gotten more seasoned. I do like the ones that feature Sandy Stern more than the others. This one was okay. Short and sweet, but I kept having the impression I'd read it before and when I finished it, I still wasn't sure if I had.

14. Mirror, Mirror by Gregory Maguire--very slow to start but an interesting twist on the typical Snow White tale. I didn't like it as much as Wicked and Son of a Witch.

13. Disobedience by Jane Hamilton--I've tried this twice and just can't get into it. Maybe it's the author's note in the beginning, forecasting the story for me. Maybe it's the unrealistic 17-year-old boy narrator's voice (sorry, Ms. Hamilton). Or maybe it's just that the characters are annoying. I can't find anything redeeming in what I've read so far and I have no desire to continue. And that's big for me. It's rare that I don't finish a book.

12. The Hotel at the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford--this was a great find. I think I heard Ford on NPR sometime and decided to read the book based on his interview. It was a fascinating for me to read about the prejudices between Japanese and Chinese immigrants (even in a fictionalized way) in the 1940s during the time of the Japanese internment in the U.S. I had no idea such tensions even existed, or if I ever knew, I had definitely forgotten. The politics don't get in the way of the story, though, which is important. And Ford doesn't take sides or preach. I wish I could meet Henry, Sheldon, and Keiko and give them all hugs.

11. Eden Close by Anita Shreve--very slow to start but got interesting halfway through. Definitely "women's literature."

10. Service Included: Four-Star Secrets of an Eavesdropping Waiter by Phoebe Damrosch--succulent and juicy. It's a play-by-play of being hired, trained at, backserving, and serving at a four-star restaurant in NYC. Fascinating stuff, even for someone like me who never waited tables.

9. Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Promote Peace... One School at a Time by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin--I approached this one with trepidation, despite having heard the co-authors speak at the Dayton Peace Prize awards a couple of years ago. I wasn't sure I wanted the "heavy-heavy" of a true story about girls in Pakistan. I was expecting graphic blow-by-blows of physical violence against girls, and how they struggle to achieve any sort of life in a repressive society. I could not have been more wrong. Mortenson and Relin frame the journey around Mortenson's climbing adventures. I have never been remotely interested in climbing mountains. The journey opens with Mortenson's failure on K2, and the "ephiphanic moment" (thanks A.M. Foley) he has barely making it back down the mountain alive. He makes a promise and takes a hell of a long time to keep it, but the way he does is amazing. The book also shed some light on the conflict in Afghanistan and the U.S. involvement in it. That was helpful to me. I was afraid of encountering words like "infidel" and "mujahadeen" but I learned a little more about why insurgents turn to extremism. It was a thought-provoking journey--one that I encourage everyone to make along with Mortenson.

8. The Piano Shop on the Left Bank by Thad Carhart--part memoir, part "ode to joy," Carhart combines two of my favorite entities--music and Paris. I seem to be reading a lot of American expats in France (from last year's list and this year's). If I had to complain about anything, it would be that the memoir parts are not seamlessly integrated into the technical parts about pianos themselves. I definitely received a good background on different piano manufacturers and their pros and cons (but in an interesting way). His portrait of Luc, the man who inherits the atelier to restore the pianos, is exquisitely drawn. If nothing else, the tome makes me want to get off my duff, find a decent secondhand or restored piano, and get back to it. The descriptions of musical technique made me miss my voice lessons terribly. I know what Carhart means when he describes elements of musical creation, where you're present but not, and the music takes over. It looks and sounds effortless if it's done right, and the techinque falls away, allowing you to fly on your own voice (or keyboard). Trying to decide whether it's a good one to loan my father, an avocational pianist and clarinetist. He might find it tedious. I'll offer. If you love music, or Paris, or both, seek it out.

7. Home: A Memoir of My Early Years by Julie Andrews--a somewhat interesting, somewhat indulgent read. Andrews had an interesting early life. I was disappointed that the memoir only covered up until she was cast as Mary Poppins (lots of My Fair Lady on both sides of the Atlantic, and on Camelot). Maybe there will be sequel, or a second volume. And I have to see, reading Andrews' euphemisms for female anatomy, reproduction, and menstruation are just funny. She is just as delicate as she appears to be.

6. Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger--I really liked this one. It was sad and creepy and heart-warming and weird, all at the same time. Definitely a page-turner. It felt different from The Time Traveler's Wife, which was hyped to me and was okay, in my opinion, but not phenomenal. I was a little disappointed in the ending--saw the first twist coming, but not the second one.

5. The Guinea Pig Diaries by A.J. Jacobs--so freaking funny. Seriously, he has inspired me to try to be more in the moment in my daily life. I won't go as far as saying "I am brushing my teeth. I am rinsing my mouth," as he does, but still. Mindfulness is helpful when it all comes crashing down around you.


4. The Lady and the Unicorn by Tracy Chevalier--another quick read. Nice stationary bike fodder. If I had read one more reference to "plowing" a woman, however, I would have set the damn thing on fire. Not sure if I like her writing from a male perspective. I also now realize that she is essentially a romance writer with a small attempt at higher-brow fiction by being historical in nature. I probably won't read any more Chevalier unless someone highly recommends a book by her.

3. A Wolf at the Table by Augusten Burroughs--I haven't finished and I can't decide if I'm going to. It's fairly depressing and I can just feel where it's going, and I don't know if I can stomach it. It's a little like why I've avoided Dave Pelzer and most of Mary Kerr.

2. Dave Barry Slept Here by Dave Berry--meh. Funny in places, especially since I somewhat-recently edited an American history textbook. He was funniest when he wasn't trying so hard to be funny. I'll probably hold onto it as long as I'm editing history curriculum, just to keep a sense of humor about the seriousness of "women and minority" contributions.

1. Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier--quick read. Not as predictable as I thought it would be. Intriguing story. I'm a sucker for good historical fiction.

I am going to keep updating throughout the year... stay tuned!

Giggles

This picture made me chuckle today.
As today's reading is all about the Inca and the Aztecs, I needed a chuckle.

gorillas, peanut butter, and sex--oh my!

It has been a fascinating 24 hours in my house.

Scene: dinner table. Mom, dad, seven-year-old, and four-year-old are sitting around the table. In between fighting over bites of vegetables and impending dessert arrival time, four-year-old asks:

FYO: Who were the first people?
SYO: Adam and Eve! Duh!
FYO: So everyone comes from Adam and Eve?
D: Sure. Eat your cucumber.
FYO: I don't want to eat my cucumber.
D: Eat your cucumber.
(beat)
FYO: So who created Adam and Eve?
(beat)
SYO: God did.
FYO: Okay. Did God create everyone?
SYO: No. God created Adam and Eve, and then they created people, and those people created Moses and other people from the Bible. Right Daddy?
D: Sure. Eat your cucumber.
SYO: I ate my cucumber. I want dessert.
M: So, kiddos, that's one way of looking at it--God creating Adam and Eve and so on. But other people believe that we all come from apes. And gorillas.
(silence)
FYO: Really? Our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents were gorillas?
M: That's what some people think.
SYO: So who's right?
(silence)
D: No one knows. Scientists are still trying to figure it out. Now eat your cucumber.

(12 hours later, at the same table, SYO is eating a waffle and M is making a peanut butter sandwich)
SYO (picking up a baby toy lying on the table): I thought we were giving this away.
M: I wanted to save it. My mom bought me one when I was a baby, and I bought you one when you were a baby, and I want to save it to give to you when you have a baby--if you choose to have a baby.
SYO: Choose?
M: (closing peanut butter jar) Yes.
SYO: You can choose to have a baby?
M: Yes. Not everyone has babies.
SYO: Really? How do you choose?
M: Some people decide they want to have children, and other people decide they don't.
SYO: Yes, but how do you choose to have one?
M: You just do.
SYO: You're not answering my question.
(beat)
M: Oh. You want to know how it happens.
SYO: Yes.
M: Ummm, okay, well, let me see (nervous giggle).
SYO: It's okay Mom, if you don't know the answer.
M: I know the answer! I'm just trying to think of the best way to answer the question without giving you too much information that you don't need.
SYO: It's okay if you don't want to answer it.
M: I do. Okay, so when two people love each other very much, they decide to have a baby.
SYO: How?
M: Well, a woman has an egg inside her and a man has sperm inside him. And the egg and the sperm get together, and the baby grows inside the woman's tummy for nine months.
SYO: (sighing loudly) Mom, you aren't hearing my question. You aren't answering my question.
M: You want to know how the egg and the sperm get together?
SYO: Yes!
(long beat)
M: The man puts his penis inside the woman's vagina and the sperm goes to find the egg. Okay?
SYO: Okay.
(silence)
M: Do you have any other questions?
SYO: No.
(silence)
M: Because if you do you can ask me. I'd rather give you the information than you learning it from your friends at school... or a book.
SYO (rolling her eyes): Mom.
(long beat)
M: So, do you want applesauce or oranges in your lunch today?

Fin

I can't make this stuff up. Really.

Now I'm Hungry

Just finished watching Julie and Julia, the movie from the memoir by Julie Powell about cooking 524 of Child's recipes in one year. I loved it! I thought it would be slow and boring but it was charming. I did not realize that Nora Ephron wrote the screenplay. I should have known I would love it just from that--she wrote When Harry Met Sally..., one of my favorite movies of all time (yes, I'm a sap).

I think my favorite scene is at the end, when an image of Child's kitchen at the Smithsonian Institute (I have seen this, but now feel like I need to go back and view it again) dissolves into a scene with Child receiving her published book in the mail. Unless the production company was able to film on location at the Smithsonian, their set dressers did an outstanding job. I haven't researched enough to know where they filmed.

Streep was a class act (big surprise). And Amy Adams was wonderful--no trace of Giselle from Enchantment anywhere. What a sweet film, and a great way to start a long weekend.

Annette's Life Work

Well, one of many of her life's work. She has a husband, a son, three stepdaughters, has published a memoir, writes on a regular basis, maintains a yoga practice, and volunteers with too many organizations to list. I miss her!
Read about her latest venture--touching the lives of those with Alzheimers through the power of writing--and throw some positive vibes her way. Not that she needs them, but they're always good to have!

My Yoga Experiment

Everyday, I pass by a yoga studio called Down Dog Yoga. The sign for the studio has a cute puppy on it. As an on-again, off-again yoga-doer (yogi?), I was happy to see a yoga studio within walking distance of work. I checked out the studio online for class offerings and pricing, ventured in the doors to observe the facility itself, and ultimately decided to enroll in a one-week free trial session.

That cute puppy is very, very deceiving.

That cute puppy is a devil dog in disguise.

I left my office fifteen minutes before class was scheduled to start. It was raining, I was walking. I lugged my gym bag, yoga mat, and ashtanga mat through the rain to the studio, filled out the requisite paperwork, and headed to the changing room. That was somewhat of a misnomer--the site claimed the studio had changing facilities and showers. The studio had, in fact, what amounted to one oversized bathroom designed to handle someone in a wheelchair, with cubbies attached to one wall. There was one toilet stall, and one shower tucked into the corner. At least it was clean, if not private.

Normally, I wouldn't care about the shower situation, but I was heading back to work after my "power hour" class.

I should have stopped myself at the words "power hour." I should know better than to try anything that mixes power and yoga. But I couldn't help it. I took Jennifer Gleason's yoga class at the YMCA in Dayton twice a week for almost a year, and Jen had the mix of power and yoga down to a science. There was enough vinyasa, or flow, to make it count for a cardio workout and enough ashtanga options to keep it interesting and keep me working. But the core of yoga--the idea of moving with breath and intention, becoming mindful--was still front and center in Jen's class. I keep trying to find a replica in this area and I keep coming up short.

I should add here that I have been practicing yoga for more than nine years off and on. I would hardly consider myself an expert, but I have been through my fair share of teachers and styles. My introduction to yoga was via VHS tape: Patricia Walden's Yoga for Beginners produced by Gaiam. My foray into yoga was solid, and I recommend the tape and all of its offspring for anyone looking to begin a yoga practice. Walden is a follower of Iyengar yoga, which focuses on making sure you understand the pose, how to get into it, how to get out of it, and most importantly, how to align your body correctly and use props if you need to.

After countless hours working on poses in my family room, and kicking the couch over and over again, I decided to try a class at a now-defunct studio in Cincinnati. I cannot remember the instructor's name, but I remember being floored that the doughy woman in front of me had the strength and flexibility to wrap her body in specific ways and complete advanced poses. The classes were not expensive, but they weren't very convenient.

The second class I attended was at my high school alma mater. It was taught in the old wrestling room by a woman that was probably as old as the mats that cushioned our bodies beneath the poses. Her name was Winnie, and she was wiry. I think I found the class through the continuing education program at the school; it regularly drew more than fifty participants, which could have been because Winnie was a great teacher, but was probably most likely due to the fact that she never took attendance, and thus we were never charged for her class. We were supposed to be on the honor system, signing up on some website, paying by the quarter. I don't think many people did.

I was probably my most flexible under Winnie's tutelage. She pushed us gently but firmly to find our edges and roll through them if we could. She also believed that all of life's ailments were due to the body's basic elements being out of whack. She regularly said to her students: "That belly? That's because you have too much fire in your being." She was older so people let it slide. It was in Winnie's class that I learned that farting can be a big part of yoga. The smells of the old wrestling room and its mats, with years of high school boys' sweat ground into their fibers, along with the sweating and occasionally farting bodies of the fifty plus people in the class, made for a mix I won't forget in a hurry.

I wanted more so I attended a class at Winnie's condo, but the experience creeped me out. Around that time, I became pregnant with my first child, and decided that rolling over my edges probably wasn't such a great idea.

I found Cincinnati Yoga School (which appears to have changed hands since I attended classes there) across from my gym at the time. The classes weren't cheap, but I wasn't sure how to go about exercising while pregnant, and the prenatal yoga class instructor seemed to have it all figured out. I loved my prenatal yoga, with all its props and gentle stretches. It was the only time in nine months that I got to lie on my back, and it was heaven. Unfortunately, the advice I got while practicing there was not to do any cardio--that yoga would be enough to keep me in shape while I was pregnant. Um, not if you have oreo cravings. I continued throughout my pregnancy and even took my infant daughter to postnatal, Mommy and Me, yoga classes, but I found that I really wanted the time I spent on the mat to focus inward, not to glance over my shoulder from triangle pose and wonder if my infant was about to wake up or needed a diaper change.

I continued to try to take classes at CYS when I could find the time. I also tried other classes, including power yoga at Bally Total Fitness (the gym I was a member from about 1990 to 200something). I hated the power yoga at the gym because it was more like an exercise class with yoga poses thrown in once in a while for strength training. It wasn't yoga. I tried a pilates mat class there too, and I felt too uncoordinated to do my body any good.

I started running, and yoga fell by the wayside. I would occasionally practice a little to relieve aching, but I didn't make it a regular thing. I got pregnant with my second child and kept doing as much cardio as I could, determined not to gain as much weight as I did with my first. I dropped into the occasional prenatal yoga class at CYS, hoping to regain my bliss, but it was hard to find the time to do it, what with writing and parenting my two-and-a-half-year-old.

Then we moved to Dayton, and I found Jen and the right balance between running and yoga. And writing. I was writing a ton. All was well in my world (as well as could be expected with two children under the age of three).

Then we moved to Fairfax.

I tried to find a  yoga studio that would give me an experience like Jen's class. Fortunately, there was one a few minutes down the road from my house: Sun and Moon Yoga Studio. They also had a work-exchange program, which fit right into my lifestyle at the time. I worked a shift on Sunday night, from 5:45 to 8 or so, and in exchange, I earned two hours of class time. I dropped into different classes, trying to find one that fit. Sun and Moon is a Hatha studio--it is more like Iyengar than anything else I've seen, so I thought it might be a good fit and bring me back to my roots. The first class I tried was just boring--I almost fell asleep. I clearly needed something more challenging. I ramped up to a higher-level class and found the arm balances and held inversion poses to be too much. I wanted to be challenged but not feel like I was completely out of my depth.

I found Audra's class--a Vinyasa class that was a good fit, providing me the flow I wanted with the stillness and introspection I needed. Unfortunately, her schedule changed and I was no longer able to make her class. I decided to throw myself into an adult tap dancing class instead, but my husband's schedule made regular attendance next to impossible. And I was the most advanced student in the class, which is really saying something (not a positive something either).

To sum up, Down Dog appeared and I walked around the idea for several months, wondering if I was ready to get back to the mat. Some days, by the luck of the schedule, the only time I have to work out is actually during work. So I haul my bag into work, change, and do a couple of laps outside around the building complex. How cool would it be, I thought to myself, to be able to fill in with a yoga class on nonrunning days? And a yoga class that's across from work, that I could walk to, and not have to schedule a babysitter or make sure that my husband was available to watch the kids.

I squared my shoulders and entered the studio. And was hit with a blast of hot air. Not warm air--hot air. Apparently, this trend--adding heat to exercise to make it cleansing--it not new. I have several Facebook friends who practice Bikram yoga and profess to love it. Bikram is hot yoga. In this case, the studio was between 90 and 95 degrees. I took a few minutes to try to acclimate myself to the heat, wondering if it was dry or wet heat, wondering if I would be able to do regular yoga breathing in the room.

I decided to give myself over to the practice and not judge. I would adapt. I'd been with enough instructors, tried enough classes and styles--whatever it was, I would be fine.

Not so in evil Down devil Dog world.

The tiny blonde teacher, Alison, entered the room with a smile on her face. Her lean body didn't betray a wiggle as she lowered herself to her mat and turned off the music. "Why so serious?" she questioned the woman next to me, who had clearly been through this before. There was no centering, no cleansing breath. In a word, we were up on our feet and reaching for the sky.

Alison looked small and mighty but sounded like Jack Kerouac teaching yoga:
"Go with it, man."
"Just dig where you are."
"Open your body. Feel the flow."
"It's now. It's right here, in this room."

If you haven't already, go back and reread those lines in a surfer/stoner voice in your head. For sixty minutes.

She alternated this monologue with calling out poses, rapid-fire. "Bend and fold. Back to plank. Lower to shattaranga, hold, BREATHE. Up dog. Inhale. Exhale. Down dog."

"Five!" she would bark. "Lift the right leg and roll the hip open. Four! Open your body to the breath flowing through it. Three! Feel the stretch between your two legs, grinding into the floor, man. TWO! Feel it, feel it... ONE! Release your leg back to the mat." Her voice deepened with each descending number.

On and on it went, through vinyasa after vinyasa. Sweat poured off my head, and rolled down into my eyes or onto my ashtanga mat. We covered sun salutations and the warrior series. We moved from triangle to chair to high and low lunges, side angle to revolved triangle, eagle and tree. Seated poses provided no relief--bow, pigeon, wheel, bridge--each pose four times or more. Alison's voice droning, counting off, pushing us to find more stretch in our bodies, reminding us to breathe.

Finally, after a series of core strengthening crunches that had nothing to do with yoga, alternated with progressive bridge and wheel poses, and an inversion thrown in for good measure, it was time for savasana--corpse pose. Aptly named. Five minutes of silence, five minutes of breathing. Five minutes of wondering why in the hell I walked through the door of the studio in the first place.

And then it was over, as quickly as it began. Students were clapping, applauding the torture. The woman behind me told me that she taught classes there on Tuesdays and Thursdays, that the "Power Hour" I had just finished was a 90-minute class crammed into 60 minutes. The instructor wandered over to me and told me that I did a great job, and then held my gaze. "And you're coming back on Wednesday, right? And Friday?"

I entertained the notion. After all, I had a free week. Despite the sweat and the grunting and the general insanity of the class, I felt pretty good. I was a survivor.

And then I woke up the next morning (yesterday). When the alarm went off at 6:20, I decided to go for a quick run--again, the only time during the day I could squeeze it in--and I failed. A mile and a half in, I bagged it completely and crawled over to the bike, hoping to finish my cardio there. Just getting on the bike hurt. It hurt to lift my towel and dry my hair. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand. Even my feet hurt, begging to be released from the confines of my shoes (as I write this, my sandals are under my desk and my feet are reveling in their open-air freedom).

Today, I gave myself a pass. As it stands, my triceps are rebelling against the length of this entry. I am "resting," hoping my body comes back for my run tomorrow. Saturday is my first race in almost 18 months. I figured a quick yoga class on Monday wouldn't interfere. How wrong I was....

What have I learned? "Power" and "yoga" do not belong in the same sentence if I am going to be a happy camper. Tiny people can have huge, army drill-sergeant voices. And never, never, ever trust a cute dog on a logo.

That is all.

Award Finalist!

The book I helped edit is up for an award!

Sure it would be nice to win, but as heard ad infinitum during Oscar week, "it's a honor to be nominated."

Why I Love My Son

We spent all day Sunday together, which hasn't happened in a very long time, and I had a great time with him and his sister (shout out to the friends we hung out with all day, ensuring the kiddos had buddies to play with).

My favorite moment? My son is getting out of the backseat of the car and leans over, holding a pose similar to Warrior 3, but with his standing leg bent and his arms out to the sides instead of over his head. He then says, "Mom, look! I'm a fossil!"

"A fossil?" I query, trying hard not to laugh.

"Yes," he replies. "A deinonychus fossil."

Priceless.

Then, five minutes later.

"Mom, do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"

"What?"

"A praying mantis."

Even now, I'm laughing. Oh, to be four and believe that you could grow up to be an insect! :)

I am so over pollen

In honor of being home sick with some sort of sinus almost-infection, I am going to indulge in a rant. If you don't care to read, you can hit "Next Blog" at the top of the page, and I won't be offended. I promise.

You have been warned.

I am so over pollen.
I am so over mold that grows inside and outside.
I am so over everything that makes me sneeze and makes me feel like I am hearing/seeing/feeling things in a tunnel.

I am so over my closer-to-five-than-four-year-old not pooping on the potty. And my husband's attitude toward it, which will probably send my son to therapy and me back to therapy with him. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I was hoping not to fuck my kids up this early on.

I am so over my job and the silent treatment from certain members of my team, who would prefer that I find commas and misplaced modifiers and leave the thinking to them, since they are so superior and learned and have been at the company so much longer than me. Know what? Just because it's the way it's always been doesn't mean it's right.

I am so over QCing test migrations, which is even more brainless than finding comma faults.

And I am ETERNALLY over the pimp getting $13 for every hour I work, for doing nothing except getting me the job nearly two years ago.

I am over the politicking that permeates this city, the people who don't want to look at you if you don't have a master's degree or top-secret security clearance.

I miss my writing circle and having the time to write. It is unbelievably frustrating to be stuck at a desk for seven hours a day, keys under your fingers, and not write.

I am over the dirty-borderline-disgusting bathrooms in our house that no one will clean except for me. Hint: wiping down the vanity with a baby wipe does not count as cleaning.

I am so over my hip and my body not letting me run the distances I used to be able to run.

I am so over hipsters who come up with new words like "fupa," giving me yet another thing to obsess over.

I am over soccer practice, dance recitals, and dinosaur songs. I'm over cooking things within my points allowance, eating lettuce twice a day, and getting my 60 minutes in because the ACE says I should.

I am over American Idol running long and my DVR cutting off the end of Glee,
Assholes in pick-up trucks in Reston who curse at me for accidentally rolling forward while trying to reverse up a hill,
Dreams where I have to watch my mother die again,
Stupid kids' shows
dirty laundry
punctuation
diet soda
grass clippings
people who jet to italy for business meetings
taking vacations that aren't vacations
and this rant.

Now why don't I feel better?

Craptastic

From the Washington Post Politics newsletter (cited as the quote of the day):

Sarah Palin, speaking at a tea party rally in Boston:

"Is this what their change is all about? We'll tell 'em, 'Nah, we'll keep clinging to our Constitution and our guns and our religion. You can keep the change."

Don'tcha just love her?

Now, Now Mr. Biden

QUOTE OF THE DAY

Vice President Joe Biden to President Obama, shortly before the president signed the health-care bill into law: "This is a big f**kin' deal."

This is from the Washington Post: Politics newsletter. It just makes me smile.