Telecommuter Talk

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

2009-11-23T20:46:00.003-05:00

Bob's and my first year of marriage was the roughest one for me (take note, all you never-marrieds and newly-engageds). Like everything I do in life (it seems), I entered marriage completely ignorant and unprepared, riding in on romantic notions of that wonderful "honeymoon phase." Our marriage, of course, would not have a mere "phase." We would be different. We would have a honeymoon life.

How long did that last? I can still remember calling my mother one day, about two months' shy of our first anniversary, and asking, "Why does everyone act as though the first year of marriage is such bliss? How come no one told me how hard it was gonna be?" Her (wise) response was, "What difference would it have made if anyone had told you? Would you have decided not to get married?"

My initial response was "yes," but of course, the real answer was "no." After all, I had already eaten enough crow for accepting an engagement ring after swearing to anyone who would listen that I was never getting married. I didn't need to eat the beak and feet as well. I wasn't about to change my mind again.

But it was tough. Bob and I weren't exactly spring chickens when we got married. Living with others, no matter who they are (family members, friends, strangers), is not easy. Throw romantic love and sex and personal expectations when it comes to marriage into the equation, and it's really quite amazing that more spouses don't kill each other. Bob and I had both been living on our own (or, at least in my case, with roommates who had no expectations other than bills and rent checks getting paid on time and kitchen sinks free of dishes) long enough to be set in our ways and unused to compromising. In other words, we were both quite selfish (and stubborn) and quick to find fault with each other.

Up until then, I'd always been amazed by the statistics on how many marriages end before the first anniversary has even been celebrated. But each time I slammed out of the house and drove away, furiously swearing I was never going to return to someone so [fill in the blank: thoughtless? selfish? clueless? mean?], I came to understand that I could ace a test based on that particular statistic.

Ultimately, though, we obviously had whatever it is that gets couples through that rough time. We began to listen to each other. We each began to give a little more. Yes, we had a lot of moments that make me cringe now when I think of them (and I am oh-so-glad no one ever had a hidden camera in our home), but we also had fun. We made each other laugh. We understood each other. When I had something good to tell, he was always the first person I wanted to tell.

However, I understand how relationships can crumble. Nothing, it seems, has made me understand divorce better than being married. How anyone who has ever been married can judge others for getting divorced is beyond me, unless they are those who really ought to be divorced themselves, and they're bitter in their own traps. So much of it just seems to be the luck of the draw, as far as I'm concerned. I am extremely lucky that my husband did not walk out on me or into the arms of another woman (as other statistics about marriage indicate that many do) when things weren't as idyllic as we'd both expected them to be. He is extremely lucky that I always came home after driving off in a fury.

There was a song that came out during our early years of marriage. It was poignant to me in that its narrator attempted to convince his skeptical lover that they had things in common. Grasping at straws, he mentions the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's (a movie both Bob and I love). She says she thinks she remembers the film, and that they both kind of liked it. He resigns himself to saying, "Well, I guess that's the one thing we've got."

I'd listen to that song and think, "God, I don't want our relationship to fizzle away until we barely have one thing in common." Somehow, though, I knew it never would. We had so much in common. We just both needed to grow up a little and to learn how to live with another human being, flaws and all. We did.

The song is still one of my favorites. I'm pretty sure I'd love it no matter what (it's a catchy tune), but I love it all the more for those bittersweet memories of the early days of our marriage. I can listen to it now and be so proud of us for weathering those storms, for never having to search desperately for one thing "we both kinda like."

Breakfast at Tiffany's
by Deep Blue Something

You say that we've got nothing in common
No common ground to start from
And we're falling apart.
You say the world has come between us
Our lives have come between us
But I know you just don't care.

CHORUS:
And I said "what about 'Breakfast at Tiffany's?'"
She said, "I think I remember the film,
And as I recall, I think, we both kinda liked it."
And I said, "Well, that's the one thing we've got."

I see you -- the only one who knew me
And now your eyes see through me
I guess I was wrong
So what now? It's plain to see we're over,
And I hate when things are over --
When so much is left undone.

CHORUS

You say that we've got nothing in common
No common ground to start from
And we're falling apart.
You say the world has come between us
Our lives have come between us
But I know you just don't care.

CHORUS

Of Evolution and Suburbia and Anticooks and Kitchens

2009-11-21T13:21:00.008-05:00

McGinley, Phyllis. Sixpence in Her Shoe. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1960.

I don't know why I find myself, time and again, so surprised by the fact that things never change all that much over time. I mean, I know perfectly well, and am very happy to inform anyone who will listen, that I have read Euripides, and Aristophanes, and Shakespeare, and Jane Austen, and the one conclusion I can draw for certain from all four authors is that human beings evolve at an incredibly slow rate, that we have barely changed at all since Aristophanes had audiences laughing at characters on his ancient stages. I can also tell you, though, that each time I picked up something written by one of these authors, I did not expect to draw this conclusion. Draw it, I did, nonetheless, and I try to remember that, really, when you look at the history of our species, a thousand years is not that long a time, so I should not be surprised. In fact, given how slow humans are, I really ought to be marveling that we ever managed to become bipedal.

One would think that, at this point, I would pick up any older book with the idea that it, too, will verify the fact that human beings just don't change that much over time. But no. Stick a book in my hand that is fifty or sixty years old, and I will expect it to be as old-fashioned as they come, full of quaint details and oddities (like references to the hi-fi and ladies wearing gloves even in summer) that I may vaguely remember from my childhood, but surely not much that we would recognize in our lives today. Time and again, I am astonished to find passages in these books that could easily have been written yesterday, so accurately do they describe what I am observing all around me today.

The most recent example of this is Phyllis McGinley's Sixpence in Her Shoe. This is a book I found while browsing the shelves for books for my TBR challenge. (It should have been added to the challenge list, but instead, it has become an "accidental read." I'm hoping you all know what I mean by that?) It was written in 1960 and is a book for housewives of that era extolling (humorously) the virtues and fun of having a home and family and caring for them. I immediately categorized it as a curious period piece from a time long past when most middle class women were doing just that: caring for hearth and home. That's certainly what my recently-married, young mother with her first-born child was doing the year it was published.

Sometime (I am presuming in the early sixties, it doesn't say), my father bestowed this book upon my mother with this inscription (which simultaneously appalls my feminist eyes while filling me with tenderness when I put it in its time and place to give it context): "To A., who is the personification of Miss McGinley's perfect mother and housewife with love from W." A couple of years ago, my mother wrapped this book up and sent it to me for Christmas. Added to my father's inscription is now one from her that reads, "& now this is yours, Emily, to enjoy! Love, Mom. (Dec. 2007)"

Curious period piece it was until I began to read it. In fairness to me, a lot of it really is a product of its time. It assumes the husband is the primary (if not the only) breadwinner. It assumes (while giving some lip service to those women who are happier holding down careers and who might be unhappy in the home) that most women are meant to be happiest in the home. A chapter titled "How Not to Kill Your Husband," instead of being all about keeping yourself from strangling your husband, because for two months he has promised to take that air conditioning unit that is sitting on the bedroom floor, and that is too heavy for you to lift, down to the basement and who tells you to quit bugging him about it every time you mention it, is all about catering to your husband and his specific needs, so that he doesn't die at a young age. The insinuation is that nagging, unresponsive wives are the ones responsible for the fact that men don't live as long as women do.

But then I got to the chapter on buying a house. McGinley describes the process of making the decision to move from an apartment in Manhattan to a home of their own in Westchester County, NY. Remember, the book was written in 1960, and I found myself assuming she was talking about buying a house in the mid-1950s, so it wasn't really all that surprising that her description should sound so familiar. I mean I think of the 1950s as the beginning of the "boom" years of suburban house-buying. She and her husband eventually settle on an old Victorian house, much too large she says for their little family of three (at the time) and in need of lots of repair, but so much more affordable than all the newer homes in pristine condition. That's all very understandable and familiar, isn't it? It's made even more so by passages such as this one.

No suburban landscape is complete in late April or May without its band of searchers, addresses in their hands, trudging from listing to listing...they are innocents, for I know the image each carries in the mind's eye. What they are looking for is The Perfect House...Death and taxes are no more certain for them than disillusion. (pp. (54-55)

You know them, don't you? Perhaps you will be one soon. If you own a home in the suburbs, you certainly have been one at least once in your life. If you are me, it's an experience that taught you that you are one of the most picky people on the planet. Things haven't changed all that much since 1955, have they? Read on with me to the end of the chapter, though. Here you will discover that Ms. McGinley and her husband have been living in this house for 25 years. Do the math. Let's say she was writing this chapter in 1958 or 1959 (highly likely for a book published in 1960). That means they were buying this suburban home in 1933 or 1934. Really? That oh-so-familiar suburbia and house-shopper existed way back then? That was before World War II. My mother was a baby then. My God, this could have been my grandparents buying a house. How could it still be such a similar experience today, especially when that "old Victorian" (given how long Queen Victoria lived) might have been merely a few decades old, instead of the ancient old crumbling thing I envision when I envision a "Victorian home in need of repair."

As if all this weren't surprising enough, then I got to the chapter on kitchens. McGinley is most amusing when she talks about cooking and kitchens. One phenomenon she mentions that I was not surprised to find had not changed (after all established Laws of Physics don't tend to change all that much over time) is what she refers to as the Unwatched Pot or McGinley's Law:

You are stirring a mixture which obstinately refuses to boil, even to break its placid surface with a bubble. The phone rings. And in the instant between lifting your hand from the spoon and picking up the earpiece [okay, that is a curious oddity of its time, one that spell check doesn't recognize], the stuff not only will begin furiously to bubble like a witch's cauldron, but will boil over, trailing its sticky spoor down the freshly cleaned stove onto the floor. (p. 139)

To read about something that I am sure has been going on since the invention of fire and the pot made perfect sense, the same way Romeo and Juliet's, overly-dramatic, impassioned, young love makes sense when I read about it, but her descriptions of kitchens and what she calls anticooks (not to be confused with noncooks, who are merely those poor souls who can't cook despite a desire to do so) nearly had me dropping the book with surprise. Here's how she describes the anticook:

Gastronomically, they are Philistines; worse than Philistines, Puritans, who feel there is something sinful in owning a palate or cultivating the holy art of cuisine. They are the people who, when planning a meal, ask themselves (as does a friend of mine), not "which vegetable is freshest and tastiest this time of year"" but only, "what shall I serve for a carbohydrate?" (p. 148)

Then she goes on to describe the anticook's kitchen:

She owned a kitchen, which architects call the "heart of the home." But it was a heart which throbbed faintly and emanated no warmth. It was a room not to live in but to get rapidly away from.

I had no quarrel with her wish to get away...The emancipation of women undoubtedly began when they could leave sink and kettle and move into what seemed to them a larger world. But then why this emphasis on show-window gadgets? Why the shelves of cookbooks unspotted by use? Decorations merely, like Victorian antimacassars. Her kitchen was one way of keeping up with whatever Joneses she might care to rival. And it is her influence on the national kitchen which I deprecate. (pp. 150-151)

Huh? There were women in the late 1950s "keeping up with the Joneses" via elaborately impractical and unusable kitchens just as there are today? And then more women, like me, who were furious with them for influencing all the impractical fads that make no sense, and that yet, every kitchen now has (huge coffee makers that take up half the counter in order to make one cup of coffee, while you practically have to go to an estate sale to find a good-old fashioned percolator that makes a far better cup of coffee, or that breakfast nook that only seats two so that if you have children or house guests, you must eat breakfast in the dining room or at some island that takes up 3/4 of the kitchen, has uncomfortable bar stools you need a ladder to reach, and that affords 2 inches of leg room)?

I will never forget when a former colleague of mine was re-doing her kitchen. I was so envious, because at the time, Bob and I were newly-married and house poor, having put all our savings into buying our home. I was dying to re-do our kitchen, which I now understand had been designed in 1959 by an anticook, and I was living vicariously through my colleague. I dreamed that she was doing to her kitchen what I hoped to do to my own one day: getting rid of that impractical wall oven that was quite obviously taking up what could be more storage space and that would let me extend the minuscule counter space. I wanted to knock out the pantry and bar and get rid of the breakfast nook to make a larger room where I could put a kitchen table in the middle of the floor that even people who were not the size and shape of stick insects could walk by to get from one end of the room to the other.

I didn't pay too much attention to my colleague's descriptions of granite counter tops (I just wanted counter tops and a back splash that were not 1950s pasty-speckled, diner-bar-lookalikes) and custom-made faucet (I just wanted a faucet that didn't break and leak all the time, one that had two handles, "hot" and "cold", instead of one swivel handle that was determined either to scald or freeze my hands, but never to get a decent temperature for washing dishes). She seemed to have endless fights with workmen (if I remember correctly, I think they put in the wrong granite counter tops or some such thing). As the project dragged on and on, she began to complain ad nauseam, and I began to get tired of the whole thing, beginning to think that if kitchen renovations were this troublesome, maybe I could make do a while longer with my anticook kitchen. Finally, one day, after hearing another long litany of all that had gone wrong, I said,

"But won't it all be worth it when you can cook all those fabulous meals?"

She turned to me and said, very disdainfully, "Oh, this isn't a kitchen for cooking."

If, at the time, I had read Sixpence in Her Shoe, maybe my jaw wouldn't have bruised itself on the ("hard wood, certainly not Pergo") floor: I had just encountered a perfect specimen of the anticook. Had Ms. McGinley been in the room, she would have looked at me and said,

"Get over it, dear. I've been dealing with this sort for years. Yes, they really do spend that much time and money on a kitchen where they will never, if they can help it, cook. Let's go to Trader Joes and get some things to make a delicious dinner. I'm thinking lemon...and butter...and rosemary..."

Questions About Books and Guilt

2009-11-19T17:52:00.004-05:00

The day that Dorr announced she was thinking about joining my attacking the TBR tome challenge (with some wise modifications), she set off quite an interesting conversation in her comments section, most especially from Zhiv, who seemed to think that my idea of not buying new books until I'd read what was in my challenge was pretty silly. Those comments got Dorr thinking and led to her asking some questions in a different blog post. Basically, she was thinking about the guilt behind buying books and not reading them soon after buying them, and she asked us: how many of you have had a similar experience and feel a similar guilt? How do you deal with it?

First of all, I have to say that, although I find myself feeling guilty about all kinds of things, I don't tend to feel at all guilty about buying books, even when I don't read them forever (if at all). I love books. I love being surrounded by books. I love living in a house where I can browse the shelves and think about all the good stuff I have to read. Really, it's almost as good as visiting a small public library and browsing the shelves. I'm an anticipatory sort. In other words, I sometimes think I love the anticipation of something good more than I love the actual thing. An anticipatory book lover has no problems with a house full of unread books.

Recently, I read this quote:

Those who aspire to the status of cultured individuals visit bookstores
with trepidation, overwhelmed by the immensity of all they have not read. They
buy something that they've been told is good, make an unsuccessful attempt to
read it, and when they have accumulated half a dozen unread books, feel so bad
that they are afraid to buy more.

In contrast, the truly cultured are capable of owning thousands of unread
books without losing their composure or desire for more. (Zaid, Gabriel, So Many Books, Philadelphia: Paul Dry Books, p. 12)

It's so snobby, isn't it? What a ridiculous generalization. And yet (because, let's face it, I am a consummate snob at heart), I found I was patting myself on the back (all those trips in which well-meaning people dragged me to less-than-stellar art exhibits, off-Broadway "experiments," screenings of unintelligible foreign films, and the opera having paid off) and thinking, "I must be one of the most truly cultured people on the planet." (Bob, too, of course.)

Visiting a bookstore with trepidation? Bookstores are my "warm, fuzzy" place. I don't worry about all I haven't read. I rejoice at all I have yet to discover. The only trepidation I might feel is if I'm stuck at a store that doesn't seem to have anything on the page of my TBR tome that I happen to be carrying in my purse at the time. That lasts all of three minutes, though, before I happily go off and find five books I've never heard of that all look extremely good and interesting.

When I created this challenge, it had more to do with guilt over never completing any challenges than it did over buying too many books, that, and (this may sound odd), but guilt over not reading the books that so many people have given/recommended to me. The minute someone lends me a book, I begin to feel guilty about it until I've read it, and I will start setting myself deadlines as to how long I should keep it before I give it back unread. I always, always return books to their rightful owners, but sometimes, I keep them for 2 years before doing so, and then I feel guilty about that. If someone enthusiastically recommends a book to me, sure I will love it, I feel obligated to read it. The TBR tome is full of books that friends and family members have told me I must read and that I never get around to reading.

Finally, we have run out of shelf space in our house, and that bothers me. I keep thinking (wrongly, I am sure), that if I start reading more books from our own collection, I will be in a better position to decide which ones really can be given away. I promise you, this is a ridiculous thought on my part, because I manage to think of reasons to keep almost every single book I read, the most common being, "So-and-so might visit, and I'm sure he/she would love to read this book while here, so I'd better keep it." (Forget the fact that so-and-so has just moved to Indonesia and hates airplanes.) Still, I am hopeful that I might decide I can depart with some books to make room on our shelves if I start reading more of them.

The fact that I decided part of this challenge would be not to buy any books until I'd read those on my list tells you a lot about me. You see: I want to read these books. I want to complete a challenge for a change. Therefore, I need an impetus to do so. It's all purely selfish. I did not think about writers and the publishing industry (shame on me, since I want to be a published writer, and I work in the publishing industry). I did think about libraries, but now that I've begun choosing books, it seems I will probably just be reading from my own shelves (shame on me again, since I used to work in a library, have a graduate degree in library science, and Pennsylvania libraries need all the support they can get these days).

It's sort of a combined punishment and reward system, I suppose. My punishment is that I can't buy books until I've read 20 from the TBR tome, so if it takes me all year to read them, I have to go a year without buying any books. On the other hand, if I finish them all by February, my "reward" will be to get to buy books (and there's no telling what I might do. I might go to The Strand and come home with two bags full of books).

So, there you have it. It's guilt, but it's guilt of a different sort. Very rarely do I buy a book and feel guilty for not having read it, which is a blissful thing for me to have figured out (thank you, Dorr, for getting me to think about it). That's a very good thing, because there are plenty of other things taking up the guilt section of my brain (right now, in the forefront, there are unwritten blog posts, unread posts written by blogging buddies, pen pal letters to write...the list could go on and on).

The Jorge Sosa Story (Part II)

2009-11-16T18:16:00.003-05:00

So, now, here we are in (the old) Yankee Stadium. Finally. It took us long enough to get here, didn't it?

This is a place Bob discovered when he was a wee lad (which is how this kid born in Dayton, OH of Cleveland Indian fans came to worship the Yankees). Bob's father, shortly after Bob was born, took a job as an attorney for General Electric, which meant many moves for the family throughout Bob's childhood. They spent four years in Queens, when he happened to be just the age at which most boys discover baseball: 3-7, I think it was, and (no matter that they eventually moved to Cleveland), his team was the Yankees and would be forever more.

Thus, now that we are at Yankee Stadium, you have to understand that we are accompanied by a little boy. He is very excited. He wants to get there hours before the game. He wants to walk around the park, maybe be there for batting practice (because, you know, we might catch a ball. We do happen to have a bag full of balls, somewhere, that have been caught over the years).

Today, the Yankees are playing Tampa Bay. We have arrived suitably early. We've had our ritual walk through Monument Park. I've bought my Cracker Jacks. Later, I will have my hot dog and beer. Bob has dragged me down with all the real little boys to watch the Tampa Bay players "warm up" for the game.

I am surrounded by cute, hopeful young men on both sides. They've got their gloves on. Some of them are waiting shyly, hoping for balls to come magically their way. Others are trying to draw attention to themselves, shouting out players' names. Soon, I begin to get bored. I have no glove. I have no interest in catching a ball. I (as always) have a book with me to read. I'm longing to go sit down and read until the game starts.

"I'm bored," I tell Bob. "I'm gonna go sit down."

"No. No. No," Bob tells me. "You can't go sit down. You might catch a ball."

Yeah. Right. Me. The one balls have always hits on the head/in the stomach/anywhere that might knock her flat. Bob is very persuasive, though. Somehow, he manages to convince me to stay.

Within minutes, Jorge Sosa, pitcher for Tampa Bay, looks up into the stands. All the little boys around me hold their gloves out hopefully as they notice he has a ball in his hand. I watch the boys and hope one of them manages to catch it.

Suddenly, Jorge points at us. No, wait a minute. He seems to be pointing at me. Whoa! I look to my right and gesture questioningly at the little boy standing right next to me. Is he pointing to this guy? Nope. Jorge shakes his head and, decidedly, points right at me. Double whoa! I gesture to myself, and he nods his head up and down. Uh-oh. He plans to throw the ball to me. Will it hit me in the face? Will I break a finger trying to catch it?

You know, there is a reason these guys are professional pitchers. He tosses it gently up to me through the crowds, and (for the first time in my life, I am pretty sure) I catch a baseball. In case you are wondering what pure bliss feels like, I can tell you (just take a look at that photo).

Shadow of the Shadow

2009-11-13T19:15:00.001-05:00

Paco Ignacio Taibo, II, translated by William I Neuman. The Shadow of the Shadow. El Paso, TX: Cinco Puntos Press, 1991.

(The book was originally published in Mexico in 1986. Don't you just love that publisher's name, "Cinco Puntos Press"?)

I am way behind these days. The CT mystery book club actually met to discuss this book last Saturday, but life has gotten in the way of reading as of late (at least reading anything that needs close attention), and I didn't get it read in time to write a post that would do it justice. Thus, here we are, nearly a week after everyone has already discussed it and probably has no interest in what I have to say. Oh well...

I have to admit that I approached this book with some trepidation. I'm not a big fan of historical mysteries, for some reason, and, being a typical American, I (despite being an editor of multicultural studies) know nothing about Mexico and its history. I feared references to all kinds of stuff I wouldn't understand and the need to spend hours on line trying to wade through material that would fill a semester-long course on Mexican history. I needn't have feared.

Yes, there were references to historic events that I didn't understand, and this book may have been better if I weren't so ignorant, but it didn't matter. Somehow, I just found the book so appealing (horrible violence and all. Someday, I'm going to have to figure out my relationship with violence. I think I don't like it, often find its details to be unnecessary, but I seem, sometimes, to have a high tolerance for it). First of all, all the main characters (a poet, a Chinese-Mexican union organizer, a journalist, and a lawyer), our "detectives," if you will, all get together to play dominoes on a regular basis. (Here's one of those little-known facts about me that I probably ought to save for the next Facebook meme I get tagged to do: I love to play dominoes. Not straight-up dominoes, but fun variations like the Mexican train game, chicken foot, and wildfire). Each of the chapter openers for this book had a picture of a domino bone or two with the dots that corresponded to the chapter numbers (a clever design element that immediately made me appreciate the publisher). How could I possibly not be drawn to a book whose first chapter is entitled "In Which the Characters Play Dominoes," with subsequent chapter titles such as "In Which the Characters Play Dominoes and Discover That the Trombonist and Lady Are Connected" and ""In Which the Characters Play Dominoes and Decide That the Archangel Gabriel is Calling on Them to Intervene." Not all the chapters involve playing dominoes, but I came to look forward to the ones that did.

I can't quite pinpoint why, but somehow, this book had a very G.K. Chesterton feel to it. Maybe it was the hint of surrealism. Maybe it was the way that events, which at first seemed random and completely unconnected, soon found themselves falling on top of each other (yes, just like setting off a row of dominoes), so that it became impossible for one thing not to affect another (or for each falling domino not to knock down another). With a lesser writer, this might not have worked, might have been all too obvious and seemed very contrived, but I felt it worked beautifully in Ignacio Taibo's hands, and I loved it for its cleverness.

Or maybe I thought of Chesterton (especially The Man Who Was Thursday) because so much wasn't what it seems to be. For instance, we have a poet (how romantic, right?) who is really someone who writes ad copy. We have a lawyer (how noble, huh?) who defends prostitutes, becoming involved with one. We have a Chinese-Mexican who can't pronounce his "r's," even though he has lived in Mexico all his life and doesn't speak Chinese.

It's all quite humorous, and that's what I didn't expect. I don't know why I keep forgetting that humor seems to be a strong component of this genre. Certainly, so many of the books we've read for this discussion group have made that clear, but still, I picked this one up, expecting it to be dead serious from beginning to end. It wasn't, at least, not completely. Yes, a good deal of it was very serious: murder and revolution and violence and all that, but it was handled with humorous reprieve. Some of that humor was quite subtle. I loved this line when I came across it,

"Jacinto Huitron was scheduled to speak following the overture (Wagner, oh well)." (p. 56)

That's my sentiment exactly (despite being married to a man who has been desperately trying to get me to like Wagner from the moment we met).

This was definitely not a book for a nineteenth-century Lady, though. Some of the humor was quite raunchy, and talk about "boys being boys." Not that that is a criticism coming from me. I happen to love boys, especially when they show that they know how to have fun and not take life too seriously and banter back and forth over endless games of dominoes (well, except when they forgot those are real guns and knives they have in their hands and that fighting can lead to death).

I had no problem getting into the whole "whodunit?" aspect of the book, either. That may sound like an odd thing to say, but believe it or not, I often find myself thinking "Oh, who really cares?" if a murder or mystery isn't portrayed in just the right way. This one was good. Things happened very matter-of-factly but in such a way that I wanted to know why, wanted to know what was really happening, especially as the friends got together and discussed the various events they had witnessed or had been a part of. And "matter-of-fact" is how I would describe Ignacio Taibo's writing style, as well. (Although the thought did cross my mind: how much is that his true style and how much is the translator's? It's difficult to know when you can't read the original). He's a very interesting writer, though, because he is very straightforward and then will suddenly surprise with some insightful, often poetic, detail, as he does here:

The widow stared at him, searching for some sign in the journalist's face.
But her violet eyes probed deeper, until she found the wound left there by
another woman, the wound with its vulnerable scar tissue. (p. 53)

Ultimately, though, the whodunit didn't matter so much. These characters had endeared themselves to me. I wanted to read just to see what was going to happen to them. I like it when an author seems to have a genuine fondness for his characters, when he's aware that we're all human, that we all have good and bad sides. It takes talent to get a reader to warm up to characters who are engaging in reprehensible acts. But I did. I just wanted to walk into that bar, pull up a chair, order a strong drink, and play dominoes with them all night.

And there you have it: yet another example of a book I didn't think I was going to like that I ended up liking very much. Will I read more Ignacio Taibo? Probably not, but I'm glad I read this one.

(Oh, and there is one good thing about being late to post on this: I can tell you what the next book is. We're going to be reading The Yellow Room by Mary Roberts Rinehart.)

The Jorge Sosa Story (Part One)

2009-11-06T06:25:00.001-05:00

All right, the Yankees just won the World Series. What better time, then, to tell my Jorge Sosa story? I know. I know. Nobody in his or her right mind would associate pitcher Jorge Sosa with the New York Yankees, but bear with me, okay? We'll get to that. Today, though, is Part One: The Backstory. Here you go:

Back when Bob and I lived close(r) to (and in) New York City, we used to try to get to a Yankees game at least once a year. It's still odd for me to hear myself tell people that. You see, I grew up in North Carolina. We had no professional baseball teams in the state. I was sort of a lukewarm Atlanta Braves fan, if anything. Truth be told, though, I just didn't care much for baseball.

Anyone who has ever lived in North Carolina knows that there is one sport and one sport only. The rest are merely games. But basketball? Well, the mega Southern Baptist churches know who their competition is. And we're not talking pro basketball here (at least, not since Jordan left the Bulls). Charlotte had some team called the Bumblebees or something, didn't it? (Now, before I get a million emails from 21st-century American literalists with no sense of humor -- an invasive breed that does not understand words like "facetious" or "sarcasm" -- I will take the sting out of the humor: yes I do know that they were the Charlotte Hornets. And I hope that some of you are with it enough to have caught an intentional pun.) No, we are talking college hoops. Before you even learn to say "mama" or "dada", if you happen to be a baby born in North Carolina, you know how to say, "Go 'heels!" or "Go Wake!" or "Go Wolfpack!" (My omission here, for those in the know, will tell you where my loyalties lie.)

Yes, I was a basketball fan. I was also a football fan. I can still remember my father teaching me the rudiments of the game -- all about first downs and touchdowns -- as we watched The Washington Redskins lose, yet again, on our black and white TV. My football knowledge was furthered when my brother got an electronic football game (BTW, don't let the British boys fool you when it comes to American football. Ian took that thing to England with us when we went to live there, and we barely managed to get our hands on it with all the boys in our village passing it around, mesmerized by it, trying to outscore each other, while telling us out of the other sides of their mouths what a wimpy sport American football is).

So, I was a basketball fan and a football fan. Then I moved to Connecticut (in the days before the Internet) where all I could find in the local papers, papers that didn't seem to care less about the ACC (until March, of course), were UConn scores. Getting information about the teams I loved was suddenly nearly impossible. Thus, much to my surprise, my interest in basketball began to wane. My interest in football, which I had never liked as much as basketball, even more so, now that I had no one who wanted to watch it with me.

And then I met Bob: a sports fanatic all around. He'll tell you he's not, but he is. You just have to be able to intuit, somehow, that just because he will sit in front of a TV watching football for 2-3 hours doesn't mean he's really into it. In fact, despite the fact there is no leisure-time activity you're not that into that you would waste 2-3 hours of your precious time on (unless, you know, it's six months into a new relationship that seems to be going somewhere, and your new love thinks nothing is more fun than spending a Saturday train spotting with you), you're supposed to believe him when he tells you he's not that into football (despite the fact he played the sport in high school and coached it when he was a teacher).

Actually, though, it's easy to believe he's not that into football if you've ever seen how he relates to baseball. Most specifically: Yankees baseball. You can tell it's different because he has to sit a certain way while watching it. You can tell because, unless the Yankees are ahead by 8 in the bottom of the ninth, you will never be able to engage him in idle chatter. You can tell because, if it's the 6th game of the World Series, and the Yankees suddenly go ahead by 3 runs, you'd think someone had come along and told him he'd won the $70,000,000 jackpot.

It's infectious. I've long since lost interest in basketball. I've come, pretty much, to dislike football (such a stupid, violent sport that brings out the worst in men when there's so much of the best in men that needs attention). But baseball? Bob has taught me all about what an incredibly cool sport it is (and it is. It's truly the thinking man's -- and woman's -- sport). And Yankees baseball? Well, I'm all over that (except I have a hard time watching it, because I am convinced I am bad luck for the team). No, nobody likes Steinbrenner, and I'm not somebody, so I fall into that camp. However, I do like the majority of the players on the team and have ever since Bob infected me. (My favorite was Paul O'Neill, who has long since retired.)

And so, Bob and I used to go to Yankees Stadium (the old one) at least once a year, which is where this story that is to be continued really begins, and where you will meet Jorge Sosa. I'll see you in Part 2 (sometime next week) at Yankee stadium.

Oh What the Hell? Another Challenge. Let's Call It The Attacking the TBR Tome Challenge

2009-11-04T05:45:00.001-05:00

I know. I know. I came up with three challenges earlier this year and almost immediately abandoned them, so can you really trust me when it comes to challenges? Probably not. However, a new year is on the horizon. I always become my most hopeful self when a new year is on the horizon. I'm the sort of person who if you're going to tell me I've got an incurable disease and only have six months to live, you should tell me in late November, with a new year right around the corner. I will respond with, "Ha! Incurable for most, but not for me Emily Barton, who can conquer anything come January. Just give me till January 1, and you'll see. I've got at least 50 more years in this old body." Tell me the same thing in March or May, and I'll be saying, "Six months, you say? You'd better start digging my grave now. I'm pretty sure it won't be more than two weeks."

2009 (and what disappointments it may or may not have) is already being swept under the carpet as I focus on how much better 2010 is going to be. And what's the first thing I want to attack in 2010? My TBR tome. I know, most of you only have a list, so this challenge is probably going to be a little easier for me than it is for you, given that I will have many, many more titles to choose from than you will. I also know that many of you refer to your TBR pile, an idea that just amazes me. To actually have nothing more than a mere pile (okay, some of you have piles but still) of books to read? I have a whole houseful of books to read, thanks to having married my husband, the former English teacher and pack rat (I hope those of you who have visited will attest to this fact). Not that I can blame it all on him. I didn't used to buy books at the alarming rate at which I buy them now, but I'm like a bulimic. The slightest excuse (broke a fingernail, it's raining/snowing/a brilliantly sunny day, I need a change of scenery...), and I'm off to the nearest bookstore to purchase at least five books, eyes too big for stomach, finding the need to purge (or at least set aside for months on end) after reading only two.

So, here is how this challenge works. It begins December 1, 2009 (because I always believe in challenges that give you more than one year to complete) and ends no later than December 31, 2010, but it really ends whenever you manage to complete it. Here are the rules:

1. Choose 20 books from your TBR list (or tome, if you are like me), and post them on December 1, 2009. If you'd like, you can tell us why you chose each book (I'm sure you can guess what I'd "like").

2. Read those 20 books.

3. Oh, did I mention? You are not allowed to buy any of them. If you don't already own them, you must beg, borrow, or steal them in order to read them.

4. Oh, I guess I forgot the other difficult part: you are not allowed to buy any new (or used. No, you can't get around it that way) books until you have read (or attempted to read at least 30+ pages) of all the books on your list.

5. There is one exception to the rules (because I am a fair kinda gal and belong to 2 book discussion groups): you may buy books you have to read for book discussion groups before you have read all 20 on your list, if you can't get them any other way (i.e. your library system doesn't have them and employs the Sloth Express to deliver all interlibrary loans). However, I highly recommend that you encourage your book discussion groups to read books from your list of 20.

6. And then that final thing: write a blog post about each book as you finish (or decide you can't finish) it.

That's it. Who's joining me?

(And now I'm off to flip through the pages of the TBR tome and start narrowing down my list.)

The Mysterious Madame of the Manse

2009-10-31T12:09:00.003-04:00

Well, I didn't get around to getting one of my ghost stories in good enough shape this year that I felt like sharing it with anyone (although, buoyed by reading a few ghost story collections, the best being the Dover edition of the Collected Stories of Oliver Onions, I've come up with about eight new ideas for stories, so maybe by next Halloween, I'll have something good to share with everyone. Meanwhile, if you love ghost stories, read Oliver Onions), but I do have a "real-life" ghost story to share today. Or, I should say, a "ghost story of sorts." Hope you enjoy it, and Happy Halloween.

The Mysterious Madame of the Manse

I have mentioned a couple of times since Bob and I moved into the manse that it is supposedly haunted. Of course, that means absolutely nothing. I'm convinced that if you happen to live in any house in America that is over 100 years old, you can guarantee people are going to tell you that it's haunted. This house most definitely is not haunted. We've lived here for two years, and it has never behaved like a haunted house.

You see, I've read enough (and even actually talked to people who've lived in purportedly haunted houses) to know that a truly haunted house repeats itself. Lights in the attic don't mysteriously turn themselves on once and then never do so again. No, the lights come on by themselves every night, or once a month, or on the anniversary of the night the poor maid hung herself from the rafters because the master of the house didn't love her. Doors that have been double-bolted and checked multiple times, do not come unlocked and leave themselves open once every fifty years. No, they do so with hair-raising frequency. Likewise rocking horses that rock all by themselves in lonely corners of the old nursery where the beloved 4-year-old child was murdered by a jealous older brother.

I'm not going to say that the previous residents of this house are lying when they claim it's haunted. Apparently, the wife and daughter both saw some figure, dressed in what looked like an old night shirt, ascend the stairs. They swear they were sober at the time. I've come to the conclusion that maybe, occasionally, a ghost will revisit some favorite or not-so-favorite spot from his or her life and accidentally allow one of us mortals to get a glimpse of an unfamiliar, gauzy figure, ascending stairs or reaching out for something or falling from a castle tower.

This thought conjures up for me a whole other parallel ghost world, in which ghost children sit around campfires telling "human stories." Here they recount the horror of being seen by a human child when they were creeping around the basement of their old house, looking to see if the old lucky horseshoe they buried in a hole in the wall 175 years ago is still there. (There goes my imagination, off digressing again. I’ve given it a snack-size packet of Skittles, so let’s hope it shuts up long enough for me to get through this tale.)

Since I don’t live in a haunted house, but I do live in one that has housed many different families over the past 100+ years, I have to console myself with the fact that perhaps a ghost will show up here one day and accidentally let me get a glimpse of it. I’ve explained in the past that I don’t want this to be some vengeful, headless or bloody sort of ghost, showing up with evil intent. After all, this is a manse. I’d like some kindly, wise, previous minister to show up and make me feel good. (I know, I know. Nineteenth-century ministers with their fire-and-brimstone attitudes were a very scary lot, but allow me to pretend.) If it can’t be a minister, perhaps it will be a minister’s wife, someone who looks at me with complete understanding, knowing how tough this job can sometimes be.

So, there I was about a week ago, sitting in my favorite over-stuffed chair in the library. I was reading Oliver Onions and was so engrossed that had a ghost floated by the doorway that leads out into the hall, or hovered in the pocket doorway that leads from the library into the living room, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. I did, however, notice an unfamiliar scent.

Even I couldn’t ignore this delicious-smelling perfume. But where was it coming from? I wasn’t wearing perfume. I hadn’t taken a bath. Bob had gone up to bed, and he is not the sort of man who douses himself with perfume before doing so. It had to be a ghost, didn’t it? It was my minister’s wife come to visit me, the old Madame of the Manse, perhaps here to impart some words of wisdom. Or maybe she'd come to calm me down for the upcoming, very stressful Advent and Christmas seasons, which are right around the corner. I looked up but saw nothing, no kindly woman dressed in 19th-century garb hovering near my chair or even sitting calmly on the living room couch. I didn’t hear anything, either. But I could still smell something that reminded me of the gardens we visited in Hawai’i.

I’m not one of those who tends to do too much investigative work when confronted with this sort of mystery. Half of me thinks it might be a ghost. The other half is worried that some human has managed to break into the house and is hiding out somewhere nearby (or that serial killer I mentioned in a blog post some time back is down in my basement with his latest victim, a prostitute who has a thing for strong perfume). Seeing no ghost, I decided the best place to be was upstairs with Bob, so I turned off the light and headed up.

The smell got stronger as I climbed the stairs and was quite overpowering by the time I reached the bedroom door, and then it finally dawned on me. Bob loves incense. He burns it almost every night before going to bed. Most of his incense has a very “incensy” sort of smell – undertones, even when it claims it’s “lilac” of musk or myrrh or sandalwood -- but this was some new incense he’d just got and it had none of that.

So, as usual, no ghost for me, but a funny story. (Bob thought it was quite funny.) Perhaps I need to start feeding my imagination some Skittles every evening before I settle down like that.

Halloween Meme II

2009-10-24T18:05:00.008-04:00

It's October, which means it must be time for some sort of spooky meme. Last year, I did the horror meme, but one of my all-time favorite memes was the Halloween meme someone else created the first year I had this blog. That was three years ago. I say it's about time for a sequel, no? So where is it? Why hasn't someone created it yet? I guess that means the old Queen o' Memes is just going to have to make it herself (on a very small budget, so hang onto your popcorn and expect Blair Witch sort of camera antics). Here we go.

Rules:

1. Answer the questions on your own blog.
2. Tag 13 others to answer the questions on their blogs and link to them.

1). Which urban legend ghost scared the bejeezus out of you when you were a kid?

Any of the many who showed up to get the girlfriend after the boyfriend's car ran out of gas somewhere out near Lover's Lane, and he, oh-so-gallantly, left her out there on that country road, all alone, while he hiked the ten miles and back to the gas station with his gas can.

2). Which horror movie has the best premise?

Is there anything better than Psycho? Crazy man? Mother's skeleton in the attic? Woman attacked while naked and vulnerable in the shower? A close second would be Nightmare on Elm Street: your nightmares become real; you keep thinking you're awake when you're not; and the only way to stop a killer is to stay awake.

3). What is the most disappointing "treat" to receive in your bag on Halloween night?

Apples or mints or non-candy items like packages of crackers.

4). What's the best non-candy item to receive?

I don't know if it was true, but my father used to tell a story of someone he knew whose cat had 8 kittens right before Halloween. Apparently, the first 8 trick-or-treaters at his house that Halloween received a kitten in their bags. I wished fervently, all throughout my childhood, that I would get so lucky as to have a kitten dropped into my trick-or-treat bag.

5). Did a monster live in your closet when you were a child?

Yes, and under the bed, too. If your legs or arms stuck out from under the covers, the monster in the closet would come out and eat them. If a leg or arm hung over the side of the bed, a monster would grab it, pull you under the bed, and eat you. (Aren't older siblings who inform you of such things just grand?)

6). Which supernatural creature sent chills up your spine when you were ten and still does?

I hate to be so trendy, but vampires. In fact, I hate the fact that they've become so trendy. They're mine. I was loving Dracula when I was in third grade, people. That was long before many of you were born. I had to go to friends' houses to see him, because my parents wouldn't allow him in our house (a true Victorian romance).

7). Which supernatural creature makes you yawn?

Werewolves. Ho hum. You're human. Every so often you turn into a wolf? So what? Look at Dracula. He can do that wolf bit and that bat thing. And he's sexy. (Okay, if you are American and in London, I'll give you sexy, but still. You can't hold a candle to Dracula.)

8). What's your favorite Halloween decoration?

I like those little "ghosties" that people hang from their trees. I also like fake spider webs with spiders in them. Real spider webs would be better, but it's hard to get the spiders to cooperate.

9). If you could be anywhere on Halloween night, where would you be?

Transylvania. In a castle.

10). What's the scariest book you've read so far this year?

John Connolly's The Killing Kind. He certainly has a knack for creating some really scary bad guys.

11). Haunted houses or haunted hayrides?

Oh, haunted houses. Especially if the locked doors won't open and something is brushing the back of your neck.

12). Which Stephen King novel/movie would you least like to find yourself trapped in?

Christine. I don't like cars much to begin with, but a haunted one? And that radio was just so creepy, wasn't it?

13). Which are creepiest: evil dolls, evil pets, or evil children?

Evil dolls. Creepiest of all are evil children with evil dolls (oooo, that just might have to be turned into some sort of story).

I'm tagging the following thirteen (quick. Answer the questions, or the monster will come out of the closet and eat you):

Courtney

Ms. Musings

Zoe's Mom

Sara

Stefanie

Hobs

Nigel

Susan

Danny

Charlotte

Cam

Bloglily

Ms. Misfit Salon

Cringing Away the Pounds

2009-10-22T20:30:00.007-04:00

So, now that every other woman on the planet has discovered Wii fit, I'm finally walking away the pounds with Leslie Sansone. My mother and sisters liked this video workout, and my nieces gave me the DVD for Christmas a couple of years ago, but I Jane Fonda-ed and Richard Simmons-ed myself out a number of years ago and have been somewhat wary of exercise videos ever since. (Note: this does not mean I haven't bought things I've found on sale at -- where else? -- super bookstores with the best of intent. Belly-dancing-that's-impossible-without-a-real-instructor, anyone? Yoga-that's-likewise, oh, and requires you to keep your eyes on a video while closing them in your various poses? Not to mention hosts who are extraordinarily annoying?)

All right, that last sentence should not be parenthetical. The problem with every single exercise video I've ever watched is annoying hosts (even Jane Fonda, whom I enjoy as an actor, was an extremely annoying exercise video host). Those that may not be so annoying in the beginning manage to become so after multiple viewings. That joke that really wasn't funny the first time, becomes (upon the 20th retelling of it), one that makes me want to hurl dumb bells at the TV screen, as it predictably pops up at exactly the same moment, in exactly the same voice, that chipper voice that is encouraging me to keep it up for a mere 1002 more agonizing repetitions, as it did last time. (At least when your Uncle Fred tells the same joke over and over again, the context changes, and his expression probably does, too.)

Walk Away the Pounds, so far, is tolerable. It will be something I can do if Lancaster County presents me with real winter weather this year, and I can't get out to walk and jog. I'm familiarizing myself with it. Maybe I will soon be at a point at which I can mute it (take that, you annoying jokes) and just do the moves while listening to my own music on our CD player, and I won't get sick of it.

Then again, maybe not. Is anyone else out there familiar with exercise videos? Could you please verify for me whether or not it's my imagination or if the "class members" are just recycled androids who've been used over and over since the 1980s (with updated hair and clothes, of course). First of all, there is the woman who looks like a female Adonis. We're supposed to believe that doing this little 45-minute workout with 1-lb weights has given her those biceps and that stomach. When questioned by our Happy Host, she earnestly tells us (while nodding her head in time to the music) how wonderful all these repetitions are for building muscle.

Speaking of earnest, there's Ms. Earnest. She nods knowingly and oh-so-seriously at everything Happy Host has to say while squatting and kicking and r-e-a-c-hing. She might volunteer the information that she can really feel her thighs burning. What she won't do is disagree with anything anyone says. Occasionally, she remembers this is supposed to be fun and shines us her pearly whites (amazing how they all have exactly the same pearly-white, perfectly straight smile, isn't it?).

Then there is Token Mother. She just gave birth two days ago, and look at her, keeping it up, keeping those muscles so firm. Can you believe she just gave birth? Let's give it up for her. And now we can all discuss our children and talk about how important it is to keep fit, so we can keep up with them (in fact, so important is it to keep fit that maybe we should ignore our kids in order to do so).

Perhaps Token Mother is working out beside Token Everywoman. Token Everywoman is the only one in the video who doesn't look like she's anorexic (well, besides Ms. Female Adonis, who looks like she's on steroids). In other words, she looks like you and me. She's got normal-sized thighs. Her stomach is roomy enough that you wouldn't think she was pregnant were she to swallow a blueberry. She's a bit shorter than the others (perhaps jokes are cracked about her height). She's the one chosen to demonstrate modified versions of all the moves (you know, less taxing moves, because we normal women probably can't handle this vigorous workout). There's one way she differs from you and me, though. She's not cynical, nor is she sarcastic. She is chipper -- her head flaunting a bright headband or bandana or some such thing -- as she, taking a cue from Ms. Earnest and nodding her head, assures us that these modified versions of the exercises will still burn calories. (We other Everywomen might cynically question that claim, but then we might get a chipper little smack, so we keep quiet.)

I musn't forget Token Male. He's there, you know, somewhere, most likely in the back. Don't worry. He isn't an Adonis. He doesn't distract you as you step to the side for the 500th time, while wondering when that 1-mile marker, or 20-minute or whatever it happens to be, is going to flash across the bottom of the screen. No, he's there to put up happily with all the female cracks, maybe to make fun of his buddies who are sitting on couches working on their beer belllies while he works on his muscles. Perhaps he's in the back so he can keep an eye on Ms. Female Adonis's tight little butt.

Still, with this particular video, I'm managing to put up with all these people. I mean, live classes have annoying people in them, too, people I've wished had never seen me sweat. At least these people smiling and nodding at me can't see me when I lose my balance and go crashing into the couch. The exercises, for the most part, aren't too horrendous, and I can ignore the bits of the video that make me cringe, as they never last too long. I can probably keep doing it. I've been doing it twice a week for three weeks and have yet to give up on it.

Buoyed by the fact that I'm sort of sticking to this one, I decide to check out some of the other exercise videos I have in my buy-and-never-watch collection. Besides the aforementioned belly dancing and yoga, there's "Denise Austin's Shrink Your Female Fat Zones." I slip it into the DVD player and press "play."

Okay, you very well might disagree with me if you happen to know me (or happen to have been paying attention while reading this post), but I tend to think that I'm at least somewhat mellow when it comes to other people, accepting them as they are; that I have extremely high rates of tolerance and forgiveness; that my annoyance rate is somewere close to zero. Oh. My. God. Am I ever wrong about myself if this little exercise video is any indication. Quick. Someone create The Golden Annoying Awards and let me be a judge. Denise Austin would win hands down. Trust me. Anyone who could last through this entire video -- all that "target your tough spots" and "shrinking that fat for a beautiful body" in her breathy voice while she insists you engage in movements I'm positive our bodies were never made to attempt (at least, not over and over again like that), acting as though she is doing nothing more taxing than breathing -- deserves to win the Golden Mellow Award. I didn't last ten minutes.

Lesson learned? Not all exercise videos (despite employing the same androids) are created equal. The best a person can do is to find one that's not too obnoxious to help get her through the winter months. Someone, please tell me: will things improve if I ever take the time machine to the 21st-century and discover Wii fit?

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

2009-10-19T22:52:00.003-04:00

I love to listen to music while I cook. The two go so very nicely together, the way a delicious aged wine goes with a delicious aged cheese. Recently, I was busy cooking up a chicken and mushroom stir fry and decided Fred Astaire would go nicely with that -- some very light dance steps (in my imagination. I would never pretend to be able to mimic Astaire's light feet) to go with a nice light meal.

I know there are those who think Astaire couldn't sing (they've told me so, while surmising that I'm too enamored of him to be any sort of judge), but who are they kidding? They must not have ever paid attention to the way he is able to add such meaning to the words he sings (and they must never have seen the movie Daddy Long Legs). If you want a perfect example of that, just listen to the way he sings "A Fine Romance," one of my all-time favorites no matter who's singing it, but listen to him, with that wonderfully edgy and perfect mix between sarcasm and longing. I love it -- enough to press the "replay" button over, and over, and over again.

I'm giving you the lyrics, but really, you must hear him sing it. He'll make you long for the days, despite the fact that Cole Porter had come along and insisted "Anything Goes," when women were a little more mysterious and a little harder to get and gentlemen were a little more frustrated and a little more persistent (okay, maybe he won't. But he certainly makes me, the hopelessly incurable, old-fashioned romantic, do so). We will ignore the fact that those were also the days that when, once the man got the woman, she was, more likely than not, doomed to being tied to never-ending housework that bored her out of her mind and a bundle of kids with never-ending needs and an inability to communicate with her husband (not sure what the man was tied to in those days, except maybe 3-martini lunches, golf on the weekends, and extraordinarily unhappy wives who might have -- surprise, surprise -- taken it out on them. Gentlemen, care to enlighten me, if I'm wrong?)

Of course, Astaire doesn't get credit for the brilliant lyrics written by Dorothy Fields (yes, I had to look that up on Wikipedia. I had no idea who wrote this song). Her lines are priceless. I especially love the ones about the Ile de France and the seals in the Arctic Ocean who at least flap their fins. Still, he gets credit for brilliantly interpreting their meaning.

A Fine Romance
by Fred Astaire

A fine romance with no kisses
A fine romance, my friend this is
We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes
But you're as cold as yesterday's mashed
potatoes.

A fine romance, you won't nestle
A fine romance, you won't wrestle
You're just as hard to land as the Ile de France
I haven't got a chance, this is a fine romance.

A fine romance, my good woman
My strong, aged-in-the-wood woman
You're calmer than the seals in the Arctic Ocean
At least they flap their fins to express emotion.

A fine romance with no clinches
A fine romance with no pinches
You never give the orchids I send a glance
No, you like cactus plants, this is a fine
romance
Oh boy, what a romance

(Long-Winded) Coda to my Black Angel Post

2009-10-16T19:55:00.003-04:00

Okay, so I thought I didn't like The Black Angel by Cornell Woolrich, and in case you missed it, I told everyone exactly why here. And I didn't. However, it's one of those books that proves the theory that there is a fine line between love and hate (that line being made up of the letters p-a-s-s-i-o-n, all in a row, saluting their sergeant). No, I didn't like it at all. However, unlike something about which I might have said, "Oh, I don't know. I kind of thought it was okay. Well, no, maybe I didn't like it too much..." this one has stuck with me, and I've been thinking about it a lot. Dammit! I wish I'd been at the live discussion and had been able to talk about it with others.

The closest thing I came to that was Ms. Musing's comments on my post and Dorr's post on it. And then there was the email from one of those friends of mine who does not comment on my blog but will email a response to me when I write about familiar books and authors. That email read as follows:

Too bad you didn't like the Woolrich. I've read a smattering of his books, and no one does anxiety like him. Of course, he knew nothing about women. Look up his bio: he lived a reclusive life with his mother in a hotel room, for God's sake. It's all in the style, sugar: you think Chandler's plots make any sense? The best way to read him is with a bottle of scotch and a headcold.

So, a million thoughts ran through my brain after reading this email, not the least of which was, "Maybe I ought to look up a little something about the author and the book before writing my posts." But no. I've told everyone before why I don't do that. I want to write about books the same way I want to read them: knowing absolutely nothing. When I decide to read a book, I try not to read too many reviews, and I will not read anything that warns that it contains spoilers. In fact, I get very annoyed if anyone (book reviewer, blogger, well-meaning friend...) tells me too much about a book I have decided to read. Call me independent, but I want to draw my own conclusions. When I write and talk about a book, I want what I write to be pure, simple, gut reaction. I do not want it to be influenced by knowing too much about the author or how the book was received by the public or by critics. I was not an English major. Literary analysis is not my thing. I just happen to be someone who loves to read and who responds to books on a visceral level.

Then again, I also happen to be someone whose parents ought to have named her Insecurity (a very pretty name, no?). That means I can easily be found splashing around in waves of doubt, wondering if my instincts and gut reactions are way off base. I mean, if Woolrich is someone who obviously knew nothing about women, then it stands to reason that he was not trying to write a real character here. He must have, as Ms. Musings mused, been digging at something much deeper. I gave this book far too superficial a reading. I should not have been expecting this character to be the least bit believable. That was not her purpose. Her purpose was to give us far bigger truths than I'd given her credit for understanding.

But then, naturally, the piece of me who is always off partying with movie stars and other well-known figures and never has much time to stop back in at home to remind the others hanging out in my brain that she is a member of the family, and who resents the fact that her bedroom is now a huge walk-in closet, in other words, Ms. Secure as Fort Knox, decides to come home. She takes one look at the thoughts strewn all over my brain and decides they need to be kicked around some. Suddenly, some new thoughts begin to emerge. One of these is the oh-so-obvious,

"If Woolrich knew nothing about women, then why on earth did he decide to make a woman the main protagonist of his tale and proceed to tell the whole thing from her point of view?"

I mean, good question, right? I am a writer. No matter what sort of point I am trying to make, there is no way on earth I would decide that I need to make it using the voice of a gay, sixteen-year-old Brazilian boy. I mean, I know absolutely nothing about being a gay, sixteen-year-old Brazilian boy. How could I possibly write such a work? My ego would have to be far larger than it is for me to do decide to do that.

I stick to my guns, then. I don't mind an absurd plot if it's being carried out by real characters, characters that not only do things that make sense, but characters with whom I could have a conversation without wondering if they are some sort of visitors from another planet pretending to be Earthlings. I do not, however, want an absurd plot that becomes insanely absurd because the characters are not the least bit believable. Dorr was correct to point out that I was probably wrong to state that women aren't likely to stand by their men in such a way. It's true; some do (I read Wally Lamb's edited collection of stories written by women in prison only to discover that almost all of them were in prison because they happened to be accomplices to crimes that were actually committed by lovers), so it's believable that Alberta seemed to be willing to do anything for her husband. It's believable that a woman might break the law in order to prove her husband's innocence. However, it is not believable that a woman would meet a very creepy doctor; decide to come back to his place at night, all alone with no protection (especially since she already suspected he could be a murderer before she met him); and follow him into his unlit house. Maybe young women on other planets do such things, but certainly not women living in New York City (in any era). Like the idiot girls in Michael and Jason Take Freddy's Nightmare, who hear an odd noise and decide to go down to the basement to see what it is, instead of leaving the house as fast as their beautiful long legs can carry them, she lost all credibility at that point. That means I lost my interest (which is okay when watching a slasher movie, because there will always be some scene to jolt the interest back -- like those unbelievable girls being stabbed to death by an unbelievable masked mad man everyone was sure was dead, while the one character who will survive has been smart enough to get out of the house and is busy trying to start the car with the engine that seems to have died -- but is not okay when reading a book).

If Woolrich wanted to encourage me to explore some deeper issues, he should have done so by giving me characters who made sense. That means, since he doesn't seem to have known anything about women, he should have given me a man who was trying to prove his wife's innocence. Now, that might have been both an interesting philosophical exploration and a believable book. And if he weren't trying to do that, if all he was trying to do was give me a fun, thrilling yarn, well, then, he failed miserably. However, I do still think that the story, if in the hands of the right writers, directors, and producers (a creepy doctor who follows her instead of her coming to his place, anyone?) could have been improved tremendously and made into a great movie. If I ever get around to watching the movie, I'll let you know.

Your Honest Opinion Greatly Appreciated

2009-10-10T19:50:00.000-04:00

Okay, I am in one of those funks in which I am not happy with anything I write. This does not keep me from writing, but I write, and then I reread what I've written, and I find my thoughts are those that, were they numbers on a number line, would all occupy ticks on the left-hand side of zero. The worst go something like this,

"No real person would ever act that way. Who is going to believe this?"

"Did a third-grader with A.D.D. write that?"

"You meant that to be funny? It isn't. Not in the least."

"Good thing you don't communicate often with the blind. Given your pathetic ability to describe a scene, you'd never be able to help them picture anything."

In the old days, I would have begun burning or tearing up pages. These days, I've decided, I don't have the luxury of doing that if I plan to write a series of books in my lifetime. What I think I need to do is to stop listening to me, because I am the least objective person I know when it comes to my writing. So, I am going to put the burden on you (nice of me, I know). I've suddenly realized that this is the wonderful thing about living in the age of blogs. I can share stuff with a varied group of readers and get opinions before I'm even done with a first draft.

Below is the Prologue to my novel. I'd like to know what you think. Am I right to be stuck on the left-hand side of the number line, or do I need to make a move to the other side of zero, ignore all my insecurities, and just get the thing done? If you picked up this book at your local library, would you continue reading? Please be honest. There is nothing you can say that I have not already thought, and I am looking for real feedback, not a pat on the back and encouragement to keep writing crap, if that's what it is.

"Welcome to Laurel Ridge"

In the summertime, when the oppressiveness of day after day of swamplike heat and humidity gets to be too much for all the New York and New Jersey transplants, they decide to leave Richmond to spend the weekend in the mountains. They've heard that Laurel Ridge is such a quaint little town, with its ancient church steeples, old colonial homes, and Virginia's oldest college. They'll leave work early, pile the kids and dog into the S.U.V., crank the air conditioning as they leave town, thinking soon enough they won't be needing it. They imagine instead that they'll be needing the windbreakers and blue jeans they've packed, that maybe in the evenings they'll light campfires in the pit outside their cabin, like the one depicted burning so brightly in the pictures on the web site.

Too bad when they were reserving their cabin online they didn't bother to head over to the weather site. They would have realized that Virginia is not California. One doesn't escape the heat by heading to the mountains. They will arrive at their destination to discover an even more oppressive heat and humidity (although, yes, about five degrees cooler than Richmond), if only because they so haven't expected it. They'll ask the "natives" at the general store as they're busy buying up the stock of tank tops, circa 1987, emblazoned with, "London...Paris...Laurel Ridge, VA," if this is normal weather for July. Without missing a beat, the natives will tell them that, well, it's been a number of years since it last snowed in July (216 to be exact).

They'll spend the next few days either on the beach at Lake William or inside, the window units blasting cold air at full throttle. The screened-in front porch where they'd planned to sit around playing cards will be all-but-neglected, as will the sweatshirts packed for such activities and the ingredients for S'Mores, because lighting a match, much less a campfire, would be like arriving in hell and requesting to curl up by the fireplace with a blanket. No one wants to drive the fifteen miles into the center of town to walk the hot sidewalks and tour Old Morgan Manor or the oldest, still operational, four-room jailhouse in Virginia. Nor do they want to head five miles south of town center to tour Morris and Dunne College.

July gives way to August and September, and along with the return of the over packed vans carrying tearful mothers and fearful freshmen, come the Floridians. They've packed fleece-lined coats, walking sticks, and binoculars to get them through a week of hiking trails and leaf-peeking. They're surprised to find that their coats never make it out of the cabin closets and that they are more likely to come down off the trails with sunburned arms and faces than with frostbitten toes. They do sit out on the screened-in porches in the evening, playing cards.

"I just don't get it," Evelyn says to Betty. "I thought the leaves were supposed to be so pretty here."

"I know. Last year, when we were in Vermont at this time, they were spec-tac-u-lar," Betty concurs.

"I'm giving that trip planner a piece of my mind when we get back," Betty's husband Don says.

"You should hear Don when he gets going. Last time he gave that trip planner a piece of his mind, we got a free one-night's stay in Orlando. I took little Rich and Jamie. Of course, that was before The Divorce. Now we never get to see little Rich and Jamie."

"Well, at least there is a reason. Both kids still married, but do I ever get to see any of my grandchildren? Never. And Jennifer only lives two hours away. You'd think she could make time for her old mom and dad."

Two weeks after Betty and Evelyn have boarded their flight home, the leaves don their fall colors: deep reds, sometimes with a hint of purple; bright yellows; and fiery oranges. The new students who've never witnessed the area's display race around with their cameras, excitedly emailing pictures to their families to show them how beautiful the quad is in the fall. While they're at it, those who thought they were going to school in the South and wouldn't need such things ask that their fleece-lined coats be sent. They had no idea it would be so cold and damp when they were our carousing around at 1:00 a.m.

The old-timers talk of ice skating up and down the creek in Decembers and Januaries of yore. Mr. Dixon, who likes to sit on the park bench in front of the Bank of America downtown (but who calls it the "LRSB" -- Laurel Ridge Savings Bank, a name it hasn't seen above its doors since 1976) will tell you about the blizzard of '51 when he and his wife got stuck down here at the bank, and he would've walked the six miles home, but he wasn't about to make his new bride do that, what with all the wind and whirling snow. Mr. Radcliffe, the bank manager at the time, took pity on the young couple and invited them to stay with his family for the night. Well, they were snowed in for three days with the Radcliffes, and Mrs. Radcliffe had the strangest way of preparing her eggs you ever saw (not that they would have complained, the Radcliffes being so generous. Not like young couples today who are all on fancy diets and won't eat anything put in front of them). And young Tommy Radcliffe was addicted to that new television set they'd been the first in Laurel Ridge to own. But, you know, Tommy was the life-saver in the blizzard of '63, the way he went around town diggin' out cars. People don't do that sort of stuff these days, you know. Back then, people cared about each other, and they knew their neighbors. These days, we're all strangers in this town.

These days, not only are there a lot of strangers in town, but no one in his or her right mind would let a child strap on ice skates to skate anywhere other than the rink next to the mall. Although occasionally, Mother Nature still comes along and dumps a ten-inch snowfall, the last blizzard to hit Laurel Ridge was in 1979. Even the college closed when that one hit. Still, this isn't Key West, which is what those from Illinois and Michigan are expecting when they descend on the town at Christmas to visit their parents who just retired here. They sit around gas-powered fireplaces in brand new condos at the retirement community, closing the blinds to the ice-covered bushes and sidewalks.

"I just don't get it," Jason says. "This place was so beautiful and warm when we came through last February. That's why you guys decided to retire here."

Ahh, yes, February! The "cruelest month" comes early to these parts, usually right after Valentine's Day. Temperature will soar near seventy for a few days. After months of bone-chilling damp and cold, everyone begins to dream of spring. They take off their sweaters, remove flannel sheets from the beds, and open their storm windows. By mid-March, a wet, heavy, five-inch snowfall has immobilized the town. The snow has come just in time to greet visitors from the Southwest who've made the trip east to see the cherry blossoms in our nation's Capital and to drive up and down the Blue Ridge Parkway. They are bitterly disappointed that the Parkway is closed in places and that there are not daffodils in sight.

The long-time residents of Laurel Ridge, however, know not to take her tricks too seriously. They know that, although -- like any true Virginian -- flattered by the attention, she's just not extraordinarily fond of the tourists and the transplants. She loves her native sons and daughters, though. She knows they are all patient enough to wait until she decides it's time to give them fairytale-white dogwoods blooming on warm spring days; peaches that only her children know are the best and not to praise too highly, because then people will flock here to get them instead of Georgia, leaving fewer for them; pippins whose sweet and sour crunch are the taste of fall; and the occasional white Christmas that settles on the magnificent evergreens, turning the mountains into white-topped old men, and giving them a story to tell for years about that time it snowed and Daddy skidded the car into the garage.

The young people these days, of course, can't wait to get out and get away from her. They're going to D.C. or N.Y. or San Francisco and never looking back. They go off to Ivy League schools up north, spend a summer backpacking in Guatemala or Costa Rica, and settle down in The Big City. But then they come back. They take over their fathers' businesses. They open microbreweries or bakeries. They take teaching positions at their Alma maters. And they moan to anyone who will listen to them about those "damn students from up North who come here to go to school and then never leave."

So what does Laurel Ridge do? She welcomes them back with open arms. She helps them renovate the houses their grandfathers and great-grandfathers built. She smiles down on them, pats them on the head, and then sits back in her rocker to watch history repeat itself.

The Honest Scrap Award

2009-10-09T19:00:00.003-04:00

Courtney honored me with this award. It's another one that requires me to tell you ten things about myself you may not know. This blog has been on-going for 3+ years. Is there really anything, at this point, you don't know about me (I mean, that I'm willing to share with others)? Oh, I suppose there is. Let's give it a shot. Here are the rules:

1. “The Honest Scrap” award must be shared.
2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass along the award to 10 more bloggers.
4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.
5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

I'm having trouble with #2, as I always do. Things no one else knows? That means things that involve no one but me and that I've never told a soul, right? That's pretty impossible. Thus, I'm sticking with the standard, "Things that my 15 or so blog visitors per day may not yet know about me."

1. Courtney told me I could steal this one, so I am: I miss my old friends (all of them. Facebook isn't the same as getting together, is it?). I especially miss that gang in CT each month when they get together for the mystery book discussion group. I also miss friends from my old company. I miss Bob's and my friends from his seminary days. And I miss the friends I hung out with when I first moved to CT, and I miss my college friends. However, want to know something else? If I were to move away from here tomorrow, I'd miss the friends I've got now. I'm just like that, which is why, when asked in Facebook memes, "Missing someone?" my answer, inevitably, is "Always."

2. I don't think of myself as being stubborn, but I guess I am. The other day, one of my series editors made the mistake of saying to me, when I suggested an author for a particular book in our series, "Lots of luck getting her. I tried. She's always working on 'her own stuff.'" The minute I heard that, the thought bubble above my head read, "We'll see about that. I'm sure I can get her," which has been, I realize, my reaction every. single. time. someone has said to me "lotsa luck" when it comes to securing an author I want. Fifteen years in the profession, and I can only think of five authors I did not manage to get when told I couldn't (one of them died after expressing sincere interest and sending me a proposal, so he doesn't really count, does

he?)

3. I am a Mac person. I hate PCs. I will be expanding on this point in a blog post soon (stay tuned!) now that I am forced, yet again, to use a PC for work.

4. I will always and forever be amazed by the way others view me as compared to how I view myself. I often marvel at how I've managed to "fool" people (apparently, consistently and for years at a time). Who the hell is this person that others describe as energetic, hard-working, organized, charming, enthusiastic, intimidating, and smart? It can't possibly be this up-tight, shy, lazy, tongue-tied, belligerent, insecure, and frantic idiot I happen to know.

5. Speaking of idiots, I am my family's idiot. Really. I sit around with them, when they're all talking, and I might as well have drool dribbling down onto my chin. I keep quiet and hope they don't notice that, half the time, I have no idea what they're all going on about. (Of course, now they're all going to read this and start testing me or something.)

6. If I could have one truly amazing talent, it would be to be an excellent figure skater. I have loved figure skating all my life. Unfortunately, instead of being a Michelle-Kwan-sort, I'm the sort who puts on a pair of ice skates, decides to skate as fast as she can, falls and breaks her wrist, and has to have surgery, along with months of physical therapy.

7. Everyone knows I hate to talk on the phone, but, for some reason, I keep accepting jobs that require me to talk on the phone A LOT! And yet, for some mysterious reason, I really like these jobs, and I absolutely love meeting authors for the first time by phone. I tend to end up wanting to meet each and every one in person after that first phone conversation.

8. I am having a very hard time trying to come up with 3 more things.

9. Oh, here's something: I think Mariano Rivera is one of the most beautiful men on the planet. Those eyelashes! And those eyes! And the way he holds that gorgeous mouth of his. Oh, and then there is the beauty of the way he pitches a baseball (secondary stuff, of course). And if you think Bob doesn't know this, you are dead wrong. (One of the things that makes that "no one knows" stipulation so difficult is that it would be impossible to come up with ten things Bob doesn't know.)

10. And that one reminded me of another baseball thing (I guess it's playoff season or something): Jorge Sosa (when he was playing for the Tampa Bay Blue Devils) once threw a baseball to me (note: I did not say, "...threw a baseball." I said, "...threw a baseball to me." There is a difference), and I actually caught it. I've been meaning for ages to write a blog post about this (I've even got a picture to go with the blog post, somewhere, I think). Anyone want to hear the full story?

11. And wouldn't you know it? Now I've thought of an 11th (and it's really good). I once edited a book written by a guy in prison. I never spoke to him, just to his lawyer, his mother, and the two co-authors on his book. I had no idea why he was in prison and never asked. He kept trying to get my home phone number, telling me he could only call collect from prison, and our company would not accept collect calls, but I wasn't about to give a guy in prison my home phone number. Eventually, he was released from prison. Now able to make direct calls, he called me to thank me for what I'd done for him, and I never heard from him again. About a year or so later, he killed the woman he was living with (a librarian, no less), raped her 14-year-old daughter, and was a "Wanted Man," on the run, for about 48 hours or so before the police caught up with him. Need I say I was terrified until they caught him?

Well, I made it to ten + 1, but it wasn't easy. Can you? If so, let's hear them. (I'm not going to bother with that whole tagging ten people thing -- I mean, linking and notifying? That's just way too much work -- but you are to know that if I read your blog, I'm giving you this award and dying for you to take it and run with it.)

Sorry!

2009-10-06T22:22:00.006-04:00

I truly intended to write a Monday Music post yesterday. I want to add a coda to my post on The Black Angel. I've got a post about endnotes that's dying to have eyes other than mine on it. I've done quite a bit of thinking about faith issues lately and have at least 1 1/2 posts niggling at me. Courtney tagged me for the Honest Scrap meme, and well, I'm sure everyone wants to know 10 more things about me not already exposed on this blog.

However, my life has been put on hold. Damn Hobs, who handed me Tana French's In the Woods when we were in Sherman's Bookstore back in August and said, "Here, buy this, now." I did (well, not then and there, but I went back and bought it). I've started reading it. Every spare moment I have from now on will be dedicated to this book until I am done. Sorry. Blog posts will just have to wait. Meanwhile, Hobs is busy writing noir over on his blog. Go get hooked on him while you wait for me to come back.

The Black Angel by Cornell Woolrich

2009-10-02T21:30:00.005-04:00

Woolrich, Cornell. The Black Angel. New York: Pegasus Books. 2008.
(The book was originally published in 1948)

Warning: spoilers. (However, I am hoping no one will be all that inclined to read this one because, well, you know, "So many books, so little time." Why waste that time on such fare? That means spoilers shouldn't matter too much.)

May I start by saying I wanted to like this one, which was this month's choice for the Connecticut mystery book discussion group? I like noir. This one was described as "classic noir." Woolrich wrote The Rear Window, a book I've never read but a movie I love. Okay, permission granted or not, I guess I did start by saying that. Now I will tell you what my reaction was: meh. And if this one hadn't had a plot that kept me going, it would have been "double meh." Mind you, I'm not talking here about the sort of plot that acts as a magnetic field, that has me falling hopelessly into a book before I know what has happened to me, one in which I become one of the characters and -- heart pounding -- wonder how the hell we're going to get out of this one alive. No, I'm talking here about the kind of plot that keeps me reading because I am so amazed by everything this completely unrealistic woman is doing and can't wait to find out what absurd thing she is going to do next.

Alberta Murray has three months (that seem more like three years to me, what with all her affairs and career changes and all) to find a killer. She is a young woman so green that

I reached blindly all along the upper-case cupboards until I'd located and toppled down that bottle of ceremonial gin of his. I didn't know very much -- yet -- about the procedure of using it. That was his province, not mine. He was very good at fixing it with things like mint and lemon, but I didn't want cordiality now; I wanted courage. I let out a little into the jigger glass and gulped it down. I thought some plaster had fallen off the ceiling and hit me on the chest for a minute. (p. 7)

We're not talking Nancy Drew here. We're talking Heidi. Yet, if I tell you that by the end of the book, she has done such things as gone to a strange, repulsive doctor's house by herself, at night, when she knew he was going to be alone; has helped distribute illegal substances (or, at least distributed legal substances illegally. It's not quite clear); has been a dancer in a sleazy nightclub; and has been given a rock of an engagement ring, although already married, would you believe me? I don't blame you. I don't believe me, and I read the book.

Normally, I'm the sort who thinks any empathetic person -- male or female -- can write any character. Thus when asked, "Can a man write a believable female character?" my answer is usually "yes." (All right, a qualified "yes" -- you know me too well -- but still.) Anyway, just because some men can write believable female characters does not mean all can. Judging by this book, Woolrich was one of those who could not.

I know. I know. There are those of you out there who are going to say to me, "This is a mystery. This is noir. Why are you expecting realism?" But that's my point. A good mystery has me believing the completely unbelievable. I'm not distracted by the fact that a character is completely inconsistent and unpredictable. A well-written book will have me believing that humans can fly or that anyone who wants to can happen upon a specific tree trunk that is the doorway to another world.

In fairness to the book, I have to admit that it did grab me in the beginning. I fell into it for the first eighty pages or so. But then I kept reading, and as I kept reading, I began to doubt everything I read, so that I found myself wondering how I could ever have believed the main premise of the story. I mean, call me a 21st-century woman, but really. If I'd discovered my husband was cheating on me, had spent a day realizing he was all packed and ready to run off with the other woman, and then the cops showed up at my door with him, accusing him of murder (and why did they do that? Why did they bring him home before taking him to the station? They could easily have come alone to search for his packed suitcase), I'd be saying,

"Lock him up and throw away the key," and be thanking my lucky stars, because he'd be somewhere I couldn't get to him, the lying, cheating bastard, to wind up on death row myself.

But no. She's overwhelmed by joy to see him. He sobs to her, once he's been sentenced to death, that he made a mistake. He didn't mean it. He wasn't going to go through with it.

All right, he's been neglecting her forever, and now he's reformed. She's completely convinced -- he's "come back to her." And instead of "lock him up and throw away the key," it's "I love you so much, honey, I'll do anything to prove your innocence," including, you know, illegally delivering drugs (and didn't she oh-so-conveniently not only not get murdered when that went wrong, but also so easily got the charges against her dropped?) and dancing in nightclubs. Oh, and did I mention, seducing another man and courting him for weeks (despite only having three months before her husband would be strapped to the electric chair)?

Only a man who doesn't know women would write such a character. He's a man who assumes that all any woman would want would be to have her man back, no matter what kind of bastard he was. His fantasy female would forgive a man anything, put her life on the line for him. I hate to burst Woolrich's bubble, but I (a real life female) would be out lifting martini glasses with my girlfriends (by the way, knowing exactly how to mix a martini should I invite my friends back to my place afterwards) saying, "Screw the asshole and everyone like him."

Thus, I was nothing but annoyed with Alberta. I was annoyed with the book. I began to get incredibly annoyed with Woolrich's writing style. When I came across this passage,

"Yes mum, what'll ye be liking?" the depressing-looking figure at my elbow asked with a brogue you could cut with a knife. (p. 197)

I found myself thinking, "You did not need to add that bit about the brogue. Either use the dialect or tell us about it. Both is over-kill." I was so annoyed, I didn't even really care how it ended (and no surprises there. I kept hoping that maybe the husband would prove to be the killer after all, which would have made it at least a little more interesting, but no).

I will say one positive thing (well, besides the fact that the book grabbed me in the beginning). This book was made into a movie that is apparently considered a noir classic. Everyone knows I am movie ignorant, so I haven't seen it. However, I bet the movie works. I can imagine the dark scenes. I can imagine an Alberta who is not portrayed as being so innocent in the beginning. I can imagine the sexy scenes. I can even imagine the terror. I'm convinced it's one of those rare, rare phenomena: a book that made a better movie than the book. I need to see the movie. I'm pretty sure I'd love it. As for the book? Well, in the language of library review media: not recommended. (Uh-oh, I am afraid I've been influenced by Woolrich's overkill.)

Disappointment

2009-10-01T22:43:00.002-04:00

All right, so this is a really bizarre thing to make someone like me feel disappointment. I am not a clothes shopper. I am not someone who has a clue about fashion. According to what people tell me, I missed my calling as an academic when it comes to style. However, I hate to tell you this, but I have always secretly loved fall fashions and the fall issues of fashion and women's magazines.

When I was a teenager, it was that fabulous, extra-thick August issue of Seventeen that had me salivating. Remember all those plaids and wools (this was the early 1980s, for you poor souls who don't)? Preppy-dom, as well as trying to look as British as possible, was "in." I was so much more sophisticated than my clueless peers, because I'd just come back from living in England. I "introduced" what we Americans call "knickers," which would have had my English classmates in stitches had I told them, "I wore my knickers and a Fair Isle sweater to school today."

I was also into Glamour, which pulled out all the stops for fall. I was always thinking about how to combine what was in Seventeen with a few ideas from Glamour, so that I could, well, you know, pull off a truly glamorous look. Not exactly easy to do when working with a babysitter's budget. Still, I was judicious and didn't mind putting things on lay-away at stores at the mall in July so that I could be wearing them come October. (After all, in North Carolina, one could never really wear fall clothing much before then.)

I subscribed to both Seventeen and Glamor from about ages fourteen on. In the fall, however, I would make the big purchase of Vogue as well (absolutely, completely beyond any imaginable budget I might have as far as the fashions depicted, but I still had an imagination and this horrible little disastrous thing that has gotten me into trouble all my life known as "hope"). I would spend hours poring over the models in their exquisite fall outfits, wondering if I could ever look like that.

Okay, let's forget all the damage such magazines do to the teenage girl out there, most of whom think they need to look like those models and wear those clothes that nobody in the real world can afford. Let's think about comfort and nostalgia instead. Let's all pretend we are 45-year-old women wandering around in Border's, looking for a little comfort after a hard day. Let's pretend we haven't looked at any of those magazines in years. Let's browse through some sale displays and find nothing that grabs us; let's look for some authors who are not on the shelves; let's be annoyed with ourselves for forgetting that book so-and-so told us we must read. Let's suddenly remember it's late August, and the fall fashion magazines must all be on the stands. Let's wander over to the magazine section that we typically ignore.

Let's not. You know that beautiful, thick, enticing issue of Seventeen you remember oh-so-fondly? It no longer exists. Ditto Glamour. Vogue is still somewhat promising, but when you begin to flip through it, you find yourself wondering if you have accidentally picked up the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. Elle, another favorite from your twenty-something years, seems to have shrunk to the size of a comic book. What's happened? Disillusioned, you decide, "Oh well, at least there's O," only to discover that you can't find it anywhere. Frantically looking for some sort of comfort, you decide to buy "as a nice surprise for your husband" an issue of Rolling Stone, only to be reminded that it is now the size and shape of a glossy-covered People. You end up leaving the store empty-handed. "Disappointment" does not even come close to describing how you feel.

Tell me: I'm getting so old to feel so disappointed, right? Then again, e-magazines can't come quickly enough for the likes of me.

The Horribly Mean Editor

2009-09-29T18:15:00.004-04:00

I want to be a nice person. I really do. I think of myself as being kind, generous, and empathetic. That's the way I hope people will one day (years in the future) describe me at my funeral. However, less than one month at the new job, and I am already realizing I am not.

I had forgotten until this month that I am a horribly, horribly mean editor. Seriously. You do not want to send a proposal with high hopes to any company where I work and have it land in my in-basket. Nor do you want to be inside my head when I am reading through such unsolicited material. Want some proof? Here's a dip into some of the thoughts I've had while reading some the the proposals my predecessor was wise enough not to tackle before leaving the company.

"Your 'modest opinion' seems a little light on the modesty and quite heavy on the ego."

"Four pages of acknowledgments? Really? If you want me to be awake enough to get to the heart of your manuscript, you just might, you know, want to leave those out for now."

"I'm no expert, and this is definitely a new subject area for me, but, trust me, sometimes there's a very good reason that 'There is nothing else like this out on the market.'"

"If you begin your email with a sentence like this one, "I am sending to you a book proposal that I and two other..." chances are, unless you happen to be a bestselling Trade author, no editor in the business (we being somewhat picky when it comes to grammar) is going to get much past that."

"Please, please, please don't waste my time if you are someone who likes to blather on for 3 pages without getting to some sort of point -- without even hinting at some sort of point. This is not an exercise in free association. This is not a journal entry. It's not a blog post. You are proposing a book that you would like a reputable publisher to publish. Act like it."

"I wonder if this guy is schizophrenic or something."

There. See? The problem is, though, that no matter how bad the proposals are, I still feel horrible telling our editorial assistant to reject them (because, you know, if I were to do it, some of those thoughts might end up somewhere other than my head or this blog post). Does that make up at all for all my mean-spirited thoughts?

Quinn Cummings's Notes from the Underwire

2009-09-26T10:39:00.006-04:00

(First of all, sorry, everyone, but I've had to add word verification for those of you who wish to comment due to an annoying "commenter" who keeps sending stuff that is written in Chinese -- or one of those languages that uses characters I don't recognize -- to every "Monday Music" post of mine.)

When we met up with Hobs and Dorr last month for hiking in Acadia National Park, we afterwards decided to have dinner in Bar Harbor. Dinner at Lompoc's (a nod to Hobs's California roots, although, according to our waiter, the restaurant was not named after that) included drinks from the cocktail list -- the sort of concoctions my father, in his younger days, would have referred to as "drinks for women and children." We 21st-century, food-network-trained drinkers like to think of them as "chances to expand our palate," which they most certainly did (the side effects of that being an expanded tongue that is not easy to hold). I can't even begin to tell you what was in mine. Nor do I know exactly what (I'm guessing at least vodka and blueberries?) was in the blueberry martini we stopped at a bar to have after that drink we had with dinner.

What I do know is that we should not, then (or at least I should not then) have been allowed to roam free in Sherman's Bookstore. Roam free, however, we did, commenting loudly on signs that blew down and hit us, as well as books. I'm glad we did, though. You see, this is when I discovered, as Hobs read dramatically to us from absurd cover copy and endorsements, that I am not alone when it comes to mocking cover copy and endorsements. (In fact, Hobs has me beat. Go have a fancy cocktail and a blueberry martini with him and see what I mean.)

His reading was so apropos. At the time, I was nearly finished reading Quinn Cummings's (of QC Report fame) Notes from the Underwire, and I had been so disgusted by two of the three cover endorsements. (The third, Bob Tarte, caught my eye. I must look him up. I mean, how can I not be interested in what someone who wrote a book called Enslaved by Ducks has to say?)

It's not as though the cover endorsements had any effect on me. I've been reading Quinn's blog faithfully for over two years. As soon as the book was released, I ordered it from Powell's, having no idea who'd endorsed it. I would have done so regardless of who had. But then I got my copy and began to look at it. I read the cover endorsement from Jen Lancaster, "Charming, hilarious, and just snarky enough to be ultimately satisfying."

"Jen Lancaster?" I thought. Who's she to be judging the likes of Quinn Cummings? She probably read it, seething the whole time that Quinn can write intelligent, bespectacled, subtly- wry circles around her. I finished the book and felt Quinn ought to be outraged to have this author endorsing her work, even if she does happen to be a bestseller. Really, it's like having Jackie Collins endorse Dorothy Parker or something.

Then there's the quote from USA Today on the back cover: "Erma Bombeck with an edge." I'm sorry. You could show me a portrait of Erma Bombeck painted by Picasso, all edges -- well, and a few points -- and no way in hell would I think, "Ahhh...sort of like Quinn Cummings."

Don't get me wrong. I love Erma Bombeck for what she was. But nothing Quinn writes encourages such thoughts as, "Oh, yes, green grass on that side of the septic tank." Quinn is not the typical 1960s suburban housewife trying to make something funny out of that dismal life. Quinn is leading her own, fascinating, 21st-century-female life and giving us an achingly honest and screamingly funny description of it, while letting us know how human she is and having no qualms when it comes to self deprecation or admitting that this life is often very sad.

Just like her blog, it's laugh-out-loud funny. It's annoy-your-husband-because-you're-laughing-so-hard-and he's-not-a-part-of-this-uproariously-good-time-you're-having funny. Did I mention laugh until the tears stream down your cheeks? I didn't? Shame on me!

Go on. What are you waiting for? I've been raving about Quinn ever since I discovered her blog. She's ten times funnier than I am. If you're reading me, you really ought to be reading her. Get her book. Now.

Bob and Emily Talk VI

2009-09-22T19:06:00.002-04:00

Since tomorrow Bob and I will be celebrating our 14th wedding anniversary, I thought it was appropriate to post one of these today.

Emily: If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh and make fun of me?

Bob (already looking like he might begin laughing): Well...I'll try.

Emily (risking it anyway, because she so wants a vodka gimlet tonight): You see, I'm kind of afraid of the basement at night, especially that room, and I'd like to have some vodka (we store alcohol in this room down in the basement that's really quite creepy). Would you mind going down and getting it?

Bob (for some reason, he doesn't even snicker): Sure, but you're the one who is all enamored of Spooky Days (what we call the month of October in this house), and yet, you're afraid of the basement?

Emily: Yes, all the ghosts and vampire bats and cool things hang out in the attic (where she has a little area she uses as a writing nook when it is neither too hot nor too cold). Creepy, scary, human things hang out in the basement. Oh yeah, and zombies (in case you didn't know, zombies live in garages, too).

Bob goes down to the basement and comes up with the vodka.

Bob: There was a huge spider down there. It nearly killed me. (Ahhh! Now we know why he didn't snicker.)

Emily: No there wasn't. The spiders are hanging out in the attic, too. It's the creepy serial killer in the basement. He was watching you through some hole in a board the whole time you were down there.

Bob: Oh-oh-oh, the creepy serial killer.

Emily doesn't reply. She's checking to make sure the basement door is securely locked.

It's true. Basements are horrible places where serial killers set up shop or "camp out," waiting to strike families they've been stalking. Basements are where incestuous fathers build special rooms and keep their children imprisoned. They're where people hide victims' bodies. Give me the attic rafters and a few rattling chains over that any day...

BBAW Meme

2009-09-18T23:32:00.005-04:00

One of you lovely readers of mine nominated my blog in the funniest/most amusing category for Book Bloggers Appreciation Week. Thank you, whoever you are (you can 'fess up, if you'd like, but I understand if you're shy). I was humbled on two accounts: 1. I'm not really a book blogger. I just pretend to be one and 2. I'm not nearly as funny as many of the real book bloggers out there whose blogs I know and love.

I didn't even know there was such a thing as BBAW, but what a cool thing to have (even if none of my most cherished book blogs made the short lists this year). Anyway, I visited the site and discovered that during this week (which is about to end), there were topics given everyday on which to post. I've been too busy getting back into the groove of working to be able to do something like post on other people's topics for a week, but I did (surprise! surprise!) like the meme that was supposed to be Tuesday's post (I think). Since then, I've seen two of my favorite book bloggers who should have made the short list pick up on it, Litlove and Stef, and so, I'm picking it up from them.

Do you snack while you read? If so, favorite reading snack? "A book without food is like a day without sunshine," I always say. Not that I really mind days without sunshine (just as I don't at all mind reading a book with no food to pair with it. But if I had to do that for days and days on end, well...), you see. In fact I love a nice, rainy day, which is almost always good for curling up with tea and toast and a book. But, really, I don't have a favorite reading snack. The food I eat, like the books I read, depends on my mood.

Do you tend to mark your books as you read, or does the idea of writing in books horrify you? If they belong to me, and they are nonfiction, I will mark them. I find myself doing quite a bit of arguing in the margins, when I'm not resorting to the boring old, "So true!" I don't mark up fiction much, unless I know I'm going to be writing a blog post about it or attending a book discussion meeting.

How do you keep your place while reading a book? Bookmark? Dog-ears? Laying the book flat open? Bookmarks, and I have lots and lots and lots of them, and still appreciate every single new one I get.

Fiction, Non-fiction, or both? Both, but many of you have heard me say that I don't believe anything I read except fiction.

Hard copy or audiobooks? I listen to a few audiobooks every year, but I much prefer to read myself.

Are you a person who tends to read to the end of chapters, or are you able to put down a book at any point? I stop wherever, knowing I can never plan when a phone might ring, cat might start meowing pitifully, stomach might start growling, husband might desperately need me to find a blue sock, etc. Also, I am someone who takes a book with me everywhere I go. If I'm waiting in line at the grocery store, I can't exactly say to the person behind me, "Just let me get to the end of this chapter, please, and then I'll check out."

If you come across an unfamiliar word, do you stop and look it up right away? (Well, I used to worry I was pretty anal retentive and had at least a couple of toes over the OCD line until I read this lovely question, which has convinced me that I most certainly must not.) Never, which is probably why I only vaguely know what half the words I use mean.

What are you currently reading? I'm down to these four right now: The Portable Dorothy Parker, The Morville Hours by Katherine Swift, Ill Wind by Nevada Barr, and The Village by Marghanita Laski (which means there is something terribly wrong, and I am due to pick up at least three more very soon).

What was the last book you bought? This is pathetic! I honestly can't remember. Let me think a minute and get back to you...

Are you the type of person that only reads one book at a time or can you read more than one at a time? Ummm, I think I answered that question two questions ago.

Do you have a favorite time of day and/or place to read? Every hour of every minute of every day, if I could, and in any comfortable spot, but beds are almost always nice places to read.

Do you prefer series books or stand alone books? Stand alones. Series are problematic for those of us who have only just discovered that we don't have those couple of toes over the OCD line, because, you know, you might think you have to start with the first one and then read all of them (in order), and it may be an old series, and some of them may be out of print and hard to get...(You know how it is, but those of us with all our body parts firmly on this side of the OCD line need not worry about such things, so perhaps we'll soon discover that we LOVE series.)

Is there a specific book or author that you find yourself recommending over and over? Unfortunately, I thrust Jack Finney's Time and Again on anyone who even whispers "New York City" to me. And, well, you know, then there's what some might call my obsession with David Sedaris.

How do you organize your books? (By genre, title, author’s last name, etc). I fantasize about organizing all the fiction by author's last name and all the rest by subject and title. But everyone knows that fantasy is not reality, so you will never be able to find what you're looking for on my shelves unless you ask me (for some odd reason, I usually have a vague idea of where things are, despite the fact that Charles Darwin seems to be having tea with Maureen Dowd and Jack London).

Ms. Barton and the Vicious Short Story

2009-09-16T19:21:00.004-04:00

I am not, by nature (with the exception of ghost and horror stories, of course), a short story reader. Occasionally, I will come across something in The New Yorker that grabs my attention, but on the whole, I shy away from the genre. I chalk this up to two things:

1. High school. Some of you have heard me say that high school nearly made a non-reader out of this voracious reader and ruined lots of great literature for me by introducing it to me at an age at which I could neither understand nor appreciate it. What did we read most in high school? Short stories. And I did not have the sorts of teachers who seemed to care about making them relevant or bringing them to life for me. (God knows how I made those As in English. Must have been my ability to BS or something.)

2. A short attention span. I know that makes no sense, but hear me out here. In order to hold my attention, I need something that invites me in and asks me to stay awhile, that entices me with interesting little details and tidbits, that lets me get to know it. Most short stories are kicking me out the door by the time I decide that, why yes, I would like another cup of tea and slice of cake, and please, tell me what happened after she left you at the train station.

Things seem to have changed this year, though. First, I read The Twilight of the Gods, got to the end of it, and found myself craving more, very disappointed that it was the only published collection of stories by Richard Garnett. Then, I decided to read Richard Yates's Collected Stories (maybe it's not short stories. Maybe it's authors named "Richard" I like), each and every one of which invited me in for tea and cake. As I drew near to its end, I went browsing our bookshelves looking for more short stories (not hard to find since I'm married to a former high school English teacher. I'm sure, if I'd had him, I would have wound up loving short stories. However, I would not be married to him, because he does not believe in teachers marrying students, even former students. So I sacrificed loving the short story in order to marry the man I love).

I pulled from those shelves Viking's The Portable Dorothy Parker. I've always enjoyed Dorothy Parker (being a fan of light verse. To hell with the critics -- critics never like anything that's truly fun, do they? After all, she was a critic, so they're criticizing one of their own, and she could write circles around most calling themselves critics today), but I hadn't read too many of her short stories. I bought this book at a library sale a few years ago after watching the movie Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle, and there it sat ever since, unread, until now (I highly recommend it. The poems and stories are great, but the most fun are her reviews. I'm in the midst of the section on plays from Vanity Fair and am laughing out loud at almost every one, a nice antidote for the depression caused by both her stories and Richard Yates's -- although her stories will make you laugh. His won't).

You can tell I'm reading Dorothy Parker (a Queen of Digression), because it's taken me this long to get to the point of this post, which is to post my thoughts on a movie, the aforementioned Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle. Long before I knew what a blog was (maybe even before blogs existed. I'd have to check that), I started keeping book journals where I jotted down my thoughts and feelings about every book I read. One of these days, I plan to start posting some of those "from the vault" essays, but today, since I am in the midst of reading Dorothy Parker, I thought it would be fun to post from my companion journal, the one I keep for movies and plays (which I have to admit, is not as well kept as the book journals. I often go long periods forgetting -- or being too lazy to bother -- to write about movies and plays, but I never forget a book). So, here you go:

(Note: you don't know HOW badly I wanted to edit this piece. So much of it needs to be reworded, but I've left it in its original form, word-for-word for you.)

Date: April 21, 2007
Movie: Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle

Bob DVRed this one some time ago, thinking I might like it. Like it, I certainly did, but it was an extraordinarily disturbing movie. Poor Dorothy Parker comes off as an extremely unstable, distraught, and unhappy woman -- self-destructive in all the classic ways.

It's funny, because when Bob and I first started watching it, our comments to each other ran along these lines, "Man, wouldn't it have been so cool to have been part of the Algonquin Round Table?" "Can you imagine sitting around with all those people?" By the end of the movie, my thoughts were more like, "Thank God I've never been a part of something like that."

I'd like to know how true-to-life the movie actually was (as always, I'm led to wanting to read more: more by Dorothy Parker and more about her). I always find it so sad to discover that what I thought were a bunch of brilliant minds were really just a bunch of superficial egoists, drowning their depression in oceans of alcohol.

Of course, I never get away from accepting the fact that most brilliant minds are combined with an ultra-sensitivity that makes living in this world extremely difficult. These people often have to self medicate in order to survive. I've long since gotten away from wondering what they would have been like without the alcohol or the cocaine addiction, because I'm not so sure they could have produced what they did without their addictions.

What I found saddest about Dorothy Parker as portrayed in this movie was the fact that she was just such a typical woman trying so hard not to be a woman. Everyone else could see she was making mistakes in her relationships with men. Everyone else could see, despite her wry wit and less than flattering observations about love that she was dying to be madly in love with someone who was madly in love with her. Men were her downfall, and they were all both fascinated and somewhat repelled by her.

The movie was beautifully filmed. I loved the dark scenes of her little apartment life, the overcrowded Algonquin with all its dark wood, and the "Great-Gatsby-ish" garden party scene. I think the 1920s as portrayed in film are one of my favorite eras. I like the clothes both the men and women wore, the way everyone holds glasses with unidentified alcoholic beverages in them, and the way the men light cigarettes for women (oh, if only all that glamorous smoking with those long cigarette holders hadn't gone on to kill everyone, huh?). It must be really fun to get to dress up in that garb.

So, yet another bleak movie that's piqued my interest in picking up some bleak books. Let's see whether or not I do.

(The answer is "yes," 2 1/2 years later.)

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

2009-09-14T06:15:00.001-04:00

I can't believe that it's been nearly five months since I found out that my friend Danny's twin boys had been born very prematurely. Until then I had been eagerly awaiting the announcement of their birth sometime around Aug. 10th (their original due date), so excited for Danny, because I knew this was something he'd been wanting for some time. Here it was April. Suddenly, what had been a great joy had become dismally bleak. Dear little Oliver did not live even for 24 hours, dying in his parents' arms (as Danny told us), but his brother Charlie has been hanging in there ever since, and those of us who know and love Danny have been hanging in there with Danny and his wife and "big sister" Leah through multiple surgeries and months and months of life at Cedars-Sinai Neonatal Intensive Care Unit out in California. He's made it, though, and I cannot describe how I feel every time I read the words "my son" written by Danny.

Sometime back, I decided that when Charlie finally came home, in tribute to him, I would post my favorite Wilco song on the Monday that followed, since Charlie is Jeff Tweedy's nephew. Charlie came home this past weekend. Making that decision to post a song by "Uncle Jeff" was easy. Deciding which was my favorite Wilco song was much harder. I love Wilco. Finally, I settled on the one I've chosen below, because I'm hoping that "someday soon," I will get to meet Charlie. I love this song for all kinds of other reasons, though. It's one of those songs that hit me the first time I ever heard it, with its wonderful guitar work and very optimistic sound.

Meanwhile, I don't want to forget Charlie's brother Oliver, so I am also posting a song for Oliver. This is a song that helped get me through the death of another friend of mine's 8-month-old baby (who would be thirteen now, had he lived). I still cry every single time I listen to it, but it's a beautiful song by Eddie From Ohio, on their CD "Actually Not." You know, as absolutely horrible as it is for those of us on earth who know and love them to lose children, I know that heaven (despite the fact I have no idea what it is) would not be a place I'd ever want to go if there were no children there. Now, when I listen to this song, I think of both Baby Jeremy and Baby Oliver helping to make heaven a place I'd like to be.

To Charlie (Welcome home!):

Someday Soon

by Wilco

Wind will blow and the sun will shine

On that hill where we used to climb

I look in your eyes

And you'll be mine

Someday soon.

I won't even make a scene

That will be just like a dream

Cash will flow down by the old mainstream

Someday soon, someday soon.

You don't know me but I know you

(You don't know me)

You have no idea what I do

(What I do)

Make you mine and see you swoon

Someday soon, someday soon.

Sun's gonna shine, wind's gonna blow

On that hill where we used to go

I look in your eyes and down I roll

Someday soon,

Someday, someday soon.

To Oliver (please forgive the Christian reference to St. Peter. One thing I do know about heaven is that there are no such religious distinctions):

In Paradise

by Eddie from Ohio

i woke up this morning went to pick up the mail a routine that I always do

probably find bills and catalogues, full of junk i'd never use

as i reached in the box, i felt a sensation

i didn't know what it could be

then i pulled out a card and looked at the postmark it said p.o. cloud 23

and i thanked the heavens for sending this letter to me

dear mommy and daddy, i asked god if he'd let me write a letter to you

he said he felt bad about all of the sad things he was permitted to do

so he took me to peter and he asked him to help me

cuz i was too young to write words

so i climbed on his lap and i leaned over to hear him

and this is what st. peter heard

don't worry, don't you cry, don't waste the energy wondering why

the reasons are clear, safer here in paradise

each morning i wake up and the sun it shines brightly

and me and the other kids play

we eat lots of pretzels and watch lots of barney and sing-along songs all the day

and at night before bedtime i go visit grandpa who reads me a story or two

then i gather my blanket and lay off to slumber and dream about daddy and you

don't worry, don't you cry, don't waste your energy wondering why

the reasons are clear, safer here in paradise

i've got to get going st. peter is calling he's gotten a job for me

he says katy you make sure the stars are all lined up

and twinkling as bright as can be

so take comfort together that i'm doing fine

just lay your tears down to rest

my spirit is there and i'll always be with you

remembering two years the best

don't worry, don't you cry, don't waste the energy wondering why

the reasons are clear, safer hear in paradise

Work: What's Old and What's New

2009-09-11T21:12:00.002-04:00

So, I've had my first (abbreviated) week at work, which means I am now an expert and can start writing blog posts about it. Thought I'd start with the things that don't ever seem to change and then talk about the new and different stuff. Here you go:

What's Old

1. Computers and printers hate each other, would much rather not talk to each other ever, and take it out on me (I guess because I'm always trying to get them to get along). This means that I could work for any company in the world and still have days like today, in which, instead of getting any real work done, I spend six hours trying to hook up a printer/fax machine that still isn't working properly, and I am doomed always to have to resort to "work-around" solutions.

2. The people who work in IT at every company are absolute saints. This week, I met St. Skip (who is already sick of me and how ditzy and inept I am, I'm sure). St. Skip had the presence of mind to tell me that it's good to be a Luddite. We spent so much time on the phone chatting today (yes, I was chatting on the phone. See how desperate I was?) while waiting for things to load and unload that I feel like we've known each other for years (it helps that he's from Philly, although living in California now, and actually knows this area).

3. People who can't string two coherent sentences together will always think they have a great idea for a book and want someone to publish it. Most likely, they will approach a completely inappropriate publishing company (say, an academic publishing company when they've got a memoir all about the time they were abducted by aliens who took them on a roller coaster ride to their galaxy).

4. I will always think there are enough hours in the day to accomplish the twelve things I have on my to-do list, will always forget that I might have to spend 3 hours chatting with St. Skip or the author who was abducted by aliens, and will always get to the end of the day despairing that only three things have been crossed off the to-do list. (Even when I have promised, promised, promised myself that with this job things are going to be different.)

5. Every day, some email will appear in my box that might as well have been written in Chinese for all that I can understand it. Usually, it has something to do with systems and is chock-full of acronyms.

What's New:

1. A company that is truly set up for telecommuting. What? You've sent me a phone? And that phone plugs into my wireless router? And now people call me on a number with a California area code, and I never see the bill, and I never have to remember to submit said bill for reimbursement in a timely fashion to avoid having accounting people screaming for my head on a platter? How cool is that???

2. I am promptly addressing all emails, keeping them sorted and organized, immediately deleting what can be deleted, and will never again have five billion email messages hanging around with nowhere to go and no time to organize them (although I might get a wee bit behind on days that I spend urging computers and printers to get along with each other).

3. A user-friendly, intuitive, company computer system. Really. I'm supposed to get some training on it, and I suppose I will, but I've already been playing around with it and have figured out quite a lot, because it's well-designed and makes sense.

4. Already knowing so many people on my first day of the job (lots of colleagues from the company I worked prior to my last job now work for this company). It was so nice to log into my email on that first day and to have so many people welcoming me back and telling me they'd missed me.

5. Feeling like I can't wait to get to work every morning, and that what? This is a weekend? And I have to wait till Monday to contact people and pursue all these thousands of ideas I have? (Okay, this feeling won't last, I am sure, but right now, I am loving the job and am full of ideas of things I want to do.)

Important "Meme"

2009-09-08T16:45:00.003-04:00

This is so important to pass on that I'm tagging everyone who reads my blog to please post it on yours and encourage your readers to do the same (especially those of you who have a huge readership, which I don't), and if you can relate a personal anecdote that highlights how horrible the current system is (one that touched/is touching you or someone you love), all the better. Let's stop all those idiot naysayers who have jumped on the word "socialism," having no clue whatsoever what it means, and who are so eager to embrace ridiculous soundbites, while so many in our country suffer unnecessarily. It's an embarrassment. I'm convinced that in the electronic age, we can change sentiment through passing on messages like this one, because it's all about education and putting faces on issues. So please watch and pass it on via your blog, and p.s. don't forget to let your Congressmen know how you feel. Thanks!

Personal Anecdote (Not anywhere near as tragic as many depicted in the video, but still evidence that we need to do something. I hope my sister doesn't mind that I'm using this story without her permission). My sister is an artist who, until very recently, worked for herself. She has been paying her own health insurance over the years, and last year, she wound up in the hospital with a very severe headache. Luckily, it turned out she was only suffering from migraines, but that did not keep her from being stuck with a whopping bill. In order to be able to afford her insurance, she had chosen to have an extremely high deductible, which meant that her insurance did not cover the bill. Stuck with monthly payments on the hospital bill and monthly insurance payments that didn't seem to be doing her much good, and barely able to afford both, she chose to drop her insurance, leaving her uninsured at an age at which no woman should be without affordable healthcare.

(Oh, and I can't help noting that R.E.M., who refused to let Microsoft use them to advertise its product, apparently had no problem with this one.)