#55 in my book challenge for the year, The Year of Secret Assignments is a really good young adult novel. It’s mostly epistolary, told in letters by six students in a pen-pal project, plus in journal and notebook entries. It is both funny and touching, centering on friendship, loss, finding oneself, plus a teensy bit of revenge. The main characters are likeable and engaging, and the book moves at a quick pace.
Last week was a tough week. My nearly 2-year old son Drake screamed a lot and took very short naps. I looked forward to the weekend. Then my husband G. Grod had a gall bladder attack on Friday, and some drunk vandal broke our front porch door window on Sunday at 2 a.m. Any weekend that features both a call to the police and a trip to Urgent Care qualifies as one of the worst ever, I think.
Descending basement stairs carrying laptop, power cord, wireless mouse, hardcover book, glass of juice and snack was not a good idea. Better to take spillable item on separate trip.
Note to husband: laptop is fine. So am I.
My dad served in the Navy during the early 70’s on a nuclear submarine. Growing up, this sounded wildly exciting. As an adult, however, I suspect the experience was much more mundane, especially given the two most common anecdotes my father cites from that time.
One, they cleaned the machinery with orange Kool-Aid. Moral of story: orange Kool-Aid is highly corrosive. (I liked grape better anyhow.)
Two, the eggs on board were not refrigerated for the entire, multi-week run. Moral of story: it’s hard to spoil an egg.
We bought this wheeled attachment for Drake’s car seat for Drake’s and my trip to see my family in central Ohio, where he got some good quality time with my parents and his aunts and uncles.
It adds wheels to the car seat for easy transport through the airport onto the plane and off. It allowed me not to take the stroller on the trip, and ensured that travelling with Drake by myself was much more manageable. I wish we’d had it ages ago.
Travelling went mostly well. Drake was a little scream-y, perhaps due to incoming molars. Going out, the sour-faced woman in front of me did not seem to appreciate my apology, but the kind woman with her daughter in back of me assured me that it does get easier over time. And coming back, the man at the gate went above and beyond to get Drake his own seat so I could bring the car seat on with me and not have to hold him in my lap, and our flight was smooth and early.
Drake threw an on-the-ground, kicking, screaming tantrum after the 4th of July parade, though he did enjoy seeing the fire trucks and horses. He also very much enjoyed frozen custard, a lemon shake, and french fries with ketchup and vinegar. He won’t be two for while yet, but I think he’s got some of the behaviors already, both good and challenging.
My husband and I got married and moved in together in 1998. We bought a condo in 2001. We had our son Drake in 2003. We bought a house last fall. Yet G. Grod swears that he didn’t witness true commitment on my part until last month, when I finally merged our comic book collections. For years, his Green Lanterns, Wolverines, and Uncanny X-Men have been sequestered in their own boxes. And for a while, I fiddled around with an elaborate filing system that had completed series in one place and titles I was continuing to buy in another. My friend the Big Brain rolled his eyes, and advised me that there should only be two piles–read, and unread. So I merged all our titles, filed them alphabetically, and the only ones out are the ones unread. Additionally, I put all the graphic novels together, too, filed mostly by title, though a few are by author’s last name. They are arrayed in one line above the computer as I type. It feels good to know that I am both better organized, and that my husband thinks I’ve finally committed to this relationship.
A friend of mine, complaining about the general crappiness of most comics, wondered, “Why can’t Grant Morrison write all the comics?”
Well, because some of them have to be non-ultra-violent, and more than token-ish-ly redemptive.
Which is somewhat unfair, because WE3 is a very good graphic novel, and was book 44 in my 50 book challenge for the year. I just wish I’d been warned about how extremely violent it was–ahem, G. Grod, Blogenheimer–and that said violence involved animals. Morrison’s story is, as usual, dark, violent, clever and insightful. Quitely’s art is, as usual, exquisitely detailed. The story concerns a dog, cat and rabbit who have been conscripted by the US military and upgraded with robotics for killing purposes. Then they get loose, and it’s rather like Homeward Bound meets the Terminator, or any of a jillion other comparisons–this one probably isn’t original, but I’m sure you get the idea. This is a sad, sad story that even the ending can’t redeem completely. If you have a soft heart for small creatures, you might want to skip this. It’s quite wrenching.
The sky is dark, darker than it is even past 9 p.m. these days, yet it’s only just past noon. There is thunder in the distance. Rain begins, normally enough at first, then pouring down in torrential slashes. Periodic flares of lightning bring illumination, however brief. I love being able to see and feel a storm. While I watch the show outside, Drake naps peacefully in his room, unmoved by nature’s chaos.
By the last night of last weekend’s college reunion, I was longing for a little more engagement with people than “Hi, where are you now, and what do you do?” (My response, which I honed for pithiness over the weekend: Minneapolis, stay at home mom and writer of YA novels, one of which I hope to send out soon for publication.) So I thought of two questions for people, the first of which was told to me by a friend at a wedding last year.
1. If you were going to have same-sex sex with a celebrity (this is for heteros–the opposite for gay friends), who would it be? I found men were terrible at answering this, and women barely hesitated. One guy did, though, acknowledge that some of my suggestions (Clive, Ewan, Owen Wilson) were good ones. At first I offered my own example of Angelina Jolie, though I thought that a bit cliche. I soon remembered how hot Frances McDormand was in Laurel Canyon, though, so I changed my answer. Angelina got more than a few votes, as did Shane from The L Word.
2. What was something that happened in the last year that made you really happy? Note that I didn’t ask for a superlative, just one happy thing. In spite of this, people struggled to answer, and seemed to feel guilty if they couldn’t come up with a happiest. One friend said it was how her infant daughter did the hand motions to Itsy Bitsy Spider, a few chose good vacations, and one guy said he knew he should say his wedding, but really it was the Red Sox winning the pennant.
I had never yet attended a college reunion, though I’d attended my 5 and 10 year high school ones. What I found aggravating at those was the level of inane chit-chat, and suspicious level of achievement. At this 15 year reunion, though, my bullshit detector didn’t detect much artifice. Yes, there were quick chats, but people, including myself, really did seem interested in where other people lived and what they were doing. Given that the music was loud and the crowd was big, I think we did pretty well.
And both blew right by me at the beginning of this month. The first is my anniversary of moving to Minneapolis from Philadelphia, which was seven years ago. The second is the anniversary of the first post on the original Girl Detective, which I started three years ago.
I was reminded of the anniversaries this morning when I saw a house with a roof bashed in by a fallen tree. When I moved to Minneapolis in June, I was stunned to find huge uprooted trees everywhere I looked. It had been a record year for tornados. I’d known to expect bad winters, but bad summers in addition to bad winters seemed like we’d made a poor choice of where to live. Seven years later, I’m very happy with where we live. Tornados are a fact of life in the midwest, but the season is short and I’d much rather have them than earthquakes. We considered moving back to Philly both after Drake was born and when my husband G. Grod was laid off. It’s hard living far from family, but we like living in a politically aware area, with good schools, libraries, lakes, used bookstores, writers, writing classes and events, grocery cooperatives and local businesses like our coffee shop.
Just over three years ago, my friend M. Giant said he’d started a weblog called Velcrometer. What a great way to establish a writing practice, I thought, and quickly followed suit. I now write more, and more regularly, than I ever did before. I have yet to be paid for my writing, but I’m working on two novel manuscripts in addition to this weblog, so perhaps that’s a goal for a future anniversary.
I went to my first college reunion over the weekend, the fifteenth. I went not so much to catch up with anyone I’d lost touch with, but rather because the several friends I do keep up with were all going to be there, one with her husband and family. When one lives far away, as I do in MN, it’s important to try to get the most out of trips across country.
The night before my flight found me rustling through my closet for pieces that fit and were seasonal, then trying to put together outfits around them. The weather was hot and humid. This was not conducive to either a calm mind, or fitting into tight jeans or skirts. There was much frustrated hopping up and down. Finally I managed to put together four outfits that seemed as if they’d match both the weather and the events I’d be attending. I tucked in the tight jeans, too, just in case I got a last minute reprieve. And I packed a whopping four pairs of shoes, in addition to the one that I’d be wearing. Usually, I wear a pair and pack another. For packing in general, I try to take a bare minimum. Often I end up having under packed, though that’s never been problematic, just rather boring for me to wear the same things over and again. For my reunion, though, the rules were different.
I was fortunate to spend the night before the reunion with my sister Ruthie. I tried on my four outfits for her, all of which she approved. She confirmed that the jeans were too tight so they moved to the bottom of my suitcase. We found another smashing outfit in her closet, though, one that went with an existing pair of shoes. Additionally, we combed through her jewelry and handbags to accessorize all five outfits.
I felt somewhat ashamed of myself for obsessing so much over my appearance. If I was going to see my friends, why did it matter what I wore and how I looked? What did I have to prove, and to whom?
At the reunion, my time was my own–my spouse G. Grod and toddler Drake were at my in-laws. I had luxurious stretches of time to spend with my friends. We tried on each other’s clothes, and talked about our husbands and children. We traded makeup tips and birth stories. We tried to recall who we’d kissed in our younger days, then were shocked to see many of them balding and portly, very different from their 18-year-old selves. Each night I limped into our hotel after a night in lovely heels. My friends and I joked about fashion before function, but my blistered, aching feet told another tale by Sunday. I had fun, though, dressing up for the first time in a long time, and not worrying about having Drake smear up a dry-clean-only outfit (those few that I own) or tug at and break my jewelry.
I realize now that it wasn’t those boys that I kissed, or even the girls I was envious of back then, that I was trying to impress by dressing well. I was trying to give my college self, a chubby, drunk, depressed girl, the happy ending she so desperately wanted.
The first time I took a writing class, I read the following quote by Joan Didion, and it hit me with almost physical force. It still has power, almost ten years later, as I discovered when I read it recently at Mental Multivitamin.
I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends.
– Joan Didion in Slouching towards Bethlehem
I’m a late bloomer. It takes me a long while to get my act together and figure things out. This weekend was good, making new connections with old friends. But I also reconnected with my old self, who wasn’t very happy in college. I think she would be pleased if she could have seen the life we’re living now.
I am just returned from my 15 year college reunion. I had great fun, but am rather tapped out. Our flight back today sat on the runway for two hours before taking off. Fortunately, my toddler Drake was in mostly good spirits, so fussing was minimal, then he slept for most of the runway sitting and flight. Some people think I’m overcareful of the nap, but I find that if I respect the nap, it respects me.
A friend at the reunion gave me a hard time for not having updated in a while, and for writing overmuch on books and movies. I finished two books while I was away, both quite good, but I will try to post some fun stories as well as reviews as soon as I’m able.
To illustrate the book and movie reviews here, I’ve used images from a few websites along with their links. This is not, though, the most considerate and ethical practice, as I was reminded after following this link from Conversational Reading. Until I figure out a way to put the images up efficiently and more ethically, I will do text-only reviews.
a teen fiction anthology edited by Michael Cart. Book #33 in my 50 book challenge for the year. As usual with Cart, this is a strong collection by talented writers including Katherine Paterson, Lois Lowry and Jon Scieszka. The stories range in tone and time though all center on the theme of the future. It was published in 1999, prior to what many people asserted was the turn of the millennium. Because its publication pre-dated 9/11, the stories and themes take on an almost old-fashioned innocence, which feels strange because the collection is only a few years old.
I recognize this feeling. It’s that life is pretty good. The last time I felt this was about three years ago. At that point I felt my life, my job, my relationships, my marriage, my living situation were all pretty good. I could either maintain the status quo, or try to move to a new stage in life and start a family. Things didn’t proceed quite as planned.
I was troubled by hip pain and insomnia during pregnancy. Labor and birth did not go well, though they did result in a healthy baby. I had a series of medical problems after the birth, work deteriorated, Drake was continuously ill in daycare, I resigned, we sold our apartment, bought a new house, moved, and my husband promptly lost his job.
Finally, though, spring arrived in its half-assed fashion to Minnesota. The snow mostly stopped. We began to meet people and make friends. My husband found a job. The weather is sometimes warmer. Occasionally the sun even comes out. Drake and I are able to get out of the house with fewer layers of clothing. I am able to see what life is like when we are not in crisis mode.
Drake is often a joy to be around. I’d be lying or delusional if I said he was that way in general. After all, he’s a person, and none of us is good company, always. I finally realized that it is unreasonable to expect him to be cuddly and laid-back, since these adjectives have never been used to describe me, so I better start appreciating him for what he is, which is active and curious. He is learning his letters and numbers, but has trouble with multi-syllabic ones, like W and 7. He also has trouble with multi-syllabic words and usually only pronounces the first. This can make for problems in understanding, since Toe and Toast sound alike, as do Pea and Pete. Drake is excited to recognize letters and numbers in the world, and often shouts them out with delight in public. At home, he likes to “hide” under the cushions on the couch. He’s pretty easy to find, since a large part of him is usually sticking out. He no longer puts every single thing in his mouth. He still loves to be read to, and has memorized passages from his favorite books, so that we can leave out words and he’ll fill them in, as with the “tiddely pom”s in one of Winnie the Pooh’s songs. This can sometimes be unfortunate, as when he runs about chanting “I die,” a line from Edward Gorey’s The Epiplectic Bicycle. (So much for encouraging non-cutesy children’s books.) Yesterday I noticed that he could hang on the bar over the slide; it used to be out of his reach. Today I noticed that the pants I bought too big at Christmas are definitely too small. Life keeps changing.
Outside, the weather is chill, grey and rainy. I have a lingering cold. It is easy to feel laid low by these things. Instead, I’m reminded that I have a very different life from the one three years ago, one in which I read, write and get to spend time with a developing person. I am glad the crises have died down, so I can appreciate this new life.
Kind readers, my husband G. Grod says that comments work, so please give it a shot. Email me if things don’t work. I’m afraid we may have lost those comments that were made while they were broken. Many apologies.
Dear kind readers, the comment feature is not working. Ironically, this coincides with G. Grod’s return to the rat race, so it may not be till tonight that they get fixed. Many apologies for the inconvenience, and I promise, we will work to get your comments through as quickly as possible!
My husband G. Grod suggested that I may be trying to do too much, i.e., read 50ish pages of Don Quixote every day, read another book, write this blog, read other blogs, go to yoga class a few times a week, work on my novel, read excerpts of other people’s novels for my writing group. And, oh yeah, take care of my small child. Unsurprisingly, I’m dropping some balls here and there. Last week, the blog ball got dropped. I apologize for the lack of notice for a post-free week.
I took a break from the weblog to focus on other writing. As has happened before, all my writing slowed. Progress on manuscript #1 was painfully slow. I dug out manuscript #2 to change things up. Things didn’t improve, so I’m back to the blog in the hope it will kick my writing and editing back into high gear.
We moved last September to a new neighborhood, where I hoped to find new friends and community. The winter was lonely, though. As the months wore on, I wondered if we should have moved closer to our families instead.
Spring has wrought many changes. People, like all living creatures, wait for more temperate weather to show themselves. It is easier to make new friends and keep up with old ones. Like an outdoor plant raised inside, our family in winter did OK, but didn’t thrive or spread. Once exposed to fresh air and sunshine, we realized our potential to put down roots and grow.
The lack of sleep that started during my pregnancy and continued after our son Drake was born wreaked havoc on my previously formidable vocabulary. I’ll often find myself in conversation, slack-jawed as I frantically scour the corners of my mind for a word. Even before pregnancy and motherhood, the idea of games as a way to sharpen my mental faculties appealed to me. I’m not sure why this is. I often don’t enjoy games, and am not very good at them. I am easily distracted and frustrated, more so when I am fatigued. I have a habit of doing things on impulse just to complete my turn. This usually precludes strategy, and was not at all useful to me or endearing to a partner when I used to play bridge (the rules of which I have completely forgotten.)
I’ve been wanting to pick up crossword puzzles again, since they don’t involve strategy, but we no longer subscribe to the newspaper. Book collections are woefully out of date (I found a 1977 NYT book on my last visit to the bookstore.) The NYT has an online subscription to the crossword puzzles, but it’s not compatible with our Linux OS and free software applications, so I’m out of luck there, too. For the moment, then, I’ve given up on crosswords.
I’ve tried to learn chess several times, but have have never yet persevered with it. Chess is not a game that favors the beginner. Each attempt left me feeling clumsy and inept. I’d set chess aside in frustration for just enough time to forget the rules, then try again with the same results.
One of my grandmothers was a lifelong Scrabble fiend until her death, which was due to complications from Alzheimer’s. At her memorial service, one of my uncles laughed ruefully and said that during his last visit, her attention came and went but she was still able to beat him at Scrabble. I will always associate Scrabble with the laughter, love, and sadness of his story.
Until this month, though, I had never played Scrabble. I finally got the opportunity earlier this month when I visited my sister Sydney, an avid fan of the game. I am unsurprised that there is a cult following. Its combination of luck, knowledge and strategy felt very manageable, and its rules aren’t complex enough to forget. My husband G. Grod and I picked up an inexpensive travel set. We can play a little, fold it up, and begin again later without mess or fuss. This new hobby has me eyeing my dictionary and Chicago Manual of Style. As I perused the former, I noted that the Hebrew and Greek alphabet letters are considered words (I don’t know if they are in the offical Scrabble dictionary, but the new one isn’t coming out till June 1, so I’m not buying one till then.) I learned the Hebrew alphabet years ago, when I was considering a conversion to Judaism, but all that remains are Aleph, Bet, Hay and Gimmel, the dreidel letters.
If G. Grod and I are in the middle of a game, is it cheating to look up the Greek and Hebrew alphabets online? I’ll print them out for both of us to review. Two wrongs might not make a right, but they are easier to rationalize.