Girl Detective

I was in Barnes and Noble yesterday and noticed that the Boynton books were buy two, get one free. They had a similar promotion last year, during which I exercised restraint, then later regretted it. Yesterday, I did no such thing. I bought six books so we have a complete collection: Doggies; Fuzzy, Fuzzy, Fuzzy; Blue Hat, Green Hat; Hey, Wake Up; Barnyard Dance; and Birthday Monsters.

So far, my toddler Drake’s favorites are Fuzzy, Fuzzy, Fuzzy and Hey, Wake Up. For reasons neither my husband G. Grod nor I can comprehend, he very much enjoys the lines about broccoli stew in the latter book, and laughs with hilarity each time.

If your Boynton collection is not complete, get thee to a bookstore and take advantage of this deal. Unlike some other children’s books, they weather repeated readings without inspiring bitterness, fatigue or nausea.

Many writers and readers have a dictionary of choice. My friend Chrestomanci once told me of a professor of hers who noted that the good thing about softcover dictionaries is that one needs only dig a very small hole in which to bury them.

When I went dictionary shopping a few years ago, I narrowed my choice to two editions: the American Heritage 4th edition and the New Oxford American Dictionary. Both were very good. I used advice from my friend Queenie, a book maven, to compare the two. She recommends looking up three things: a common word, an uncommon word and a proper name. For the purposes of this story, I am wishing very hard that I recalled what three words I chose. Alas, I do not.

Though the Oxford book had a brand-name cache, and the American Heritage was full of sometimes cheesy and not always thoughtfully chosen or cropped photos, I gave the edge to the American Heritage. I did not buy it for home, though, because another feature of the American Heritage is that it is available online for free at Dictionary.com. Rarely do I support paying for online content. (Notable exceptions are Cook’s Illustrated and Consumer Reports. I must also admit that my husband broke down and subscribed to Salon earlier this year. I’m not sure if I support that decision, but I do enjoy its result.)

I know I run the risk of incurring judgment from other bibliophiles that the only physical dictionary I own is a mass-market paperback, of the ilk that Chrestomanci’s professor decried. And yet, I manage. I can rejoice in good, free, online content while also saving space on the shelf for other books whose contents I prefer in physical form.

Track #3 of Fatboy Slim’s latest CD, Palookaville.

Evening in Missoula tea (actually, not a tea but a tisane, as you can read about at Tea Source, sweetened with Ames Farm honey.

The books of Jane Austen, of which I just finished Emma. Charlotte Bronte had a point when she wrote

What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study; but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of life and the sentient target of death–this Miss Austen ignores.

Yet sometimes I need soothing rather than stirring, and in those cases I prefer to spend time with Miss Austen.

My mother and sister Sydney are big fans of Law & Order. I don’t mind the show, but I don’t go out of my way to watch it. I wondered about this for a while, since it is a good show, well-acted, -plotted and -written. I think my preferences in television are analogous to those in reading. I prefer novels above everything else. Even in comic books, my preference is for graphic novel collections, rather than one shots, or ongoing, meandering series. I like my entertainment fictive; I like it to have good character development and for those characters to have distinct voices.

I find Law & Order more akin to a collection of short stories. There is little continuity, and little character development for the series regulars. Also, it relies so heavily on real-life events that it loses some of the feel of fiction.

My theory about those who love Law & Order is that, as readers, they aren’t novel-centric, as I am. They are more accepting of other forms, like non-fiction, essays, magazines, short stories and one-shots. I read all these things, too. If I had to choose, though, it would be no contest.

and I lived deliberately for less than 48 hours. And used an outhouse. And made good progress in editing novel #1. And nearly finished reading Emma. And walked in the woods. But did not test the ice. And did physical therapy exercises for my problem wrist, back and hip.

I stayed at a retreat recommended by a friend, in a single cabin that had heat and electricity but no running water. I picked up meals at the lodge. The cook told me what was in the basket each time. My first meal, lunch yesterday, was a veggie curry over brown rice, a salad with hard-boiled eggs and cheddar cheese with a honey mustard dressing, and sugared almond slivers. I took it back to the cabin, and burt into tears, overwhelmed by the peace and quiet, with a nice meal given to me that I could enjoy at my leisure.

And I did. Throughout the time I was there, I only did one thing at a time. What a luxury that was. When I ate, I ate. When I walked, I walked. When I read, I read.

Unfortunately, my high hopes of two nights of blissful, uninterrupted sleep did not materialize. Both nights I was anxious about being alone in a cabin in the woods. The first night I had the cabin too hot, and the second night I undercompensated and had it too cold. Also, I fear that I may have lost the ability to sleep deep, uninterrupted sleep, even if I didn’t have to contend with lurid imaginations of killers with hooks for hands, and widely variant room temperatures.

At the end of my time, I felt rather like I’d visited a MASH unit for my internal self. They patched me up, treated me nice, and sent me back to the front.