"He's tasting victory. I'll bet it tastes good, like salt-water taffy or a Chunky." - Cleveland Brown, "The Family Guy"

One of my closest friends from college got married last weekend. As soon as I found out I was pregnant and due only three weeks after her wedding, I called her and told her very regretfully that I could not come to the wedding. The ceremony was taking place an hour or so outside L.A., entailing a bus trip from the airport to the resort. I would be coming alone, thirty-seven weeks pregnant, and staying about an hour from the nearest hospital. The airlines will not permit you to fly after 36 weeks, and my OB absolutely forbade it. Lauren was incredibly cool about it – she didn’t even take me up on my offer to name the child after her : ) For her honeymoon, she and Frank are taking the QEII cruise to England. I hope they had an awesome time, and I cannot wait to see pics. I haven’t met her husband but he seems like a terrific guy - and one of the biggest benefits of the match is that he is NOT in show business. Lauren’s very successful in her field, and very ambitious and driven, and it’s good for us/those theatre types to have civilians to offset the tension and artificially-created stress of theatre/TV life.

So having said all that, at one point in the drive to the shore last Saturday there was a part of me that was so incredibly grateful that I was not 1) flying to L.A. at all, and 2) flying from L.A. to Philly on September 11. I felt like a worm not to be at her wedding, but there you have it, my honest feelings about the whole plane thing. I am a bad friend.

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Dan likes to listen to music while he drives; I adore driving by myself so I can revel in the silence. However, driving to the beach, he put in Ziggy Stardust. I have never listened to the whole album – I enjoyed it. And, as a big fan of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, it also became very clear to me where John Cameron Mitchell and Stephen Trask took their inspiration. Pretty cool.

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Jude spent much of the ride to the beach coloring – books, paper, Mimi. He spent much of the ride home dropping handfuls of crayons down the far side of his carseat until his brother finally noticed that his crayon choices were getting slimmer and slimmer. By the way, I am in love with these new crayons that I bought for the boys.

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The Smiths had a very cool clock, the top half of which was a normal clock and the bottom half, a tide clock. (The background was a map of the coast of NJ – my brother and I finally found out where the heck our parents had been taking us to the beach all those years – this itsy bitty little beach called Whale Beach just south of Strathmere. Why we didn’t just go to Ocean City like every other South Jerseyite, I do not know.) Anyway, the tide clock fascinated Simon, and Dan spent some time explaining ebbing, flowing, and the moon’s effects on the tides to him. Si spent most of the rest of the week saying things like, “It’s fibbering – um, febbing - now but soon it will be flowing.” Or, “It’s low tide. That means soon it will be fibbing.”

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Si got way too much sun on Monday – we were all having such a good time building the sand structure of the century that we spent three hours on the beach. So Tuesday he felt a little grumpy and warm and not so well. We did not go to the beach that day. But the next morning, after lots of water and some sleep, he said to me, “Mama, I still feel a bit yesterdayish.” What I longed to say was that I spend most of my life feeling a bit yesterdayish. But isn’t that a great turn of phrase? How handy can that description be? I love it.

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My weirdo older brother has been promising for weeks that he was coming down to the shore (about a 45-minute drive for him) on Wednesday. Wednesday came and went – three calls to his cell, no response. He never showed up. I got nervous enough that I called his work Thursday morning, and he had indeed been at work the previous night. Oh good, so at least we know he’s alive. I spent most of the first half of the week listening to the two boys be excited that Uncle Curt was coming on Wednesday, and then a lot of Wednesday fielding questions like, “When is Uncle Curt coming? Will he be here by lunch/nap/dinner/tomorrow morning?” By Thursday morning, I was furious. My mother used to turn her phone off because she couldn’t be bothered answering it, and after a week or so of listening to it ring and ring, I would eventually get concerned and call one of her neighbors to go check up on her – invariably she was just fine. This whole experience was so reminiscent of that that it made me physically ill.

I was angry at my brother most for disappointing his two nephews. He did finally call Friday morning (I admit I was still angry and did not answer my cell when I saw the caller ID) and left this message: “Um, it’s Friday morning. I guess I will catch up with you later.” Asshole. Obviously I am still furious. I am even contemplating not calling him when the new baby arrives. I am soooo pissed at him right now.

The mental instability/illness factor in my family runs high – the difference between us is that I have gotten help and am on meds; my little brother admits he’s a bit unstable and has a wonderful wife who is a terrific influence on him; Curt just acts like it’s normal to be totally anti-social and not give a shit about anyone other than himself.

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With Lincoln we have a man whose depression spurred him, painfully, to examine the core of his soul; whose hard work to stay alive helped him develop crucial skills and capacities, even as his depression lingered hauntingly; and whose inimitable character took great strength from the piercing insights of depression, the creative response to it, and a spirit of humble determination forges over decades of deep suffering and earnest longing.
[Shenk, Joshua Wolf. Oct 2005. “Lincoln’s Great Depression.” The Atlantic Monthly 296 (3): 52-68.]

Dan read this on vacation and handed it to me to help me understand how he feels (“just not as grandiose,” he said) about his struggles with his depressive issues. Which made me feel like a shallow depressive – heck, when I am in the depths, all I feel is stupid and useless and burdensome. I don’t see it as honing the steel of my soul or developing my character; I just feel guilty and worried and dumb. And weak that I feel that I need pharmaceuticals to help me live a halfway normal life.

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Snippets:

I have discovered the glories of Celestial Seasonings Lemon Ice cold-brew tea. I love iced tea but it takes time to make a decent pitcher. Now you just pour water over these tea bags and ten minutes later you have perfectly delicious iced tea.

I am all over James’ saltwater taffy, as opposed to the standard South Jersey Fralinger’s. I bought three boxes and ate two over the course of the past week. Mostly because there is NOT a preponderance of peanut butter taffies in each box of James’ like there is in the Fralinger’s. Peanut butter saltwater taffy is revolting. I realize I’ve mentioned this before, but I feel very strongly about my saltwater taffy.

In Lancaster we asked the hotel clerk for a restaurant recommendation – she directed us to the Plain and Fancy Farm, “the ultimate Amish experience.” Yes, well, ultimate in the sense of what the Amish lifestyle would be like if Disney got a hold of them. We didn’t even turn off the car, we just U-turned and found a different place to eat. When we walked in and saw three tables full of Amish and Mennonites (the locals, in other words), we figured we’d found the right place. We had.

Dan ditched The Sparrow: he said he was fifty pages in and didn’t care to find out what happened. There is no way I could give him a plot synopsis, the book is too complex. And I was really disappointed that he didn’t like it; I still think if he’d stuck with it, he would. Oh well. Maybe I am deluding myself and it’s not all that great of a book? Sigh.

The INXS finale is tonight. It must be JD or all will have been in vain.

I totally love Stewie from The Family Guy. What do you think of the name Stewart if the baby is a boy? Hmmm…

Simon has developed this irritating new tic: he's only clearing his throat but it really sounds like he's trying not to spew all over himself. It makes *me* want to sympathy-puke, thank God the morning sickness is long over. But it is driving me INSANE.

Did I mention my little brother (who is a kick-ass chess player) taught Simon to play chess this week? It started out as, “OK, Si, now this is a leetle queenie-weenie. She only wants to move a little itsy bit each time, so…” until two hours later, it was, “All right, you just took my rook. I am now going to check your queen, except…oh, I can’t do that. Shit. Let me think…”

"Never judge a book by its movie." - J.W. Eagan

A Salon article about Nancy Drew – I have all of mine, but have never reread them since about high school. Maybe I should -- although I was a huge Trixie Belden fan and would rather reread her; incredibly dated but still fun. If this next child happens to be a girl, I suppose I’ll be rereading all of them anyway.

This program to Adopt a Library affected by Hurricane Katrina is a great idea. I may mention it at work and see what sort of reception the idea gets.

I am sorry but Elijah Woods’ huge expanse of forehead and bulgy bug eyes just freak me out. And yes, I know Gina wants JSF desperately : ) but he looks so much like this pretentious twit in my sophomore class in college who went by the unlikely nickname of Soda (weren’t we a little old for Hinton references?) that I can’t look at him either. Needless to say, I will not be seeing the movie. I will have to rely on Gina for the review.

And attacking another of Gina’s icons (sorry, Gina, not on purpose) – who the hell does Neal Pollack think he is? He is not fit to prop up one of Salman’s droopy eyelids.

Just discovered this worthy-of-checking-out blog, thanks to Michael Schaub at Bookslut, who also comments that he thinks “librarians are the coolest people in the world.” I KNEW I liked that man. Thanks, Michael! And what started this whole thread of compliments: his bit on Bookslut this week about Parents Protecting the Minds of Children. In my humble opinion, you have to do more than just quote a couple of blurbs from an entire book to prove your point that a book may not be suitable for teenagers to read. I do not believe in censorship; I do believe in being aware as a parent and keeping an eye on what your kids are watching and reading. But again, taking passages from a book that contains curse words and sex scenes – a half a page out of a two- or three-hundred page book – not going to do much to convince me of anything except that perhaps you have way too much time on your hands.

And in that vein, Lolita is one of the most powerful and beautifully written books I have ever read. Go on and ban that, babe – you will deprive readers of one of the most incredible reading experiences of their lives.

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I finished Corelli’s Mandolin over vacation. It was a nice enough book, not really all that compelling, but I have no idea how they made any sort of movie out of it at all, let alone a decent one. I love Nicolas Cage, so toyed with the idea of seeing it, but Charles Taylor says it’s awful.

I tried to start Rule of Four but either wasn’t in the right mood or the writing really was that bad. So instead of dutifully finishing A Civil Action I started Children of God and can’t read it fast enough. It’s a little bit clumsier than The Sparrow but still believable and engaging, with great characters and a driving plot. I am about halfway through it and look forward to reading Russell’s only other book Thread of Grace.

Dan finished the fourth Jasper Fforde, which he liked a whole lot better than the second and third books, and started The Sparrow.

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So Si is in school this morning and I thought I’d have some peace and quiet. But no. Jude is repeating endlessly, “No, Septimus! No, cat, no! Owww! No, cat!” and the cat just keeps trying to play with Jude’s tank engines. Good Lord, what next?

"You're not a wave, you're a part of the ocean."

Despite everyone’s fears, I decided to boldly go on vacation to the beach regardless of my very pregnant state. I am happy to inform you all that I have returned from New Jersey more pregnant than when I got there. The heartburn is incredible, I am always short of breath, and if this child does not emerge soon I will be increasingly cranky.

And by the way, have you ever tried to body surf with an eight-month pregnant belly and a maternity suit? You wind up looking and feeling like an indecently attired beached whale. The ocean swimming part of this vacation consisted – after my first vain attempts at riding waves in my normal fashion – of wading around collecting shells for Simon to put on his sand structures. The only down side of this was when he decided to decorate the beach umbrella dyke with shells and then the umbrella blew over and Dan had to stamp the umbrella back into the dyke. Ouch.

We rented the same beach house that we stayed in last year. Two blocks from the beach, a lovely deck on the back, a short walk to the Wawa for the newspaper and some soft pretzels (breakfast of Philly champions) in the morning. The beach itself at 100th Street is nice and wide and has a sandbar about twenty yards out that keeps the waves fairly gentle.

The only problem this year – the Catholic church across the street was scheduled to finish construction on its parish community hall in March (we spoke to the head priest last year before booking for this year.) We figured, even with delays, that we were safe as there was an almost-six-month cushion. When we pulled up to the house and noted the dumpsters and buckets of mortar and front-loader parked in the parking lot, my heart sunk. Dan and I are both incredibly noise-sensitive anyway, and we both just tensed. We had a lovely weekend and spent a lot of it telling each other that it might not be too bad, etc. I was walking back from the beach seven a.m., Monday morning – the front loader was pushing the dumpster across the parking lot and the whine of electric drills had already begun. We spent Monday morning trying to convince ourselves it wasn’t too bad. Who were we kidding? It was awful and loud and intrusive and perfectly poised to ruin our peaceful vacation.

My little brother pointed out that the real state trend at the shore is to buy a perfectly nice little house for, say, a million bucks and then rip it down to build some monstrosity right out to the property lines, which you may then, if you wish, sell for three million bucks. Building these houses is an incredibly lucrative way to make a living at the shore, and the contractors are pretty much kept busy year-round. So a modest half-a-mil church project probably just kept getting pushed to the bottom of the priority list. Hence the delay.

Enter our heroes – my little brother’s in-laws. I may have mentioned them before – Dan and I adore them, they are wonderful, wonderful people who are generous and thoughtful and kind and deserve all the good things in life they have. They are my model for a successful marriage, and for successful parenting. (In addition to my delightful and lovely sister-in-law, they have three other girls and a boy, all of whom clearly love and respect their parents.) Last summer they bought a house in Stone Harbor, where they have been vacationing for years. It is a block from the beach and it’s huge because they have a large family. We were lucky enough to be able to coordinate with my brother and his wife so that we got to see them all weekend the first weekend. I got to meet my new nephew who looks JUST LIKE my little brother, which is just freaky. And my sister-in-law and her mom offered us the keys to their house, so we would have someplace quiet to stay. The house we rent is cozy and shabby and comfortable. I don’t worry about the boys coloring on the walls or dropping food on the carpets; it can all be scrubbed down. The Smiths’ house is gorgeous, like something out of House Beautiful. (Not that they are fussy *at all* but *Dan and I* spent a good portion of time vacuuming up sand and admonishing the boys to not color anywhere but on paper, on the table.)

So we packed everything up and moved two blocks up and thirteen blocks over, to a palatial resort home. It was a very nice week, in a house that is bigger and nicer than our real house. It was mostly quiet on that end of town, and we could see and hear the ocean from the upper deck. Other than Jude’s rampant diaper rash/yeast infection exacerbated by his penchant for eating sand, and the fact that by the end of the week I had packed and unpacked our stuff something like eight times (more on that later), it was a peaceful and playful week. We took the boys to the beach to swim and jump waves and build sand castles; we did a little shopping for salt water taffy and things like that; we got homemade ice cream at Springer’s which was open this week this year – I was hoping for their coconut-pineapple bisque ice cream but the Almond Joy flavor I had to settle for was delicious as well.

By the end of the week, the boys had discovered the joy of sitting in the tide and letting the waves smack them in the face – I am sure they *still* have sand in their ears. We have boxes full of chunks and bits of clam shells, and some sunburn on all of us. I have a fetching new sunhat – bright yellow, bucket-style with navy trim and a zippered pocket on the brim - you can’t be too choosy when you’re shopping in the last week of the season.

So – why all the unpacking/packing, you may ask? Well, the youngest host child was coming to the shore with ten of his friends Friday evening, and we had no desire to inflict ourselves on him, or his friends on ourselves. So we packed up, cleaned up, and headed out. In some incredible and unusual stroke of good luck, we got a hotel room in Lancaster, a few miles from Strasburg, where Thomas the Tank Engine was doing one of thrice-yearly weeklong stints hosting what really wound up being a very surreal convention for four-year-olds. When we checked in, we were worried about our boys disturbing other hotel guests. Dan’s exact words were, “We are someone’s worst nightmare.” However, MY boys were asleep by nine, and considerably better behaved than roughly 75% of the rest of the little conventioneers. Of course it helped that we didn’t breathe word one about Thomas until we had tickets in hand and were on our way to the train station.

The Thomas event was my idea of hell. Screaming children, fat sweaty parents, crowds, port-a-potties – and good lord was it hot. But I had a good time watching my boys be delighted. We rode Thomas, and we rode Douglas (who is one of the big black twin engines, I was reliably informed), and ate some lunch. (I actually really enjoyed the train ride parts. Very peaceful. I could’ve gone to sleep.) Then we went and took pictures with Thomas. Dan told the boys that Sir Topham Hatt had had to go back to the main branch line to deal with some troublesome trucks, and Simon had several helpful suggestions to make; it saved us from the hour-long line to meet said Hatt. (I know, we are rotten, ROTTEN parents.) Then we bought Jude Annie and Clarabelle, and Si picked Gordon and we skedaddled. (I did do some minor Xmas shopping – T-shirts and Colorforms)

So we wound up back here last night, after one last diner stop for dinner (where I had some incredible coconut cream pie). And today we did laundry and de-sanded and bathed and unpacked and grocery-shopped, and all those lovely vacation’s end tasks that make you sad. My boys set to work constructing a giant train set/village complete with volcano and circus to run their new engines around in.

So that’s the non-thinking rundown. I will post again later with important or off-topic bits, and whatever else pops to mind. I did do some reading, and the boys did and said some hilarious stuff, and Dan and I had several philosophical discussions, all of which I am eager to share. But now – I must sleep while I still can. Three Tums, a Tylenol, and prenatal vitamin, and I am off to Dreamland.

Welcome Home, BB!

A virtual lemon tree, to welcome you back to your virtual home. :-)

I LOVE CORN!

Teddy had a homework assignment last night wherein he had to write a statement, then a question, and then an exclamation, all about the same topic. Imagine seeing this in the handwriting of a third-grade boy: I like corn. Do you like corn? I LOVE CORN! I've been laughing about that since I saw it last night.

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Carolyn’s post from last night made me think again about what will happen to my parents when they get old. It's easy for me to pretend that I won't have to worry, because my grandmother is 81 and still works full-time as a home-health nurse and is a CERTIFIED FITNESS INSTRUCTOR who teaches "Sliver Sneakers" classes at the Y.

As much as I like to assume that my mother will follow that lead, I don’t suppose I can. So can I take my parents in if/when they can no longer live on their own? I’m willing, of course, but will I be able? Will I have the skills? Will I have the money? Will they?

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Of concern: In class last night, Resources for Children, a woman who’s just had a baby mentioned the absence of mothers in the books we were discussing. I mentioned that in some books for very small children, like Good Dog Carl and The Cat in the Hat, mothers can’t be present, because mothers generally maintain order and safety and peace—mothers prevent wacky adventures more often than not. The professor said, “That’s very astute, Gina. I hadn’t thought of that.”

WHAT?!?!?! I thought she was being sarcastic, but others assured me that wasn’t the case. How can this woman whose life’s work is children’s books (she served on TWO selection committees for the NEWBERY!) not have considered this most basic of ideas?!?!?!?

I was really let down.

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Okay, happier things: Val is coming home tomorrow! I’ve missed her this week—blogging, e-mailing, and lunch just weren’t the same.

Corpse Bride

I took Teddy to a “special screening” of this last night(I have no idea why Pittsburgh got a screening of a movie that opens in “select cities” tomorrow and then everywhere else the following weekend, but I got free passes from work, and I don't ever question the goodness of free passes).

I like Tim Burton as much as the next erstwhile hipster, but I haven’t seen one of his movies for years and I remember them being much darker than this one. It’s inarguable, of course, that accidentally marrying a corpse is dark, but this movie is positively cheerful and even (and I shudder to use the phrase) life-affirming to a Disney-like degree. It isn’t precious at all, as Disney can be; it sort of echoes old-school Disney, like Sleeping Beauty.

It was fun and cool to look at, especially considering that everyone and everything recalled those Christmas specials with Rudolph and Chris Kringle and the elf who wanted to be a dentist.

I liked the songs, and I liked the story, and I even got a little choked up at the very end (because I’m a sap and a sucker and cried when Snoopy wouldn’t come home), but all in all, . . . eh. I’m glad it was free.

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We saw the trailer for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, which looks like it will be lots of fun. I’m very fond of this book, and will be disappointed if the movie is as bad as the first two. The boy who plays Ron seems to be growing less annoying as he gets older, which is a relief.

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I’m reading Infinite Jest. It’s going to take me forever, because I have tons of reading for school this semester, but I found myself getting crabby because I wasn’t reading for fun. I know David Foster Wallace makes some people want to swing annoyed punches, but I eat him up.

Not Much, You?

Cathy Small, a 52-year-old anthropologist at Northern Arizona University, has just published a book called My Freshman Year: What a Professor Learned by Becoming a Student. She noticed that her students weren’t engaged in class—falling asleep, eating full meals, whatever—and she wanted to know why.

She went undercover to find out, and she talks a bit about the experience in a Salon interview today. I wasn’t at all surprised by the things she discovered, but she went to college in the 70’s, before going to college was commonplace—now more than half of high school graduates go on to college, and Small notes this. She mentions that kids in college now are training to be able to compete for jobs in a way that her generation didn’t really have to. She also bemoans the fact that there’s little sense of community outside of the Greek system, because everyone is busy making themselves into perfect job candidates.

I’m sure there’s truth to that, but I think there’s something else to it: I think it’s taken for granted now that college is necessary, but because “everyone” goes to college, it’s not cool. No one wants to be engaged because, why should they bother, when college means nothing anymore? I think many people are just doing what they need to do to get through.

This might change if the custom of going straight to college from high school wasn’t so prevalent. If people took time after high school and worked or volunteered or traveled—or some combination of those—I think college would be a lot different. I think some people would realize their interests and passions don’t require college degrees. I think others would find passions that college might help them pursue. Maybe then colleges would be full of people who want to be there, rather than people who are smart enough and think they have no choice but to get some kind of BA.

Okay, I’m off the soapbox.

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I had a call from Val yesterday, and I freaked when I saw her name on my Caller-ID. No baby yet, though: She was just checking in. The weather is lovely and they’re having a great time, although they were planning to move to another house because they were right across the street from a construction site. Even on vacation, nothing is ever easy.

September 11th

There isn't much to say about this day--I certainly can't come up with anything new or of any special value. Go and make sure the people you love know that you love them.

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky...

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

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Off for the week to the shore. Blog you when I get back.

Opinions, Please

My kid wants a bigger bed. He's tired of waking up with arms and legs hanging over the sides of his twin, and I'm pretty tired of him trying to weasel his way into my queen. Would it be feasible to get a full-sized loft thing (like from Ikea), and put that over his existing bed? That way he has a place for his friends to sleep (now they sleep together on the futon in the TV room, but they're going to be too big to want that/fit there soon).

Any thoughts?

Businesses lose approximately $13 billion per year due to migraines...

The Booker short list has been announced. I am sadly deficient in my Booker-List-2005 reading – I have in fact read none of these books. Although I am sure they are all fine, fine novels.

Dan’s a Banville fan, and I have heard wonderful things about Julian Barnes, although the only book I tried to read of his, A History of the World in 10 ½ Chapters, bored me. (However, reading the Amazon blurb made me rethink it. Maybe I should try it again. It looks funny.) I had to look up Arthur and George on the Amazon UK site to get to any reviews; it looks ok. (Why do books come out in the UK way before they come out here? Is there a lag time there for American writers/books?) As for Barry – it is against my principles to read Irish novels/books anymore. I may be the only living soul who has never even picked up Angela’s Ashes. I am so heartily tired of Americans wanting to be Irish (don’t even get me started on Americans of Irish descent who support the IRA), and the Irish feeding on this phenomenon, and so I boycott. Or something like that.

The Ali Smith won’t be released in the States till January, and I never made it though White Teeth so haven’t approached Zadie Smith’s new one. As for Ishiguro, I am sure it’s an excellent book, but his stuff is so freaking dry and I simply don’t have the brainpower to work at one of his novels right now.

So I am being anti-cultural and enjoying my vacation books instead of immersing myself in the excellent literature represented by the Booker prize. Like last year’s winner, Line of Beauty? Well, yeah, EXCEPT for that one.

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Books out and about in the past weeks and in the next few weeks that I want to read, in no particular order:

October 25 The Lost Painting - Jonathan Harr
September 6 Shalimar the Clown – Salman Rushdie
September 20 Goodnight, Nobody - Jennifer Weiner
September 1 The Tender Bar - J.R. Moehringer
August 3o A Widow’s Walk: A Memoir of 9/11 - Marion Fontana
July 19 The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

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Ultrasound this morning; it has been confirmed by the physician’s assistant at my OB’s office – el bambino is head down. I couldn’t see jack since their office ultrasound is so crappy but I believe her BECAUSE I WANT TO.

And for Gina’s peace of mind, I promise to pack some towels, a pair of scissors, a gallon of bottled water, and some Purell in the car when we leave for the shore. Because she’s right, giving birth on the PA Turnpike will require some advance prep. I hope to hold off on birthing this baby till we’re either down the shore, or back home, since there is a great likelihood that my car would never be the same again. And I love my car.

Also the PA told me that she doesn’t think I am going to make it till my due date. Great, thanks, now you have ensured that I will be late AGAIN. This happened with my second son, and I am still bitter.

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Speaking of lack of brainpower (was I? I forget.), this morning I put Si’s sneakers on Jude and did not notice until we were halfway through my doctor appointment.
Also, this afternoon, I literally forgot where I put my work bag and made Dan turn off the car so I could unlock the hatch - when my bag was in the backseat since I didn’t have the key to unlock the hatch in the first place.
I also tried to brush my hair with my toothbrush yesterday morning. At least it wasn’t spinning at the time.

Dear God, please tell me my brain cells will return to normal. Please. I can’t stand being *this* stupid.

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Check out the The Fatwa Corner (2nd bullet down). What the heck is the Fatwa Bank, and what the heck is a Live Fatwa? (Ok, now I know, see below. I had to look up the actual definition. I think most people associate fatwa with Salman Rushdie, and apparently it’s not JUST a death threat!)
fatwa : a legal opinion concerning Islamic law

Also check out the Ask the Scholar link though; there’s some really interesting stuff on that page. The take on the true meaning of jihad and the explanation of Islam’s viewpoint on peace was educational and enlightening; however, some of the women-in-Islam-related stuff about praying while wearing make-up and nail polish leaves me, frankly, a bit bewildered and a bit amused. I don’t know a whole lot about Islam; I should do some reading.

Rowing Pic

Just because it was such a beautiful day, and he's so cute!

...and all of London littered with remembered kisses.

First day of the new regime. Jude is at daycare by himself. Somehow it broke my heart to leave him there without his big brother. He had his Mimi, but still…and Si went to his first day of preschool today. I am not sure what I expected, but what I got was this:

Me: “Bye, Si guy. Love you. Be a good boy and don’t forget that Grandma will come get you this afternoon. I love you.”
Si: “Ok, bye, Mom. Where’s Quinn? Quinn…!” and off he ran to play in the pretend kitchen with his next-door neighbor friend.

I am glad he wasn’t stressing, but I found myself feeling a little bereft. I contented myself with slipping a maudlin-mama note into the backpack I packed for him to take to his grandma’s this afternoon. Toys, a puzzle, some Thomas coloring pages, and a mushy note telling him I couldn’t wait to hear all about his first day and that I loved him oodles.

Considering I get teary when I watch my *neighbor’s kids* get on their school bus, can you imagine what a wreck I will be next September when my baby goes to kindergarten? I don’t think it’s purely hormonal either…I am just a sap.

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You know, I HAVE HAD IT with college students who don’t think it’s important to keep or carry their class syllabi, or at least take thorough notes, yet get mad at me because I can’t find a textbook with a title like “Introduction to Psychology.” No author, edition number, not even the *actual* title in many cases. It’s MY fault that I can’t discern, like the Great Carnac, the exact title and edition of the book they need. Clearly I am a deficient librarian.

“What do you mean, you can’t look it up by class number/name/professor name?”
Well, I can, probably, but that’s YOUR job. Log onto a computer and figure out how to access your professors’ syllabi. At some point you might actually need that info.

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RockStar INXS:

Tonight is the night Jordis is told she’s "just not right for our band INXS.” I had high hopes for her early on but she seems exhausted and tame now. Dave Navarro pegged it last night when he said she seemed like she was holding something back.

Mig – Please. If INXS wanted a Michael Bolton manqué as a front singer, don’t you think they’d have advertised for one? But his first song was fine.

Marty – Nothing personal but every time Marty opens his mouth, I have the urge to count his teeth. And do you think he’ll wind up his stint on the show by proposing to Sweet Suzie McNeill?

JD is SUCH a dick. But he’s got the sound…sometimes.

Suzie is my fav at the moment, and *not* just because I think Dave Navarro wants to bonk her. She has really displayed her voice to its full advantage these past few weeks; she has gained a quiet self-confidence that really reads; and she has somewhat more fashion sense than any of the others.

David – how COULD you fall asleep last night after seeing what Brooke Burke was wearing? Honestly, man….!

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And all of Highland Park littered with abandoned flea collars…
Emmy (my outside cat) has managed to lose her THIRD flea collar in as many months. She’s as bad as my kids – does she think I am made of money? I put them on tightly, I think I just have the Houdini of the cat world. Can you staple them on?? (ok, I am kidding…sort of…)

Best Internet Thing Ever. EVER!

I'm speechless. And so excited! I did a whole shelf in about half an hour last night. Internet? Come here so I can give you a big hug!

Dispatches From a Public Librarian

This new posting is directed to those still *in* library school--like me!

Rowing and Scrabble and Pie, Oh My!

I bought a food processor Sunday, and I baked a perfect apple pie Sunday night. Hooray for Val’s crust! (And Cuisinart!)

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The boy and I went white water rafting on the middle Youghiogheny on Saturday. We rented a two-person raft called a ducky because I thought it would be more fun for us to feel like we were on our own little adventure, despite the fact that we were on a guided tour with a large group. The bulk of the party was a Pakistani family reunion filled with dads and uncles who were gallantly concerned about my obvious single mom-ness. Another group was comprised of three young Asian couples who apparently had trouble with English. They were oblivious to the guides’ instructions and spent the afternoon drifting about and shouting at one another and/or giggling. Who knew the Laurel Highlands embraced such diversity?

So back to the rafting: We popped into our little raft and started rowing like pros. Teddy loved acting all manly and calling out directions: “Hard right!” “Hard left!” The weather was gorgeous and the water was clear and cold—every time I got splashed I thought “tonic”, but not like a healing potion-type tonic. I thought of the bracing mettle of gin and tonic. It was weird, but exhilarating.

And then I realized that the “rapids” were really more like “tepids” because we haven’t had much rain. The river was slow and peaceful: Lovely if you’re drinking beer on a pontoon boat, but not so nice when you’re expecting to spend the afternoon in Nature’s amusement park. I spent four hours rowing. And rowing. And rowing. Teddy got tired after a while, of course, so he kicked back and soaked up the sun, trailing his fingers in the water. I kept rowing. Ted hopped out of the raft and swam around for a while. I rowed. You get the picture.

My arms were so tired that I couldn’t lift my nephew that evening. (Stupidly, I kept thinking, “I just flew in from the coast, and boy are my arms tired!”) I don’t think I could have lifted a gallon of milk, yet I was barely sore at all when I woke up Sunday. I had that pleasant feeling of knowing I’d exerted myself, but that was it. My peasant ancestry makes itself apparent—I’m hardy! :-)

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I spent the day Sunday catching up on house work and laundry and grocery shopping and pie baking, and then had a picnic yesterday with some people from school, whom I beat soundly at Scrabble. Is it rude to beat your guests at games, even if you’ve fed them steaks, baked potatoes, salad and homemade apple pie?

Without labor, nothing prospers. - Sophocles

Happy Labor Day! Wouldn’t it be fitting if I went into labor on Labor Day?
I have been informed by my mother-in-law that I am not permitted to have the baby on or between September 25 and October 1. I am also not permitted to have the baby on October 8 – it’s the Penguins home opener and everyone is going. Well, everyone except Dan – he said if my due date were earlier and I were in the hospital on the 8th, he’d go but otherwise, he just wouldn’t “be able to relax.” HE wouldn’t be able to relax – ha! Except then my MIL said her mother’s birthday was the 8th, and wouldn’t it be cool…I counter with the fact that my mother died on October 1, so let’s avoid that day….I am assuming from all these directives that it is also preferred that I give birth during regular business hours, Monday through Friday. I suggested that perhaps I could give birth in late September; September 20th or so would be ideal. Both Dan and his mom emphatically said anywhere in the September 20s was too early…I say it’s only two weeks early and at this point, other than foregoing the shore, I could happily give birth RIGHT NOW. So play your numbers and place your bets folks, I aim to please.

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My vacation book list, pretty decided:

Children of God – Mary Doria Russell
The Rule of Four – Ian Caldwell
Green Darkness- Anya Seton
In Harm’s Way: The Sinking of the USS Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of its Survivors – Doug Stanton

If I haven’t finished A Civil Action and/or Corelli’s Mandolin, I will lug them along too. Since I have exactly three t-shirts that are huge enough to cover my belly, and only two skirts/pants that fit comfortably, and one (maternity) bathing suit., my other luggage will be minimal, so I can bulk up the books portion.

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Philosophical ponderings must be quite the trend among the preschool set these days. My next-door neighbor’s three-year-old saw a dying mouse while they were on a hike recently. Quinn asked her mother, “Mama? Was it a bad mouse? Did it deserve to die?” According to Lannie, all mice are evil vermin and definitely deserve to be dead, but I am not sure she said that to her daughter.

In the car on the way to the grocery store yesterday, Simon started crying. I asked him what was wrong, and he sobbed, “I don’t KNOW! I just feel really sad!” I talked to him a bit, about how it’s ok to feel sad sometimes for no reason, and you feel better soon, and there’s a lot going on right now in his life that he might not *feel* stressed about but that doesn’t mean it’s not upsetting on some level. What I really wanted to do was clutch him protectively and growl to God/whatever powers that be, to make him HAPPY, and not make him be like his mom, to whom every day is a fight just to exist normally. Other people expend energy actually living; I feel as if I spend my energy just working up to trying to live. I am so exhausted with my fight, and he’s only four, and I don’t want his entire life to be that way. And I feel even worse, even more guilty, since I am clearly the one who passed that gene onto him. I want to make everything fine for him, even though I know I can’t and that is not the way to fix anything.

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My in-laws came for dinner last night. We made homemade pizzas with the red peppers from the farm and some Italian sausage. Pretty darn yummy. I made a coconut custard pie for my FIL, and a Toll House pie (chocolate and walnut) for my neighbors who came over later. And then today for Dan’s family’s Labor Day picnic, I made a blackberry pie with Gina’s crumb topping, and some chocolate cupcakes. This cooler weather really brings out the June Cleaver in me.

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Jess, here’s the coconut custard pie recipe. It’s incredibly easy, and you can eat it for breakfast even, what with all those eggs : )

4 eggs
2 cups milk
1/2 cup Bisquick
1/2 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla
2 tbsp softened butter
a handful of flaked coconut

Proces in blender till smooth. Pour into a 9" pie pan, preferably one with 2" sides. It will be VERY liquid. Sprinkle top generously with grated/flaked coconut. Bake at 350 degrees for 30-40 minutes. Cool on a rack, and don't cut it till it's cool. Refrigerate any leftovers.

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Something disturbing - there was, at this Labor Day picnic, a priest who was astonishingly good looking. Not just good-looking "for a priest"; simply gorgeous, no matter what. Tall, thin, silvery-grey/dark hair, kind of wolfish teeth with a great smile. And he was flirting with me. He is a colleague of Dan's uncle, and I was talking baby names with Uncle John (who is very funny but not very good-looking). And he introduced this priest who joined right in suggesting all sorts of silly (and otherwise) names, and we just clicked. It was SO ODD. We were laughing about all the same things, and he was charming and suave, and oh my God, he most definitely was flirting with me. I have never been flirted with by a priest before (unless you count Father Tom who, besides being decidedly gay, flirts with *everyone*). And I have NEVER been *attracted* to a priest before. But there I was, laughing and talking and being wildly attracted to this man. Am I going to hell? (Of course, to finish the tale, I wound up saying something really dumb, which I refuse to reveal -it's bad enough I said it the first time - so now I can just cringe at my stupidity rather than at my cupidity.) But I am SOOOOOO going to hell, aren't I?

Tag...you're it....

1.Number of books I have owned: In the low thousands. But only the nonfiction is catalogued, so I can’t be sure.

2. Last book I bought: The Sparrow and Children of God, by Mary Doria Russell; A Civil Action- Jonathan Harr; a couple other miscellaneous kids’ books.

3. Last book I completed: The Sparrow – Mary Doria Russell

4. Five (or more) books that mean a lot to me:
(not in order)
1. The Small Rain/A Severed Wasp – Madeleine L’Engle
2. Bridge to Terabithia – Katherine Paterson
3. Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
4. Jitterbug Perfume – Tom Robbins
5. In Watermelon Sugar – Richard Brautigan
6. Big Red Barn – Margaret Wise Brown

5. What are you currently reading?
1. A Civil Action – Jonathan Harr
2. Corelli’s Mandolin – Louis de Bernieres
3. To Love and Be Wise - Josephine Tey
4. October issue of The Quilter’s Newsletter
5. CNN website, compulsively

6. To which 5 bloggers are you passing this on?

Whoever feels like it.

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Seven Things I Plan to do Before I Die
1. Get a PhD in English literature
2. Learn to rock climb
3. Learn to love my Eastern European peasant physique
4. See my children grow up
5. Read The Brothers Karamazov
6. Take a month-long vacation ALL BY MYSELF
7. Join the Peace Corps

Seven Things I Can Do
1. Swim – all the strokes
2. "Program" HTML/XHTML/XML
3. Sing Edelweiss and various other Broadway standards over and over again until my boys conk out
4. Bake
5. Spell
6. Run an 11-minute mile
7. Read – pretty fast, too

Seven Things I Cannot Do
1. Listen to the radio for much longer than half an hour
2. Eat cottage cheese – heck, I can barely stand to look at the stuff!!
3. Type
4. Get *all* the moldy bits out of my bathtub grout
5. Finish a book that bores me
6. Argue logically
7. Cook rice

Seven Things that Attract Me to the Opposite Sex
1. Brains
2. Long knobbly fingers/hands
3. Humor
4. Gentleness/kindness
5. Lankiness/height
6. Willingness to cook
7. Dark hair/skin – I have only ever dated one blonde man in my entire life

Seven Things I Say Most Often
1. "I am NOT a contortionist!”
2. "It’s not brain surgery for God’s sake"
3. "Unless there’s blood, I do not want to hear it!"
4. "What happened?”
5. "What the hell do I know, I’m just your mother/wife.”
6. "Tall mocha frappucino, no whip."
7. "Hey, little bratty children…”

Seven Celebrity Crushes
1. Colin Firth
2. John Cusack
3. Nicolas Cage
4. Jill Hennessey
5. Mary Louise Parker
6. Dar Williams
7. Anthony Bourdain

I tag anyone who needs the distraction.

The American Red Cross and other ways to help victims of Katrina

If you have any extra room to house refugees and are interested in doing so, you can get info and sign up here: www.hurricanehousing.org.

What an excellent idea. Step up to the plate, George. Prove you’re the leader you like to think you are.

According to some local contacts in Houston (people who work with the company my husband works for), the refugees at the Astrodome are in need of clothing (particularly pants/shorts) in M-L-XL sizes. I will look for an address to mail things to and post it as soon as possible. So get going through your closets.

Please continue to donate to the Red Cross and other organizations; even if they can’t get into the city of New Orleans due to FEMA restrictions, they can access the refugees elsewhere and will need resources for them.

Lists of places where you can donate money and whatever else is needed: Joke has a comprehensive list.

Well, I'll be ding-dong-danged!

Sunday morning, driving down Penn Ave., my car got hit with a stray foul ball from a pick-up baseball game going on at the middle school’s playground. I heard the ball rustling through the tree leaves and KNEW it was going to hit me and did not know what to do. It hit my windshield, fortunately not cracking it, and then bounced and left a big dent in the top of my car. Even more fortunately we were not rear-ended by all the speed demons racing to their scheduled brain surgeries when I hit my flashers and pulled over to assess the damage. We were all ok, if a bit shaken up. Well, I was sort of hysterical. Simon, when asked if he was ok, replied solemnly, “We’re ok Mom. A little shocked but we’re fine.” (Did I really give birth to that boy? If I hadn’t been there for the actual event, I am not sure I’d believe it myself.)

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Jude used a red marker the other day to draw Dalmatian spots all over his legs and feet. I did explain to him that Dalmatians are black and white, but he seemed pleased with his artistic license.

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So yesterday a coworker says to me, When are you due?
I say, October 8.
Pat: Oh, only four weeks...Are you having twins?
May the good Lord strike dead with lightning bolts from heaven any woman who has never given birth yet thinks it her bounden duty to open her mouth and express her opinion about someone else's pregnancy.

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Dan’s friend gave us a book about Noah's ark that Si read last night (no drowning bodies or anything – enough of that in the news). But Si finished it (he wanted to read it to me) and then asked me, "Mama? God's a good guy, right?" So sure, yeah, I say, "Most people believe he is." As I do not wish to get into theological discussions at bedtime – or really any time at this point. He looks at me and asks, "Well, why would a good guy do a bad thing like the flood?"

Oh, my Simon guy, the question of the ages, and you're only four. God help us when you are sixteen. And how I wish I knew the answer, my sweet little one.

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I could not get my butt out of bed this morning. When I finally did, at 9, the boys were upstairs playing but Mimi was in the bathroom sink, stark nekkid, with the water running, an entire pad of Post-it notes was dismantled and scattered like blue snow around the second floor, and Dan's poker money which he keeps in a cup on his dresser had almost entirely been deposited into their respective piggy banks. I suppose it could have been much worse.

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Jude reading Thomas:
“Thomas! Peep, peep, Thomas! People get in, quickly, quickly! Poop Poop! No, no! Peep, peep! Thomas say Peep peep! Not poop, poop!”
Yes, God forbid we mistake the Poop poop for the Peep peep!

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I’m not reading much of anything other than the newspaper right now, and contemplating registering us to host a family from down South that needs housing. Am I insane? I know I have a new baby coming in four weeks, but these people are in dire need. And we have the room. Only one bathroom, but otherwise plenty of room.

See You in September

I’m a dork, and I always find myself singing this song for when September rolls around. I’ve always liked the song for its melodrama (don’t get me started on melodramatic songs, by the way—a pony named Wildfire, anyone?), and for the fact that it was probably my first exposure to the idea of people actually going away for the whole summer.

Imagine a time when it was common to spend the summer at a resort, a la Dirty Dancing. (Imagine a time when it wouldn’t have been at all weird to hear a man say, “Baby’s starting Mt. Holyoke in the fall,” now that I think about it.) Imagine having a whole summer life, separate from your regular life of home, work and school. Imagine an entire summer filled with sunshine and fishing and sand in your bathing suit. Adirondack chairs and floppy hats and iced tea by the shore. Baskets of books from the tiny library a bike’s ride away. Rainy days filled with reading on a rocker. No schedules or clocks.

I know there would still be cooking and cleaning and laundry. I know there would still be bills to pay. I know my sister and mother would still drive me nuts, and that Teddy’s dad would still be a selfish schmuck, and that people in general might often still be rude and disappointing and drive poorly, but . . . just imagine!

Ladies First - Shel Silverstein (A Light in the Attic)

Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first,"
Pushing in front of the ice cream line.
Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first,"
Grabbing the ketchup at dinnertime.
Climbing on the morning bus
She'd shove right by all of us
And there'd be a tiff or a fight or a fuss
When Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first."

Pamela Purse screamed, "Ladies first,"
When we went off on our jungle trip.
Pamela Purse said her thirst was worse
And guzzled our water, every sip.
And when we got grabbed by that wild savage band,
Who tied us together and made us all stand
In a long line in front of the King of the land-
A cannibal known as Fry-'Em-Up Dan,
Who sat on his throne in a bib so grand
With a lick of his lips and a fork in his hand,
As he tried to decide who'd be first in the pan-
From back of the line, in that shrill voice of hers,
Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first."

Good night, America, how are you? Don't you know me, I'm your native son, I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans...

I am so sad for New Orleans. I love the city; if there were only one American city I could spend vacations in, it’d be New Orleans. It’s mysterious and magical and sexy and welcoming, and I adore the place. I’ve been there several times and each time was a blast. The food is amazing, the houses are lovely to look at, the people are mostly incredibly engaging, and the music is beyond belief. It’s a city with the most incredible energy. Checking the news this morning and seeing the devastation wrought by Katrina hurt my heart. (And I hope my bloggie pals who live down South are all ok.) I am going to go figure out which organizations I am going to donate to now. Red Cross is always a good bet, but Joke has a list at his blog you may want to check, with contact info and all that good stuff.

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Today is Simon’s last day at his daycare. Next Wednesday he starts at preschool down the street. I wanted him to get accustomed to getting going in the mornings several days a week since next year he will be in kindergarten and the schools here are full-day, five-day-a-week kindergartens. It’s the end of an era, a bittersweet transition made slightly easier for me by the fact that Jude and then, soon, the new baby, will still go to the old daycare.

But Si wanted to mark the occasion somehow, so I baked cupcakes for his class. At ten o’clock last night. From a mix. I am so not together. Then this morning I dropped the boys off at daycare and swung by the grocery store to pick up two tubs of frosting – hey, they’re four, they don’t care about homemade frosting! I also got them two jars of sprinkles to decorate the cupcakes, and it turns out frosting and decorating and then eating the cupcakes will be one of the afternoon activities. Which made me happy because it meant I didn’t have to frost the cupcakes on the back tailgate of my car.

Si also asked me to get something to put on the cupcakes, so his friends had something to take home. He recently was at a party where he got a dinosaur ring in the icing on his cupcake. I couldn’t come up with rings on such short notice but I bought a little bag of plastic jungle animals for the kids in his class to divvy up. He seemed really happy with that. He only asked for them about six times, so I figured that while I thought it was sort of silly, he thought it was pretty darn important. I guess he wants his friends to remember him. Like I said – sort of bittersweet.

Then Dan and I decided we should get some little memento for his teacher, who is the director of the daycare and a wonderful, sweet woman who makes the experience there joyful and exciting and educational all at once. Miss Rebecca’s a gem and she loves Si, and he loves her. They really bonded big-time over the Frog and Toad books, so I bought a hardcover copy of Frog and Toad are Friends and Simon wants to sign it before we wrap it up and give it to her. I think she’ll like it; I know if it were me, I would treasure such a gift.

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While at Joseph-Beth (lovely store but man are they pricey!), I scored FiveStar hazelnut bars. Gina and I have tried all the other flavors but Whole Foods never seems to carry the hazelnut ones. We’ll report back and let you know what we think.

Third Grade Angels

First grade babies, second grade snots, third grade angels, fourth grade dots. Fifth grade peaches, sixth grade plums, and all the rest are dirty bums.

I find it hard to believe that Teddy started third grade today, I guess because I have so many very clear memories of my own third grade year. I was in Darcey Tomko’s third grade class at St. Pius X, and I loved school. Things I remember about third grade:

Mrs. Tomko lit a candle in the classroom when John Lennon was killed.

We sang a lot, and competed in a singing competition called Adjudications at one of the local Catholic high schools. One song involved playing bells—the kind that are like individual notes from a xylophone—and I was thrilled. We didn’t win, but I still know all the words to the songs we sang.

Two boys liked me a lot. One sat next to me for a while, and dropped his pencil so he could lean down and bite me on the ankle. He’s a doctor now, I think. The other made me mix tapes featuring songs by Rush and Styx. He became quite the stoner lothario, and now does something involving computers.

I was in love with an eighth-grader named Patrick, and he was so nice to me! It strikes me as odd now that a boy that age could be kind to a dorky little girl.

I got my first pair of glasses, complete with a Holly Hobby glasses case. I will never forget the feeling of having to lunge on and off the curbs and stairs, as my depth perception went nuts for a while.

I had my first instance of cockiness getting in the way of doing good work: I breezily misspelled “bicycle” on a spelling test, and was positively red with shame when the test was returned with a less-than-perfect score. B-Y-C-I-C-L-E, indeed! I could spell “rhododendron”, dammit!

Our Religion teacher was a nun, Sister Robert Mary, and she told us that someday “they” (I’m assuming the Communists?) would drop a bomb that would kill all the people but leave all the structures standing. I don’t think I’ve ever been more haunted by an image. This was also the year we learned a song, “All Through the Night”, that our teacher told us was written for the mass funeral of a school-full of kids who were killed in an avalanche. Nice, huh?

I could go on, but I’ll spare you. How can I have a kid old enough to be in third grade, when it really feels like I was just there myself?!?!?

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Happy Birthday to my sister. She’s 31. She looks like a monkey, and she smells like one too.

Bye bye Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry...

I have been reading Pascale de Draoulec’s American Pie: Slices of Life (and Pie) from America’s Back Roads. Now I am more pie-obsessed than ever. I love pie, in pretty much any form, any flavor. If it’s good pie, I’ll eat any type. Pie is not, however, like pizza: if pie is bad, it can be very, very bad indeed. (And store-bought crusts can ruin a perfectly nice filling. If you must use store-bought, for God’s sake, spring for the Pillsbury ones in the refrigerator case, not the pre-panned ones in the freezer section. You might as well use cardboard.)

I started thinking about pie last night while lying in bed trying to get me and the fetus comfortable enough to sleep. What I really wanted to do was get up and bake some pie. Sense prevailed. I had to work today. But I had a perfectly delectable piece of coconut cream pie at lunch today. My co-worker came back from lunch raving about the pie in the faculty dining room. So I girded up my courage, made sure I had my staff ID, and went and bought a slice of fluffy, creamy, crunchy coconut cream pie for a dollar and a quarter.

I make a good apple pie; it’s such an easy pie to make, and it’s good with almost any kind of apple. I also learned to make a pretty kickass blueberry pie this summer: with Jersey blueberries it’s hard to go wrong. I have also tried my hand at pecan pie, Toll House pie (pecan and chocolate), pumpkin chiffon pie (what my mom always made for Thanksgiving), coconut custard (easy as – yes, pie, you make it in the blender, but since I am one of only three people I know who love it, I very rarely make it) and once even mincemeat pie, for a boy I loved -- who loved mincemeat pie (I often wonder if my mincemeat pie was what prompted him to propose?). I have found the pretty-much-perfect pie crust recipe, cobbled together after experiments with Fanny Farmer’s recipe (she is the authority on how to BAKE pie, and yes, it matters!), James Beard’s recipe, and a clipping from the newspaper so old it’s yellow and falling apart (finally the perfect proportion of Crisco to butter). If not for my food processor, I still would be struggling with pie crust but my trusty KitchenAid makes my pie crust life much simpler. Also, the purchase of a long, tapered French rolling pin, instead of one of those ones with the roll-y handles, helped immensely. I even confess to occasionally using one of those plastic circles with the zipper closure to get nice, even circles.

I once tried to duplicate a pie - billed as a Mounds-bar type pie - I’d had in a restaurant that is among one of the most decadent things I have ever eaten. It was the only time in my life when I asked to speak to the chef; I wanted his recipe. He wouldn’t give it to me but he did give me several tips including using coconut milk instead of straight milk in the mousse. My duplicate started with homemade crust, a coconut macaroon layer topped with chocolate mousse, and whipped cream with more coconut on top. It wasn’t bad – not quite as good as the restaurant version but pretty darn passable.

At the old house we had a sour cherry tree. Besides the almond-cherry tart and pickling them in vodka, I used to throw together cherry pies and put them in the freezer. They were nice to have on hand for funerals and for gifts – has anyone ever turned their noses up at homemade cherry pie?

However, on that note: The first Thanksgiving I spent with my now-husband’s family, I baked an apple pie to take as a hostess gift. Not only did I get called by the ex-girlfriend’s name all night, but no one ate my pie because they were eating Dan’s sister’s fiance’s mother’s store-bought apple pie, “to be polite and welcoming,” Dan said. Yeah well, so much for welcoming me; should’ve tipped me off then. Any family that declines homemade apple pie truly does not deserve me and my pies in it : )

Famous pie passages in books I have read and loved:
The country fair scene in Farmer Boy in which Almanzo Wilder seems to eat his weight in pie of all sorts.
The scene in Karen Stolz’s World of Pie when Roxanne’s mother teaches her to make pie crust.
The chapter in Michael Lee West’s glorious Consuming Passions on funeral food, including the appropriate pies to take to the grieving.
The Apple Pie chapter in John Thorne’s Simple Cooking, in which he suggests grating cheddar cheese over apple pie for a hearty breakfast (anyone who eats pie for breakfast deserves admiration; my next-door neighbor says her favorite breakfast is cold blueberry pie).

Pie snippets:

My husband and I, pre-children, used to road trip to camping sites for vacation and we’d stop at any little dive-y roadside café to try pie. He prefers fruit pie, especially blackberry; I’ll try whatever tickles my fancy. I am partial to anything coconut, and I am admittedly in love with lemon meringue. I am not crazed about peach pie or strawberry pie, and I’ve never had raisin or rhubarb pie, but I’d be willing to give them a shot.

I have been known to eat and enjoy TastyKake lemon pies, the little rectangular ones that come in cardboard sleeves. My dad liked the Dutch apple ones with icing, but we both found the thought of the pineapple ones positively revolting. Somehow, even in such processed excess, they manage to make a nice, flaky, if a bit greasy, crust.

I used to go to Max and Erma’s just for their version of Derby pie; warmed up with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, it was bliss and often served as dinner.

The boy who used to eat Derby pie with me also once accosted the caterer on a movie set for her sweet potato pie recipe. He promptly handed it over to me to try to make, but the Chantilly cream topping defeated me.

There’s a little bakery in Squirrel Hill that makes lovely, tart, creamy, lemon and lime mini-pies.

My mother rarely baked pie, except for Thanksgiving. But sometimes she’d buy a Pet-Ritz chocolate pudding pie. They were good. Especially still frozen. Sometimes we’d have those for our birthdays instead of cake.

National Pie Day is celebrated on January 23. The best lemon meringue pie I’ve had was baked by a friend who joined with me to provide the office with pie on this happy holiday. She was distraught because the meringue had slid off the lemon filling but I managed to choke it down anyway. It was delicious, if messy.

And just read this list of pies from the winners of the American Pie Council’s 2005 National Pie Championships. Is your mouth watering yet?

“Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy boy, Billy boy? Can she bake a cherry pie, charming Billy? She can bake a cherry pie Quick as a cat can wink its eye. She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.”

The Magic of Photoshop (Beware if you're at work: Bikinis are involved.)

This link came from my friend Kate. If you click on Portfolio, you get a series of pics that have been retouched, and which you can roll your mouse over to see the original image. On the one hand, this frustrates me because I'm reminded of just how impossible the standards for women are. On the other hand, though, it was kind of empowering to see that even these beautiful women are lumpy and flawed. You know? I wish more people could see this. I showed it to Teddy, and he was amazed. It was a lovely lesson of "Don't believe everything you see," among other things.

Every Party Needs a Pooper

This may be profane and/or blasphemous, but I have to say it anyway: I hate Disneyworld. I do. I hate it. I hate the Magic Kingdom. I hate Epcot. I hate MGM and the Animal Kingdom. Call me a spoilsport. Call me un-American. I really hope I never have to go back to that sweltering pit of noise and excess.

There certainly were cool things to see in each of those places (I liked “Tower of Terror”, “Mickey’s Philharmagic”, and the safari in the Animal Kingdom, and there was a great water park) and I am happy that Teddy and my mom had such a good time—it’s always fun to see the joy and excitement of people you love, even if you can’t really share it—but if it weren’t for their sakes, I would have either left early, spent the entire week in the hotel room, or carried on like a bored, annoyed, sweaty, tired baby.

I can see how children would be thrilled with the place, especially if they care for particular movies or characters. Teddy loves to ride, and he’s still young enough that he didn’t notice how lame most of the rides are. (Aside from MGM’s “Tower of Terror”, which is a freight elevator version of Kennywood’s “Pitfall” and Cedar Point’s “Demon Drop”, I’ve ridden cooler rides in other parks.) Honestly, though, I think Teddy's favorite things were the little gecko things that ran rampant around our resort, and the Lego store in Downtown Disney. There was a whole family walking dogs with this Lego kid!



I can even understand why my mom was so thrilled with the place—she’s 55 and has wanted to go to Disneyland since its inception when she was a little kid. It took her fifty years, but she finally got there, and with the added bonus of sharing it with one of her grandsons. I’ll forgive her enthusiasm.

I can’t understand why adults would go there without kids, though. For the love of God, WHY would (many) people honeymoon there?!?!?!? I don’t get it.

It seems to me that Disneyworld is nothing more than an enormous mall filled with photo-ops. Most of the rides aren’t even real rides—they’re simulators. And don’t get me started on Epcot’s “World Showcase”. It’s like Disney is saying, “Don’t bother to live life or experience anything for yourself. We’ll bring our version of everything right here to you, sanitized for your protection. Why would you go to France when you can talk to someone with a Parisian accent right here by this lovely fountain where you can be photographed eating a baguette?” Although I *do* love this picture of Fez Boy in "Morocco".



I can’t express how happy I am to be home.

In other news, school starts this week, and Ted is thrilled with the prospect of third grade. I’m pleased to be starting back too, especially since one of my classes is Resources for Children. The reading list ranges from Mother Goose to Harry Potter, and I’m thrilled. I just read The Giver and am about half way through Because of Winn-Dixie. I have to get through these quickly since they’re for class, but I’m happy to have more books to share with Ted. Hooray for school!

Wah hoo hey, I’m combing my hair today/It's our tradition to control, like Erich Honecker and Helmut Kohl…

The Wiggles are in town today for two shows. I drove by the arena this morning (it IS on the way to work - it IS! I swear!) hoping for a glimpse of any one of them (although Anthony is the preferred one). Alas, they were not strolling down to the 7-11 for coffee, or to the mini-mart for Krispy Kremes. Damn those Wiggles, and that silly dinosaur they hang around with, too! (My next door neighbor is taking her kids, but I decided against taking the boys. Let’s face it, Jude’s two, he wouldn’t even remember it. And no idea how much tix are, but if they even approach twenty bucks – and I am sure they do - no point. And I would have had to take the day off.)

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This, then this.

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I bought Jonathan Harr’s A Civil Action Wednesday and started reading it last night. I almost always have two books going at once and at this point in my pregnancy, it’s almost required because I can’t go trucking upstairs to retrieve a book to read. So one on each floor is useful : ) At any rate, it’s a nonfiction book about an environmental law case involving children with leukemia and big bad industry. It was made into a movie starring John Travolta, and featuring an excellent cast (2 years before “Erin Brockovich” made such a splash with the environment/lawyer theme). The book is good. It reads like fiction – kind of the way World War 3.0 and In Cold Blood read – fast-paced, good character development, driving plot, but then you realize it’s all true. Which makes it even more interesting. I can’t quite see Travolta as Jan Schlictmann, but I could probably get past that.

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Tootsie Rolls are the new crack. (Or the new black....whatever.)

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From Salon.com’s The Fix: Coldplay singer Chris Martin, whose wife Gwyneth Paltrow once dated Brad Pitt, on trying to be cool: "Being voted the world's sexiest vegetarian is about as cool as it gets. It's not quite as cool as Brad Pitt, but it'll do. Those have been the two biggest challenges of my life: trying to follow Radiohead, and trying to follow Brad Pitt."
Oh honey, you can’t even approach Thom Yorke, even if you are married to Gwyneth and named your child Apple, so just give it up now. (That last sentence reminds me disturbingly of Hedwig. Which I have been listening to in my car obsessively for the past week. Come on, Sugar Daddy, bring it home!

swoon...finally one of these ridiculous quizzes got it right...Catherine Earnshaw indeed! Huh.

With Which Harry Potter Male Are You Most Sexually Compatible?
brought to you by Quizilla

Turn yight on, Dyman. Turn yight on, Dyman. Turn yight on, Dyman. Turn yight on, Dyman. Turn yight on, Dyman.

Happy dance, happy dance! Gina's home from Disney hell...ummm...I mean...no, that's pretty much what I meant.

I missed you, and I am glad you survived. You didn't go and get a Mickey tat or anything crazy, did you?

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See this article on Salon about digitizing libraries, and then go read Nicholson Baker’s Doublefold. Baker may be a bit of an extremist but I am mostly with him. (See this review of Doublefold which I had to write for a library school class, if you like.)

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Suffice it to say at the moment that this quote from Anneli Rufus’ excerpt from her book The Farewell Chronicles [How we really respond to death] hit the proverbial nail smackdab on the head: What you did not expect, and what Hallmark never hints about, is all those other ways you feel when people die. Weird, messy, nasty, sticky, scary feelings that slop over the rim of sorrow, or poison it, or take its place. Hooboy. Sometimes that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you read something so completely true?…got it.

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I was doing some research on cited reference searching at work last night and came across a discussion of Picasso's “Guernica.” It reminded me of two insipid things which I will share with you for no particular reason whatsoever, other than my boys have done nothing wildly amusing in the past twelve hours, and Corelli’s Mandolin is all right but not riveting.
1) On “Ally McBeal,” which I shamefacedly confess to loving for the first few seasons, there was an ancient judge who referred to Picasso as “Pick-a-sew.” He just loved “old Pick-a-sew’s paintings.” At the time I thought it was funny.

2) I remember reading somewhere once that you should not hang prints of “Guernica” in the bedroom as it was very likely to disturb your sleep. Apparently the painting was a hot one for college dorm rooms and yuppie apartments for a while. Perhaps then the would-be art appreciators looked up the history of the subject of the painting and what Picasso was trying to say and do with his work. Even without knowing these facts, I was never tempted by the painting; I’ve never been a Picasso fan.

My tastes tend to run towards more illustrator/painterly types like Maxfield Parrish. (I do have several Parrish prints hanging throughout my house, and one in the bedroom. His use of light is exquisite, and very restful.) In fact, other than the Annenberg collection tour, a retrospective of Parrish’s work is the only art show I have deliberately travelled to a museum to see. I drove to Philly to see the show and dragged my long-suffering brothers throughout the whole museum. They were very bored. But considering the alternative was hanging out in the hospital room with my dying mother, I understand why Parrish won, even for a few hours.

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Must...take...boys...to...grocery....store......I SOOO can *not* get my shit together this morning. This will perk me up: I call it "Carrie Donovan meets Jiminy Glick."

admin - FYI

Guys - I can't remove spam comments due to my computer's limitations with cookies; have to wait for Gina to get back for that. But I have instituted the word recognition feature of comments; I know it takes an few extra seconds but we have been getting hit with spam pretty badly. Thanks.

-bb

Harry Potters and the Mud Pit of Azkaban

With fronds like these, who needs anemones?

I went to Half Price Books this morning. On Wednesdays the boys are in daycare and I am meant to be working on the house. Today, however, I needed to go buy the sequel to The Sparrow so I had it to take on vacation. Not only did I find the sequel, but I bought a copy of The Sparrow for two bucks. I also scored The Rule of Four; I’ve heard a lot about this and for three dollars, I was willing to take a flyer on it. My little brother liked it well enough, and he’s one of the smartest people I know, so…it’ll probably go on vacation with me. Hmmm, what else, what else? I bought Jonathan Harr’s A Civil Action. Why? Other than the fact that it was 2 bucks and I vaguely remember someone saying it was good, no good reason. To add to my shark lit collection, I picked up Richard Fernicola’s Twelve Days of Terror; I think it came out the same summer as Close to Shore, it tells the same story, so I thought it should be in the collection. I got an Anne Roiphe called Married: A Fine Predicament and I really don’t know why because her books pretty much bore me. But I am navel-gazing a lot lately (kinda hard to miss, sticking out like that and all), especially about the state of my marriage and the impending baby, so maybe I thought it could offer some insight. In the travel section I found Off the Rails in Phnom Penh: Into the Dark Heart of Guns, Girls, and Ganja. The author, Amit Gilboa, is the older brother of the husband (whom I like very much) of an old and dear friend, and I’ve met Amit, so what the heck, I’ll read it. Maybe I’ll even ask him to sign it, if I like it : )
Lastly (for me) I got a food book I’ve been keeping an eye out for, American Pie: Slices of life (and pie) from America’s back roads by Pascale Le Draoulec. Pie is one of my favorite foods, and no, it pretty much doesn’t matter what flavor. I don’t know if I have ever met a piece of homemade pie that I did not like. Pie for me is sorta like that old aphorism about pizza and sex: When it’s good, it’s very very good, and even when it’s bad, it’s still ok.

I did discover at the bookstore that I picked up many books and said, “Ooooh, that looks interesting,” only to realize that I already own it. So maybe I should just go shopping in my own library next time?

I picked up some clearance books for my boys: Richard Scarry’s Mother Goose, the first in the Magic Treehouse series, which I think Si will be ready for within the year; an anthology volume of Frog and Toad, and another Arnold Lobel, Owl at Home. I kid myself that it’s the beginning of my Christmas shopping, but I’ll probably cave way before December.

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Snippets:

None of Salon’s summer reads strike my fancy except possibly Philippa Stockley’s A Factory of Cunning.

This book, Hunger’s Brides, looks interesting. And heavy. (Speaking of heavy, I once tried to read Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy but lugging it around proved too much for me.)

The Atlantic is moving. No, not the ocean, the magazine. And I am with Jessa Crispin of Bookslut on this one: if they lose William Langewiesche (along with reportedly 90% of the rest of the staff), they are losing me.

My soapbox (ahem):
Pat Robertson is an idiot. Even if he backtracked and apologized. He’s still a huge moron. Our fundamentalists can be just as dangerous in their way as the Islamic extremists. And just because they *think* God is on their side does not make it true.

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There’s an article in this week’s Newsweek about making children’s books “more interactive.” Hello? Am I missing something? Books are fairly interactive already, I think. But what do I know? I just have to listen to endless re-tellings of stories I’ve read to the boys; all about the new characters the boys have created to go into the stories (Bob the Builder now has a trash truck named Stinky); all the new stories they’ve made up to go with their favorite characters (Pooh is a big favorite here); and never-ending requests to define or explain words and terms they encounter in their books. As far as I am concerned, a normal book is exponentially more interactive than even the most “interactive” video or TV show. Or even a book with a sound chip or accompanying DVD. Although I do admit to buying those books that come with the story on tape; my guys really enjoy hearing another person read to them occasionally and it takes a bit of pressure off me. There are many activities I refuse occasionally to do without a single qualm (how many games of Monopoly Junior can *you* play?), but Si and Jude know they can almost always guilt me into reading to them, no matter how busy or engrossed I am in something else.


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RockStar INXS update. Dan will get home from band practice and discover that his wife is a moron: I could not get the VCR channel to change to CBS, so I think I recorded the ballroom dancing show on Fox instead. Oops. How a computer engineer and a librarian cannot figure out how to tape one program a week, I do not know and am sad and embarrassed to admit. I probably should’ve just asked Simon to set it up. Dan will have to say, “I’m sorry, you’re just not right for my family.” It’s not as catchy as “You’re fired!” but it seems to work for INXS.

Now having said that, Jordis sucked big time last night and still managed to avoid the bottom three. She’s still charmed. JD was the only one I voted for; he’s a jerk but he’d be a great INXS frontman. He’s also the only one who even approaches any sort of sex appeal. Ty BORED me, as usual, and I love that eventually, they finally admitted that he “cowrote” Deanna’s song. Marty did a good impression of Tim Burton meets Kurt Cobain, with a dash of David Bowie thrown in. The size of the man’s mouth and teeth continue to astound me. Suzie’s cute and all but she’s not going to make the cut. And thank heavens Swiss Miss is gone, back to her geriatric nursing home, one presumes. Thank God. I couldn’t watch her saggy boobs and wrinkled brow one more week.

Okay, class. Optical orbits up front, and remember, we keep our subesophageal ganglia to ourselves.

Governments keep war hidden because it is hideous. To allow citizens to see its reality -- the shattered bodies, the wounded children, the incomprehensible mayhem -- is to risk eroding popular support for it. - Gary Kamiya on Salon.com

I did not want to look at this photo gallery now, at work. I know I will cry, and I also don’t want to offend or upset anyone who might be watching or walking behind my computer. But I think it’s important that we Americans know the true toll and devastation of this war, just as I thought it was important that we not be too shielded from the true horror of September 11’s events. We cannot make our decisions for our political stances and lifestyle choices without facing up to the consequences of said decisions, and the events those actions may inspire or cause. You can’t – or at least shouldn’t - be antiwar without knowing why, and conversely, you can not - or should not - be pro-war without being fully cognizant of what the war entails for our soldiers/our citizens.

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Myla Goldberg (Bee Season) has a new book out; it’s called Wickett’s Remedy. Bee Season (NOT to be confused with The Secret Life of Bees) was an uneven but ultimately engaging book, with a surprising ending. Her character of Eliza Naumann is awkward and average - and at times thoroughly unlikeable - but eventually inspires intense empathy and probably makes every mother feel as if she just wants to protect the poor girl, from herself and her bonkers family. I’m not all that nuts about the whole Irish theme of the new book, but I’ll read it.

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Go, Mark Kurlansky! And in that same vein, maybe the British are NOT inherently smarter than we are… Although I am far more likely and willing to believe that the British MPs are reading Dan Brown than I am that George Bush is reading social and/or Russian history.

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I am considering buying this book for my Republican, capitalist little brother…or at least for his new child. Since I know the boy won’t be reading the Commie-leaning Rainbow Fish anytime soon.

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The Crimson Petal and the White is all right but it’s just not grabbing me. So I started (for the umpteenth time) Captain Corelli’s Mandolin; this time it might stick, as I am enjoying it except for the boring The Duce sections, but I guess the political machinations are part of what fuels the novel’s plot. We shall see.

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A couple books that have crossed my radar, that I want to look into: Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks. I think I mentioned this a few months ago, and worried it was likened to The French Lieutenant’s Woman. But it looks worthy of checking into. I was also interested to discover that Faulks wrote On Green Dolphin Street. Anna Quindlen mentions OGDS as one of the books that her mother read over and over again; Quindlen’s book of this sort was The Forsyte Saga. I am always curious about other people’s “comfort” books.

And for Gina : ), Not a Games Person – Julie Myerson. For some reason, this looks like a book you might dig, Gina.

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Yesterday was the first day of classes for the fall semester. The library is considerably busier than it’s been since I started here. And I have only one thing to say: how on earth did some of these students even manage to get INTO college? Good Lord.

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On the way to daycare this morning, we saw a little grey dead cat in the middle of the other side of the road. With my boys in the car, I hesitated to pull over and move the cat out of the road, but I did call Animal Control so the poor thing wouldn’t keep getting run over. Simon of course heard the whole conversation and proceeded to query me about the cat.

Si: Do cats get run over a lot?
Me: Well, no, not especially, but that one did.
Si: What about mouses?
Me: Um, sure. They’re small but probably sometimes…
Si: Chipmunks?
Me: Um, sure. Although they’re pretty small and fast too.
Si: Badgers?
Me: Um, I’d say no on that one, Si.
A few moments of silence while he considers, and then,
Si (joyfully and triumphantly): Well, I KNOW *people* can get run over!

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.

My little brother is…gack…THIRTY-TWO today. How can he be that old? That makes me ancient! Happy birthday, Drew (not that anyone in my family has this blog URL).

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At Nadav’s birthday party yesterday morning, Jude wanted to go down into the yard to play, but to do so, he had to pass the dog enclosure. He came back up, planted himself in my lap, and said, “Dogs eat me, no!” Whereupon Deb’s dad pointed out that as they were Jewish dogs, they wouldn’t eat him because he was trayf. Jude didn’t much benefit but I thought it was hilarious.

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Often I feel very out of place at Deb’s parties because usually I am 1) the only non-physician, and while I am very satisfied with my librarian career, it can be a bit intimidating, and I often feel dismissed (most likely just a product of my natural inferiority complex, not a comment on Deb’s friends) and 2) I am often the only Gentile, and since I don’t speak Hebrew I feel that much more out of the loop. Deb and I have been friends forever and she knows things about me I hope she never reveals, and I adore Deb and her husband -- but it can be weird. Yesterday was the exception, maybe it’s because her family and other friends are starting to know me. Noam’s mom was so sweet, and I must say, I have MIL envy. I know everyone has their own issues with their in-laws and I would not presume to understand or get in the middle, but all other things being equal, I wonder if Arlyn would adopt me? I understand that much of my MIL longing is caused by the fact that my mom is gone and has been for years, but I do seem to wistfully wish to be adopted by various other moms an awful lot. My brother’s MIL is a gem and while she’s fond enough of me, I suppose, she does have five children of her own. Alas, Arlyn has three children of her own and very nice grandchildren to boot. The only one I would have hope to love me the way my mom did would be my MIL and it’s obvious after ten years of marriage that that will never be the case. Despite the fact that my MIL has a heart of mostly gold, she and I are simply not simpatico. And I do want to be loved like someone’s daughter, and that just doesn’t happen when these wonderful women have wonderful kids of their own, you know? I might be loved but not the way my poor little orphaned soul desires : ) Anyhoo, enough pathetic-ness.

I had a lovely conversation about books with Arlyn, and Deb’s dad and stepmom. Arlyn has read The Sparrow and I was so excited to have someone to discuss it with! She had even met the author while in Seattle a few years ago and she confirmed my thoughts that Mary Doria Russell seems to be a very down-to-earth and interesting, intelligent woman. I do love talking books. What a great morning.

The other bonus is that Deb’s is the only place I ever get to eat all the smoked salmon I want. Bagels, cream cheese, smoked salmon, and red onions – another perfect breakfast, topped off with hot coffee and delicious chocolate cake from Whole Foods.

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David and Marisa’s party was lovely. The chocolate fondue was quite the hit and I think I ate all their pineapple. And I love the new dining room set, it’s gorgeous. I meet the funniest and strangest people at their house, too – it’s nice to ease back into that theatre culture for an evening. No one looks at me twice if I swear a lot, and I forget how blunt and vulgar theatre people can be after my daily sojourn among academic librarians. I miss it sometimes.

I think I should probably tone down the mostly-pseudo ex-professor bitterness around David’s university colleagues however; it’s a good riff but I think some of them took me seriously. I had one prof who I hated (and trust me, the feeling was sooooo mutual). But that was fifteen years ago, and now it’s just amusing. I don’t want anyone thinking I actually even still care (although at the time, I did, desperately), so the Cletus riff has to go, alas. But really, what sort of grown man in a position of authority tells a twenty-one-year-old that she has the emotions of a fence post, and that the only reason she’s graduating is because they don’t want her around next year? (Note: for my own pride, I must point out that I graduated with college and university honors, and a 3.5 GPA. So it was *not* my grades.) OK, maybe it still bothers me a little; what can I say, I was scarred : )

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I am lining up vacation books. I will be away a week, so I need to bring at least five. Here’s what I am considering at the moment (bold ones are definites):

Vanity Fair - Thackeray
In Harm’s Way – Douglas Stanton (I *know* what I said about shark books at the shore…)
The Game – Laurie King
Son of the Circus – John Irving
Green Darkness
Children of God
Whatever magazine issues I get in the mail the week before we leave

I just started Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White so if I am still working on that, that will go too.

It’s the BabelBabe Fresh Air Fund for Books.

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Gina, I miss you.
We’re thinking of you, see?



And maybe you'll find a nice man while you're there (although I think you'd hesitate to date any single man who was at Disney...)



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My new life motto:
Where is human nature so weak as in the bookstore? - Henry Ward Beecher