"Well, we kinda face to the north and real subtle-like turn left."*

The Grand Sophy – Georgette Heyer
Cocktails for Three – Madeline Wickham
Geyser Life – Edward Hardy

And now you know.
And so do I.
(And thanks to Jess for the inside scoop on canceled hold records.)

Now go read Lauren Groff’s Monsters of Templeton.
It’s (so far) the best modern novel I have read in a very long time.

**********
*Daniel Day-Lewis as Hawkeye in "Last of the Mohicans"

“To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first, and call whatever you hit the target” *

It was bound to happen eventually – I didn’t get to the library this weekend to pick up my holds and they were sent back – and I cannot remember what I requested. Oh well, it’s not as if I don’t have plenty to read – but more on that later.

I managed to get all the trim but the window painted in the bedroom that is going to be H’s. This morning Terzo, Quarto (affectionately known as Darth at the moment), and I went to the NEW Target (oooohhh…) to buy:

1) unbreakable cereal bowls. One of the handcrafted pottery bowls that H and I collect was accidentally chipped at my impromptu birthday festivities Friday evening – our own fault for using them, but we had ice cream to feed people, so there you have it...it’s time for some Melamine for this household. I spotted some lovely ombre blue and white bowls at the old Target on Thursday but there were only two then, so today at the NEW Target when there were eight upon the shelf, I scooped them up, and eight matching salad plates and the six remaining dinner plates. I am becoming the queen of mismatched dinnerware –but it’s all in lovely shades of blue and white and turquoise so it’s all good and pretty and interesting.

2) window blinds for my boys’ room and H’s new bedroom. Because our house is so old, our windows are ginormous. But I found two of those new honeycomb cordless blinds in “Cottage White” for the boys, and a looooong off-white jute Roman shade for H, which will be covered with some plain unbleached muslin curtains. As soon as I finish painting the window frames, I will install these, and shift H’s closet contents, and set up his futon. And maybe my two older boys will stop waking up all night long, because the street lights outside the window will be blocked…

3) Snoopy socks for Terzo (gotta love those $1 bins), and
4) some coconut SoftSoap body scrub for me (in place of my lovely but now unfindable milk and honey bodywash), and
5) some nice hooks for the back of my bedroom door, for my bathrobe (not that I ever wore a bathrobe in my life before, but now I wear a light-blue cotton robe from Saks that I found at a thrift shop and LOVE it. It gives the Neutrogena body oil time to dry.)

And then, as I was handing the cashier my $5 off coupon that my neighbor had given me, I smelled the lovely toasty scent of coffee. There is a Starbucks RIGHT IN THE NEW TARGET.
Heaven.
Absolute heaven.
Could a shopping trip get any better?
Retail therapy is SO effective sometimes.

**************

*Ashleigh Brilliant

I don't have the energy to go find any kind of quote.

Dudes, things have been all kinds of insane around here.

The baby will not let me put him down, and he sounds like Darth Vader after he’s worked in the coal mines for fifty years. In addition, I will nurse him for an hour and then he’ll still be wailing so I give up and give him a 4 oz. bottle, which he sucks down like a starving Armenian. I am getting a little fed up.

In addition, he seems to be MY problem. I started painting yesterday in H’s room, while the baby napped, and when he woke up did H stop what he was doing (cutting the grass) to pick him up? Noooooooo. For that matter, did he even bother worrying about hearing him if he woke up? Noooooooo. I have fucking HAD IT.

And he made all the arrangements to take the boys to Thomas this spring – the exact week I had already signed Seg up for art camp. Which wouldn’t have been a big deal except I ASKED him to put Thomas on the calendar and he never did and he looked at the art camp schedule and never said a damn thing until AFTER I had signed Seg up. Why is my time allowed to be wasted so egregiously?

And I am already good and sick of goddamn t-ball.

I (stupidly) volunteered for Primo’s school’s Career Day Wednesday, but had forgotten all about it. When I called my mother-in-law to see if she could watch the two younger boys for a couple hours, she said she’d take Terzo but not Quarto. Well, fuck me. You know what? I took the damn baby with me, so those kids can see precisely what they have to look forward to as a woman in the workforce. And it was fine. He was, in fact, the star of the show. But I was livid.

The older boys are driving me twenty-eight different kinds of crazy, let’s not even go down that path, ok?

I can feel myself sliding slowly to the end of my tether.
Hence, the light posting. I’ll be fine. I just really really need a weekend to myself - which isn’t going to happen. I need Seg to stop whining and Terzo to stop shouting all the time, and Primo to stop acting like a two-year-old instead of the seven-year-old he is. I need H to stop acting like the baby is some sort of cute pet he can play with only when he wants. I need my mother-in-law to be semi-helpful.

I have a ton of posts to write about books and cool, fun stuff that's been happening but apparently I am capable only of complaining and kvetching and bitching.

I think I need to up my Zoloft.

And don't feel obliged to comment. I know you all care about me, and I know this will pass, and I know H is actually very helpful, just maybe not the way I need him to be. I know all this. But I have a headache and I'd like to devote two straight hours to any one thing, whatever, anything, just to complete a task. I'd like to even just finish a goddamn novel. ANYthing.

"Don't talk to me about naval tradition. It's nothing but rum, sodomy, prayers, and the lash." *

I wonder how early is too early to start fantas -- er, thinking about one of these?

(And if I am taking photos of it, do I have a problem?)

********

*Winston Churchill

"Oh boy, here we go. The pain of childbirth. Isn't there a statute of limitations on this?"*

I returned Devil in the White City (Erik Larsen) to the library – occurred to me that for the two bucks worth of fines I will pay, I could probably pick up a used copy somewhere, perhaps with the generous gift card to Half Price Books my wonderful (ex) compatriots from the library gave me as a baby gift. I was really enjoying it, however, and the best synopsis I can give (so far) is Katya’s: “I came for the serial killer and stayed for the architecture.”

Dreamers of the Day - Mary Doria Russell. It arrived a few days ago, and I was exhibiting a weird reluctance to start it, until last night. But then I got sucked into Scramble, and decided I need to finish The Tenderness of Wolves first.

Labyrinth – Kate Mosse. Someone tell me this ISN’T Da Vinci Code for chicks…I picked it up cheap at the library sale, and would maybe like to read it someday….but…same goes for the copy of The Reluctant Fundamentalist I got for a buck yesterday. I’ll get to them all eventually, I suppose. It is to be hoped.

Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler. I always like Tyler novels but I always forget that until I pick one up. This one is slightly dated, and the tragic catalyst that begins the novel made me go check on my sleeping children, but it’s an enjoyable, quirky little read.

Deer Hunting with Jesus - Joe Bageant. Um, I SO don’t get it. Sorry. I didn’t much care for his writing, but I might give it another shot when I get my brain back.

Tenderness of Wolves - Stef Penney. So far this reminds me of Margaret Lawrence’s historical mysteries, in which the mystery is pretty much incidental to the history. I always dig the cranky yet efficient and competent women characters, too.

Wednesday Letters – Jason Wright. Argh! Make it STOP! My eyes are bleeding! (This is precisely what you would expect from a book written by a man named Jason.)

Remembering the Bones - Frances Itani. This book was interesting, and I mean that in a good way. Why it reminded me of Fannie Flagg’s Fried Green Tomatoes (with a soupcon of Robertson Davies’ Deptford trilogy), but narrated by an old lady lying half dead in a ravine, I do not know…

Keeper and Kid - Edward Hardy. I really, REALLY liked this book. It reminded me, especially in skill and verisimilitude of characterization, of a Richard Russo book, only the protagonist wasn’t nearly enough of a loser to be in a Russo novel. While the entire novel is based on a somewhat ridiculous assumption, the characters are realistic and still extremely likeable. And contrary to one Facebook reviewer’s assertions, I thought the three-year-old’s dialogue was perfect.

Away - Amy Bloom. Oh my fucking God, I read three pages and wanted to slit my wrists so I sent it back to the library. That said, the writing was terrific – unsurprising considering how adept and lovely the stories were in Bloom’s A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You.

Remember Me? Sophie Kinsella’s latest offering. She trots out the unbelievable normal-slob/girl-next-door-makes-good storyline (which Gina pointed out, actually sort of made sense in the end of this book although I was skeptical even halfway through); however, Lexi is not NEARLY as neck-wringingly annoying as Becky Bloomwood.

The Ten Year Nap – Meg Wolitzer. I may go buy this one, even though I find Wolitzer’s books largely forgettable, although enjoyable and well-written enough while reading them.

The Monsters of Templeton - Lauren Groff. I’ll read this next, as there are a thousand and three holds on it (ok, a hundred-odd). And Jess just read it. I’ll keep you posted.

Naptime is the New Happy Hour. This book totally reminded me of the Suburban Bliss/Melissa Summers playdates-and-drinks debacle. And it is funny. And just when you think she’s being totally tongue-in-cheek and sarcastic, she comes out with some fundamental truth of parenting that causes you to heave an enormous sigh of relief and/or want to call her up for a playdate. All the bad-mommy clichés are present, but they’re still amusing, so…much is forgiven, if you manage to amuse me.

Other library books awaiting my eyeballs:
A Good School - Richard Yates.
Still Life Louise Penny. The first in a mystery series that looks interesting.
Stuffed: Adventures of a Restaurant Family - Patricia Volk.
Life Class - Pat Barker. Should I admit that I always mistake Pat Barker for the horror writer, Clive Barker? But apparently Pat is quite the writer.
The Master Bedroom - Tessa Hadley. Who the heck knows why I pick up half the books I do?
Mermaids in the Basement - Michael Lee West. West wrote one of my favorite “cookbooks” ever, Consuming Passions. In fact, I just had a piece of the most delicious chocolate cake ever, from a recipe in that book, that I made for H’s birthday.

Now that dissertation defense season is wrapping up, maybe I will have time to READ some of these.

****************

*Tim Taylor

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

Dissertation Editing by BabelBabe
Rates available upon request.

*********

I am thinking of having business cards made.
And a website.
And this is my tagline.

Whaddya think?

"I would like to hold my little hand."*

It's been a very stressful - on many levels - week.

Today I recalled, inadvertently, one of the best stress reducers I have ever used: this album, CRANKED, while I lie on the floor with my eyes closed and lose myself in the music, especially tracks 2 ("Send Me on My Way"), 9 ("Martyr"), and most especially 10 ("Back to the Earth").

I was a Rusted Root fan when they were playing teeny little clubs like the Artery in Pittsburgh. I saw them at Graffiti more times than I can recall (dancing myself into a sweaty mess every single time), and spent four New Year's Eves in a row at one of their shows. I once drove to West Virginia to catch them at the Nyabinghi. And no one was happier for them than I, when they got a record contract and started touring with the likes of Blues Traveler and the Dave Matthew's Band.

It turns out that the boys dig them too - no surprise, with their strong rhythms and complex tunes. They are a drummer's dream.

A few tunes, and a nice stiff drink, and I am MUCH more relaxed.

“Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis.”*

Dissertation defense season is upon us...as is the tag end of flu season.

More later....

*****************
*Ralph Waldo Emerson

“It's the inflation story, it's there and it's got implications going forward.”*

Dudes, my brain is mush. I have a gigantor book post to write, about good stuff I have been reading and what I have lined up, but I. CAN'T. THINK. And, well, I have to go play Scramble on Facebook. And, what, I can't hear you, I have a baby attached to my boob. So, here, have some photos:

This is the boys' second day of getting their own breakfast. I like that someone even went out on the porch and retrieved the newspaper.

I know it LOOKS like he is worshiping the cake, but really, he didn't even like it all that much. A chocolate Guinness cake is probably best reserved for the adults from now on. (What? He liked it at the St Pat's party! And the alcohol bakes out!)

One of the most successful presents (I had to peel it off him today and insist on washing it). Although Seg is my boy whom, if I wrapped up an old rag and a bar of used soap, he'd hug me, tell me he loved me, and say thanks. (And then he'd ask his dad what the hell...)

These are all the boys from Seg's preschool class walking home from school today, to our house for Seg's cupcake party. At the top of the steps, Seg turned to his followers and said, "Now, everybody, we'll see my brother Terzo. Be nice to him. And remember, he's littler than you, so if you hit him, let him hit you back."

I am not permitted to vacuum the house ever again. Just in case. Damn Germans.

Note to anyone who has ever, or will ever attend a five-year-old's birthday party: This? Should have been left on the shelf. Thanks, M! WHAT were you thinking, woman?! Am I not ENOUGH of a nervous wreck?

I leave you with cute baby socks! Well, I would have but he twisted and turned and stuck out his tongue and stretched, just before he let out an enormous fart, and moved, and the camera clicked. So here's my living room rug.


Here, here are the cute socks:

***************
*Drew Matus, Lehman Brothers

"Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles..."*

The boys MADE THEIR OWN BREAKFAST TODAY.

Without blood, or any incident whatsoever.

Primo got English muffins out of the freezer, toasted them, put Nutella on them (“Don’t worry, Mom, I used a butter knife, not the steak knives.” Ohhhh, gooood) , and then cleaned up. They were so proud of themselves, my little Nutella-slathered guys.

They neglected to wipe the kitchen table, but I am the only person in this house who does that on a regular basis – and once every few weeks, I scrub it down anyway, and take a knife to the crusty grout (which, incidentally, would be a fabulous name for a band).

Primo pointed out that if I move the cereal down from the top of the refrigerator, they can get their own breakfasts every morning.
Leaving Mama to loll in bed with bonbons and trashy novels until 10 a.m.

I am off to my 6-week post-partum check-up, and to grocery shop for Seg’s family birthday dinner tomorrow. I will try to fit in a run later. I will go to the library, too - although I am deliberately not returning books I know to be overdue, so that I may finish them (there's holds on them, so cannot renew. Bad library patron.) I am feeling remarkably cheery today.

How odd.

**************

"Miracle of Miracles," Fiddler on the Roof

“If you were to ask me if I'd ever had the bad luck to miss my daily cocktail, I'd have to say that I doubt it."*

Who was it who said, “It’s five o’clock SOMEWHERE”? Blackbird, dear, was it you? Because if ever I needed that sentiment, today was one of those days.

The Remora cries – a lot. Colicky-a-lot.

[Side note: I am developing this theory that a baby’s labor and birth is indicative of traits that will emerge later in the child; it fits my boys fairly well. My high-maintenance man, Primo, was a finicky, fiddly, endless, and painful labor: induction, hallucinations, epidural not working, the works. Seg’s was dogged and steady, just like him: my reliable, to-be-counted-upon boy. Terzo was what I call a drive-by, and so is he: easy-going and relaxed. Unfortunately Quarto’s labor was a repeat of Primo’s, complicated by some medical issues, the perfect storm of labor and delivery, only culminating in, thank God, a healthy baby. A cranky, colicky, screaming baby, but healthy. Any other moms care to weigh in here on this theory? I think it’s got legs.]

My brother was here this weekend so I am recovering from the orgy of eating that always occurs, because I have NO self control. I swear I could feel my thighs and butt growing by the minute (even though I went for my first run in ten months on Tuesday). Does fat itch?

I cracked a molar on one of those ridiculous cinnamon candies I am addicted to and the dentist can’t fit me in till next Thursday – since I am not in any pain and therefore it’s not an emergency. There’s a substantial chunk of my tooth gone missing, and I can eyeball the silver filling inside, but it’s not an emergency.

I am yearning to vacuum my filthy floors, I have a dissertation to wrap up tomorrow morning, I can't seem to finish a novel, and I need a shower desperately.

[On the other hand, Seg spent the morning with a friend so the two youngest and I strolled outside in the sunshine with Terzo’s new Easter-egg-shaped chalk, leaving colorful trails of flowers, smiley faces, Penguins logos, and other artwork throughout the neighborhood, in a path leading to the coffee shop and the most delicious brownie I have ever eaten (shared with a most delicious two-year-old), accompanied by a nice steamy latte for me and hot chocolate for him (with TWO helpings of whipped cream). Then after school I took all four boys plus one of Primo’s friends to the park where they ran wild for two hours, The Remora slept in his carseat, and I stood around and chatted with my mommy friends, all of whom had had the same idea. Also, H and I have hockey tix for tomorrow night. Also also, my new Nigella book (How to Eat) came in the mail today, along with the newest Mary Doria Russell novel. So. Life is not all bad. It just makes for more interesting copy...]

*********

Bonus round: Reason number 16,346 why I can’t be bothered to watch TV anymore - “Jon & Kate + Eight.”

Are these people for real? Tonight’s episode featured the pancake breakfast and potty training, complete with photos of the kids with their poop. Please. I am as inured to poop talk as the next mom, but honestly, why? The parents are beyond annoying, and the kids weren’t much better although one can hope they’ll at least grow out of it. Oy.

I turned off the TV, propped The Remora on my chest, and attacked the latest round of Scrabulous instead. Now I am off to bed with Devil in the White City.

************

* Luis Bunuel

“Lisa, vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and eskimos” *

Now, please, if you are a little old nun, a Transylvanian, an Eskimo, or a vampire, don't take offense. This is one of my favorite jokes of all time, and H told it at dinner tonight, making me nearly choke to death on my Easter ham.

******************

Two nuns are driving through the mountains of Transylvania.
A vampire leaps from the side of the road and plasters himself to their car’s windshield.

“Oh my!”gasps the first little old nun.
“Swerve left!” directs the second little old nun.
The first little old nun frantically jerks the steering wheel left. The car swerves all over the road but the vampire hangs on, laughing maniacally.

“Swerve right!” directs the second little old nun.
The first little old nun frantically jerks the steering wheel right. The car swerves all over the road but the vampire still hangs on, laughing louder.

“Turn on the windshield wipers!” shouts the second little old nun.
The first little old nun turns on the windshield wipers. The vampire grins his toothy grin at her and hangs on.

The second little old nun, inspired, shouts, “Show him your cross!”
And the first little old nun leans out the window, shakes her fist, and screams at the vampire, “Get the fuck off my windshield, you fucking asshole!”

*****************

*Homer Simpson

"We are bad bears. We are not to be trusted."

I have clearly been slacking.
But I did manage to format a bibliography, proof a resume, and start editing a 100-page dissertation draft – without seriously curtailing my Facebook Scramble activities. Hey, something’s gotta give…

Mostly I haven’t been feeling very clever or funny or anything close to approaching my normal witty and erudite self – not to mention I have been amazingly cranky and nasty with the boys and there’s truly nothing funny about THAT.

Although I believe I have good cause to wonder: is it possible that I indeed have the world’s most annoying child (Primo), the world’s whiniest AND loudest child (Seg), and the world’s most stubborn child (Terzo)? It seems like way too much of an – ahem – honor to truly believe I have all three. But I FEEL like I do.
So enough about boring, cranky me. Let’s talk books, that always makes me feel better.

Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons - Shirley Jackson. If you, like all the rest of creation, were required in high school to read Jackson’s morbid short story “The Lottery,” or later ventured into her creepy novels We Have Always Lived in the Castle or Haunting of Hill House, you will have a tough time believing that the same woman penned these dry, witty, somewhat tongue-in-cheek accounts of her life with husband and four children in a ramshackle old house in a small town. They read like early Erma Bombeck, or, for those of you lucky enough to have read it, Theresa Bloomingdale’s laugh-out-loud funny I Should Have Seen It Coming When the Rabbit Died. They have been perfect reading while my four children wail and cry and whine and beat on each other the first few days of spring break.

Devil in the White City – Erik Larson. Loving it. More when I am done…

Prompted by an amazingly delicious, dark and velvety chocolate Guinness cake brought to the party Saturday, I purchased Nigella Lawson’s How to Eat yesterday from Amazon. I originally bought Beth Gutcheon’s new novel, not due out till July, and Mary Doria Russell’s newest novel, but to qualify for Supersaver Shipping, I would not receive the Russell till July, when the Gutcheon comes out. So I had to cancel that order, reorder the Russell, and find something else to buy. Hence, Nigella. I love Nigella. I own How to Be a Domestic Goddess and have never, not once, cooked anything from there that wasn’t incredibly delicious and mostly pretty easy. Victoria sponge has become a staple in my baking repertoire.

Oh, and I also bought Bad Bear Detectives. Because those little stinkers Irving and Muktuk have wormed their devious way into my heart and make me smile. Just like...my obstreperous children. Sigh.

"Couches are good for one thing."*

...and that would be for lying upon (while H takes all four boys to his parents for an hour or so, God bless the man), with a drink close to hand, a nice bowl of cashews, my laptop (12 ongoing games of Scramble), and Devil in the White City which I am finding surprisingly (to me) readable. It reads like a novel. It's fascinating.

And Vicki Glembocki told me to read it.
Yes, THAT Vicki Glembocki.
I talked about her book The Second Nine Months, remember? I was enjoying it very much. And she found me and emailed me. Before I could email her to tell her how much I liked it (well, really, before I could - via email - throw myself at her feet, arms wrapped around her ankles, sobbing, "Yes! Me too! Me too! I loooooove you! Can we get our babies together and have coffee? And do you truly not care if I have showered or not?")

And again, we all know how I am with Real. Live. Authors. (Right, Rebecca?)(I wonder if I should have used my favorite sycophant quote for this post..)

So - read her book. in fact, BUY her book - this sort of honesty should be rewarded. It's funny. And spot-on. If you've had a baby to care for 24/7, you'll get it; if you haven't (and plan to), consider yourself (truthfully) forewarned. It's straight up, it's not Girlfriend's Guide (which lost me when she told me to basically starve myself while breastfeeding to get my bod back SIX weeks after birth). It's not What to Expect (which basically yells at you for eating anything that's not wholesome and wholegrain - she says, drink in hand). It's just real. And funny. And heart-wrenchingly accurate. I may very well make my husband read it - or maybe not. As he has already experienced one woman's baby crazies.

In other book news:

- reading Lucinda Rosenfeld's What She Saw. I was speeding through it, thoroughly engrossed, and then the protagonist's affair with a jerk of a professor threw me - and her - off track, and Phoebe has emerged as this whining, narcissistic, bulimic, insecure bimbo - and I am having a tough time continuing. Which is sad because I really liked Phoebe in the first half of the book.

- also reading Revolutionary Road. Gina's description of it as the novel form of Virginia Woolf is accurate. Frank Wheeler is an asshole; his wife April is a twit. And yet I keep reading because I must know what happens.

- just bought a hardcover of the inestimable David Mitchell's Black Swan Green which I remember liking very much but don't remember much else. Plus, I read Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and Nigel Slater's Toast around the same time and am sure I have it confused with one or both of them.

- bought Greg Bear's Quantico for H's birthday. I read and liked Darwin's Radio (but I was pregnant at the time and it freaked me out pretty badly).

- bought a Titanic book for Seg's fifth birthday coming up in a few weeks. Wonder of wonders, to find a Titanic book we don't already own!

- restrained myself from buying Terzo a little stuffed puppy dog he was playing with at the bookstore (he was "ruff! ruff!"-ing at Quarto). Oh. My. God. He was so dang cute, and he kept talking about his "friends" (what he calls all his stuffies he must sleep with). I did buy him a book about backhoes, though. Because that boy has me wrapped right around his little finger. And everyone knows that backhoes ROCK.

************

* John Wayne

"I've been a wild rover for many a year, and I've spent all my money on whiskey and beer."*

Toilet overflowing (complete with water dripping through dining room ceiling): Check.

Girl vomiting/peeing self in kitchen (ok, she was three): Check.

Snoring man passed out upstairs in my bed (my two-year-old): Check.

Floors sticky with beer (and juice): Check.

Wow, my life (and my St Pat’s party) is JUST LIKE living in a fraternity.

(Except instead of being a little sister, I am the mommy.)

***************

*"The Wild Rover"

"I have fallen for another, she can make her own way home..."*

In the spirit of the holiday, I give you my personal St Pat’s playlist, in no particular order (I was going to write an ode to Shane MacGowan, but maybe later...):

Traditional tunes, sung by any number of Irish (and not) performers:

“Fields of Athenry” (I have probably scarred my boys for life by singing this dismally sad and heartwrenching song to them as a lullaby.)

“Finnegan’s Wake” (my favorite part is yelling “Lunch!”)

“The Orange and the Green” (I love the slapstick-y humor of this song.)

“Danny Boy” (H is named for this song. We had an oboeist friend play this last year at our party, and I am sure there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.)

“Farewell to Nova Scotia” (Not technically Irish but the permutation of RHP (before they morphed into an Irish rock band) used to play this, as the fiddle player was a sailor.)

“Sonny Don’t Go Away” (Ditto. And the reverse Oedipal overtones of this song make me laugh.)

“Black Velvet Band”

“Cockles and Mussels” (Hate hate HATE this song but apparently am only one of the face of the earth.)

“Jolly Beggar” (You can’t hear this and not want to dance.)

“Wild Rover” (Same sailor of “Sonny” fame sang an insanely ribald alternate version of this that made me howl with laughter.)

“Long Black Veil” (Also sing this to the boys – therapy awaits! And I know it’s not remotely Irish except for the Chieftains (with Mick Jagger) having recorded it.)


“If I Should Fall from Grace with God”
“Turkish Song of the Damned”
“Fairytale of New York”
“South Australia”
“Fiesta”
(If I Should Fall from Grace with God - The Pogues)

“I’m a Man You Don’t Meet Everyday”
“Sally Mac Lennane”
“Dirty Old Town”
“The Band Played Waltzing Matilda”
(Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash – The Pogues)

“I’ll Tell Me Ma”
“Marie’s Wedding”
(Irish Heartbeat – Chieftains with Van Morrison)

“I Useta Lover”
“Red Cortina”
“Presentation Boarder”
“N17”
“Only One Girl”
“Irish Post”
(If This Is Rock ‘n’ Roll, I Want My Old Job Back - The Saw Doctors)

“When I’m Up I Can’t Get Down”
“Here’s To You”
“Blood Wedding”
(Holy Bandits - Oyster Band)

“Jamie Across the Water”
“House Husband’s Lament”
“Fisher’s Hornpipe”
“The Galtee Set”
(Old Lead – Boiled in Lead)

“My Son John” (From the Ladle to the Grave – Boiled in Lead)

“Dearg Doom” (Straight From the Horse’s Mouth - The Horslips)

“Nancy Whiskey” (The Snake – Shane MacGowan & the Popes)

“Whiskey in the Jar” (Vagabonds of the Western World – Thin Lizzy)

“Rocky Road to Dublin”
“Sadam’s Reel/Kulsko Horo”
“William Taylor”
“Hanter Droiou”
(Another Setting – The House Band)

“Rocky Road to Dublin”
“Follow Me Up to Carlow”
“Foggy Dew”
(Rocky Road – Young Dubliners)

“Bullet the Blue Sky”
“I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”
(Joshua Tree – U2)

“I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)”
(Sunshine on Leith – The Proclaimers)

“Step It Out Mary”
“John O’Hara”
“Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye”
“Drunken Sailor”
“Irish Rover”
“Johnny’s Lament”
“Black and Tans”
(Something’ Close to Sinnin’ – Red Hand Paddy (in other words, the entire album but for a few tracks in the middle))


Now I am off to decant (if that's the word) the beer bread from its pans, peel ten pounds of potatoes, and peruse the recipe for oatmeal stout cake that I am considering making for the party.

And buy another case of Guinness (and a bottle of rum for me).

Slainte!
***************

* "I Useta Lover," The Saw Doctors

"...because the world's a horrible place, because it didn't give us everything we cried for."*

He’s NOT hungry. He nursed for almost an hour, draining both boobs, just before we left.

He’s NOT poopy. In fact, that may be the problem as he’s having trouble pooping, and you know, pooping is sort of an important life skill to learn.

He’s NOT hot.

OR cold.

He HASN’T been in the car seat all that long.

I ALREADY cut the tags out of his clothes, and he isn’t wearing socks.

So, yes, to the grandmotherly woman behind me in the grocery store, and everyone else glaring at me because my baby is screaming at the top of his lungs – I ADMIT IT.

I PINCHED HIM.

Isn’t THAT what you wanted to hear?

Sheesh.

*****************

*John Lennon

"He's calculating the right thing to say, believing that there is a right thing to say, not understanding that nothing he says will be right."*

Two weeks after Seg was born, H turned forty. I hosted a birthday party for 45 people, complete with food & cake and presents, in our teeny tiny house.

So a St. Pat’s party for 50ish (plus a couple dozen kids) in our monster house, with corned beef & cabbage & scads of Guinness & Jameson’s, a month & a half after Quarto’s birth, should be a relative piece of cake.

Shouldn’t it? I’ll let you know. Also, do you think chocolate cake & lemon cake are sufficiently Irish desserts?

*************

I am currently reading The Second Nine Months and Revolutionary Road; reviews to follow when finished. I also picked up, cheap, at the library book sale The Historian, Labyrinth, and A Lesson Before Dying. And a friend lent me A Thousand Splendid Suns. Plus library books: Devil in the White City and Lucinda Rosenfeld’s What She Saw. So I have plenty to read.

Whew.

*********

I recently reconnected with an old friend from college whose wife, it turns out, is publishing her first novel next spring. She has been writing all sorts of stuff and has developed an impressive career, including finalist for the Pushcart. I am enjoying reading through her stories on her website. Pretty exciting stuff, and you know how I am about knowing Real! Life! Authors! (Rebecca, you did know I worship you – in a non-stalkerish sort of way – didn’t you?)

*******************
* Vicki Glembocki, The Second Nine Months: One Woman Tells the Truth about Becoming a Mom. Finally.

“Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts.”*

It’s a haircut night in Pittsburgh! Every couple months or so, we run an assembly-line haircut operation and buzz the boys. Yet another sign that it’s probably a good thing I did not give birth to a girl…

***********

Currently reading:

High Crimes: The Fate of Everest in an Age of Greed - Michael Kodas. A compelling read, if a tad scattered – although he may yet pull it all together – and hyperbolic (not that death on the world’s highest mountain isn’t deserving of drama, but his prose get a little purple sometimes...and sometimes I feel like the way people in the book remember events is a bit too…convenient...)

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox - Maggie O'Farrell. I believe there’s more to this slim little novel than meets the eye. I am halfway through, I’ll keep you posted.

Beware of God - Shalom Auslander. Ultimately disappointing (if you’ve read Foreskin’s Lament, you’ve read many of Auslander’s riffs before) but the hamster story is positively brilliant, should be required reading in any college religion course, and it alone is worth the price of the book.

******************

*Jim Morrison

"Mum! Dad! It's evil! Don't touch it!"

Facebook = Virtual heroin

********

A few of my girlfriends went out with me last night. A big fat blue cheese burger, a couple of Penn Pilsners, and some wholly inappropriate girltalk, and four hours later I had sufficiently decompressed. I felt so much better today, thank you for all the support and kind words. I knew a new baby would be hard, but….it’s still HARD, you know? I also got my hair cut today (chunky layers put back in) so I feel marginally less trollish.

**********

Also this afternoon, Primo and I went sneaker shopping (for him), and stopped at a different branch of the library (New! Exciting! Fun! Complete with glass elevator which Primo was dying to ride!), and had some ice cream at Baskin Robbins. He kept telling me how much FUN he was having, and he opened up a bit about some school stuff, and we enjoyed an hour in each other’s company. Which was a relief because as soon as we got home he started tormenting Seg again (although I notice he very politely asked the man at the shoe store for a second copy of the free magazine with Sidney Crosby’s photo on the front cover. A second copy, for Seg.).

***************

I finished Forgive Me last night. It was a technically more complex book than either of Ward’s previous efforts, but it lacked soul. Or heart. Or maybe both. Not to say it didn’t keep me glued to the page – it did; but I didn’t empathize with the heroine the way I did in Ward’s other books. She tackled a tangled set of complex issues, headed up with apartheid, so I did learn a bit about South Africa’s bloody history - which makes me want to read at least some Nadine Gordimer. Any other reccs, folks?

**********

As a nod to the movie meme sweeping the Internet, go on and guess which movie the quote came from...

“I like these cold, gray winter days. Days like these let you savor a bad mood.”*

I believe I have officially reached my threshold.

I am tired of carrying the baby around 24/7, and nursing him nearly as much, and he’s a fussy little bugger.

Terzo is firmly in the Terrible Twos and has thrown several tantrums in the past week that left ME sobbing. And he weighs a freaking ton, so I have been left watching, helpless, because I can’t hold the baby and physically deal with picking him up. Which means that I stood on the sidewalk the other day - baby in the front pack, Terzo lying in a puddle on the sidewalk freaking out – and just waited him out. Stubborn little cuss (wonder where he gets it?) kept me there for fifteen minutes.

Seg, too, for that matter – my sweet boy, screaming No! and throwing himself on the floor, or jumping up and down hysterically, over NOTHING. Nothing, I tell you. He’s turned into a total drama queen.

But Primo – Primo takes the cake. Oh my god, he takes the cake with frosting, and buttercream filling, and sprinkles on top.

He’s been faking stomachaches and lying about throwing up every morning for the past week. He lied to come home early from school on Monday. H and I have asked about schoolwork, his teacher, bullying, his friends – anything we can think of, since it is CLEARLY NOT physical – and come up blank every time. I have NO IDEA what is going on but I am moving quickly from sympathy to anger and frustration. I should not have to be threatening, cajoling, and ordering my seven-year-old around every single morning to get him out the door. This morning, when he claimed illness, I told him he could stay home but there would be no TV, computer, games, hockey, or playing outside – if he was home sick, he needed to be in bed, reading or sleeping. Within five minutes, he “felt better” and had his uniform on. I am at my wits’ end.

And while I am kvetching: my laptop battery only lasts for an hour, I have a chapped area on my lip that hurts like hell and looks like a cold sore, I need a haircut and an eyebrow wax, and I am tired.

I have lost a ton of weight but now am terrified that I am going to pack it all back on.

And we are out of orange juice, my desire for which continues unabated.

Oh, and have I mentioned the weather? Cold and clammy and wet and grey. Sorta like my brain.

It may be March on the calendar, but it’s still February in my soul.

*********************

*Calvin & Hobbes

"Our names are smirched?" *

I always try to pick library books for the boys on my weekly (or more frequent) trips there. I especially focused on Seg this week, as he is READING. Really reading, sounding out words and spelling words to me that he doesn't recognize (and thrilled to death to be able to read the sports page).

I randomly picked this Daniel Pinkwater picture book, about two polar bears accused of stealing blueberry muffins from the docks in Bayonne, NJ. It IS as insanely ridiculous as it sounds, and it's hysterical.

I LOVE this book, and even better, I LOVE reading this book out loud to the boys - Seg especially appreciates the dry humor, and I love voicing the smart-mouthed bears.

I need to own this book (and the other five in this series).

Any of you with kids - trust me - go check out this hilarious book featuring the muffin-loving polar bears, Irving and Muktuk.

*************

* Irving, in The Bad Bear Detectives

"Well, it doesn't say that exactly, but somewhere there is something about a chicken." *

I finished Alex Garland’s The Beach last night – it was a good read, but I felt like there should be more to it. It reminded me of what one of the characters in the novel says to Richard the protagonist about the beach itself: “It’s great if you just take it for what it is.” The book WANTED to be Lord of the Flies, Apocalypse Now, and The Swiss Family Robinson all rolled into one. Instead, it was merely an entertaining, off-the-wall, slightly disconcerting tale of drug lords, world-weary travelers, and stoned expats in a secret paradise gone awry.

I enjoyed Kathleen Center’s The Bright Side of Disaster. It was fluff, but well-written and with some terrifically quirky characters and subplots, not to mention a comfortingly realistic depiction of life with a new baby AND a happy but not sappy ending.

And lastly, I skimmed through Reva Mann’s The Rabbi's Daughter, a self-absorbed, self-indulgent memoir of her life trying to be an Orthodox Jew in Israel. I disliked the woman by halfway through the second chapter and my dislike just continued to grow throughout the course of her life and the book. And if her poor children don’t need therapy, I would be shocked.

Not that my children won’t – but then I also didn’t write a book about what a colossal fuck-up I was as a teenager and then follow that sad but commonplace enough tale with lots of selfish, blinkered whining about how fucked-up everyone ELSE is, once I was SUPPOSED to have grown up.

Hmmmm. Let me tell you how I REALLY feel...

************

*Tevye, "Fiddler on the Roof"

"If you come any closer, I will rip you to shreds."*

Humdy-humdy-humdy-hum…what’s going on around here these days?

Let’s see…

Seg called Primo an asshole last night. Totally my fault. No, I am not necessarily proud, BUT he used it appropriately and in perfect context – Primo WAS being an asshole.

The Baby now fits into his 0-3 month clothes. But he still has little chicken legs.

Terzo is outgrowing six 6 diapers, so he has no choice but to be potty-trained as soon as possible. Lovely. Especially given his recent fascination with all things scatological. WHY do boys find fart jokes so funny?

I spent an hour out by myself yesterday, when the babysitter was here. I hit the drugstore (baby wipes, Easter paraphernalia (new toothbrushes and egg-shaped chalk and jelly beans), and a five-pound bag of cinnamon imperials (Ferrara-Pan, not Brach’s, but still an ok score)). I went to the bank (money) and Starbucks (grande nonfat latte) and Home Depot (white curtain rods for the older boys’ room) and the library (the most important stop).

A lovely discussion about fundamentalism in general, Orthodox Judaism specifically, ensued between My Favorite Librarian, my Second-Favorite Librarian (an earnest young man who apparently reads as much as I do), and me. I recommended Amanda Eyre Ward to MFL, and she expressed surprise that I did not love Gods Behaving Badly. I LOVE my library.

I picked up the following haul:
A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You - Amy Bloom. Away is getting lots of press; this is Bloom’s debut, which I think I tried to read before.
The Chestnut Tree - Charlotte Bingham. Someone was reading Bingham and mentioned her on their blog, comparing her to Rosamunde Pilcher or early Maeve Binchy. And we know how much I love Rosamunde Pilcher comfort reading…
The Bright Side of Disaster - Katherine Center. There’s a bright yellow rubber duck on the cover! How could one go wrong?
Beware of God - Shalom Auslander. My new boyfriend’s first book.
Revolutionary Road - Richard Yates. A book mentioned by more than one author in The Top Ten: Writers pick their favorite books.
The Rabbi's Daughter - Reva Mann. A direct consequence of combining Shalom Auslander with Amazon’s “People who bought this book…” feature.
High Crimes: The fate of Everest in an age of greed - Michael Kodas. Everest! Mountain climbing! Death! Yay!
Forgive Me - Amanda Eyre Ward. Have I raved enough about AWE? She’s a great writer, and I cannot put her books down. She needs to write more, and faster!
The Neverending Story - Michael Ende. An 8-year-old friend recently read this and declared it the best book ever. So I thought I’d check it out for Primo. The last book I read for him was Jeff Kinney’s Diary of a Wimpy Kid, which was amusing.

I am halfway through The Beach and it is just about what everyone said – a good, fast read, entertaining enough, with some suspense/mystery.

And I have to blog about Salman Rushdie, whom Gina and I went to hear Wednesday night. So you have THAT to look forward to…along with tales about and photos of the boys’ new bunk beds which we are hoping to pick up this weekend and thereby reduce some of the chaos in this house. If we could just get the electrician here…

*********
* G'mork, "The Neverending Story"

"It's just another Wednesday. The calendar's full of 'em." *

This is totally my idea of a good time: Literary voyeurism!

********************
* Jeff (Jimmy Stewart), in "Rear Window"

Hockey players wear numbers because you can't always identify the body with dental records.

Dudes! This sucks!

THIS is why I try not to get involved. Why I try not to let myself CARE.
Because every time I let myself care, THIS is what happens.

The Pens broke my heart in ‘96 when they got rid of Sergei Zubov (allegedly because the great Mario Lemieux did not get along with him); again in ‘98 when Ron Francis left in free agency for Carolina; and now – now – they have traded my Colby, he of the boyish smile and twinkly eyes – oh, and, you know, his hockey skills are important, too...

Primo came home from school crying about the trade (although he may have been more upset about the loss of Christensen), and I tried to explain that being a hockey fan can be traumatic and heartbreaking sometimes…hollow words. I was ready to cry, too.

:Cabbage as a food has problems." *

Primo attended a birthday party yesterday at a glow-in-the-dark mini-golf course. (I KNOW. MY birthday parties were all held at my distinctly NOT glow-in-the-dark backyard…)

The place was positively migraine-inducing, so I dropped off Primo, made sure the birthday girl and her parents knew he was there, and ventured out to the soulless mall. I did some desultory birthday shopping for Seg (6 weeks away), and bought floor mats for the new minivan, and after walking what felt like three miles from one end of the mall to the other (why are the two stores you need to go to at opposite ends of the mall, ALWAYS?), settled down on a bench to read and drink some coffee. I was finishing up Chris Bojhalian’s Double Bind; it ended better than it had begun, and the ending was well worth slogging through the slower middle – in fact, as I read what I have just written, I realize that the book was actually sort of slow throughout, and awkwardly written in places, but ultimately a good read.

I can say no more.

What was a good, fast – almost breathless – read was Amanda Eyre Ward’s How To Be Lost. I am sad that she has only one more book for me to read, Forgive Me, but I am requesting it from the library this morning.

John Elder Robison’s Look Me in the Eye just never grabbed me – I made it through a couple chapters before he just annoyed the shit out of me. I found the parts where he talked about his Asperger’s and how it affected his interactions very interesting, but I also felt that he blamed some major asshole-like behavior on his Asperger’s. In a “Ha ha, aren’t I clever?” sort of way that smacked of arrogance – and falsehood (heck, he is Augusten Burroughs’ brother…) - to me.

In other not nearly so exciting (to YOU) news – I am pissed off as hell that first my grocery store and now the drugstore has stopped carrying the world’s best soap – SoftSoap’s Milk & Honey body wash. I am assuming it’s still made; I just can’t seem to get my dry little hands on the stuff. Badger, it’s all your fault – just like a smack habit, you got me hooked on the stuff in the first place. Enabler!

*********

* Jane Grigson

"That would be so God."*

I was raised Baptist, of the “Footloose” sort, in the little-known South Jersey Bible Belt of fundamentalism. I survived a childhood fraught with the emotion of altar calls, and worries that the Rapture would take my parents and leave me behind. But I went to a secular college and left my strict upbringing as far behind me as I could.

I attribute years of therapy to my relative mental health regarding religion. Shalom Auslander mentions his therapist early in Foreskin’s Lament, but it’s possible that he needs even more therapy…he is a funny, sarcastic, insightful, and EXTREMELY bitter writer.

I almost didn’t start the book last night – I have three others I am halfway through – but it’s a seven-day library book and I really REALLY wanted to read it (because Jessa loves Auslander, so I want to, too). Once I started it, I had a very tough time putting it down. If it’s possible for my kindred spirit to be a lapsed Orthodox Jewish author, then Auslander is mine. He GETS how fucked up religion in its extreme form can be, and what havoc it can wreak on impressionable young minds, and like me, he also questions why any sane, caring adult would subject their child to the mindfuck that is fundamentalism in any form.

He and his wife refer to his childhood religious experiences as “theological abuse.” I know EXACTLY what he means. I want to email him and say, “Yes! Yes, I get it, and you are so right, and oh my fucking God, ME TOO!”

**************

*Shalom Auslander, Foreskin's Lament

"We don't want the smoking gun to be a mushroom cloud.”*

We have an electric cooktop at this house; I am used to cooking with gas. But it really doesn't matter - I am notoriously horrible at cooking rice: I scorch it, boil it, leave it crunchy...

I just had a rice disaster. My house still reeks of scorched rice, and the only good thing that came out of the whole experience is that I know my smoke detector needs new batteries.

Do I need a rice cooker, or no? Discuss.

***************
*Condeleezza Rice

“It is very, very easy not to be offended by a book. You just have to shut it.”*

Tuesday random:


I don't want to forget what they look like at this age - since this is my LAST baby.

*********

The lovely and erudite (and pregnant - not that that's here or there...) Doppelganger is plugging the Dewey Donation System. Help a library in need get books. Go on, you know you want to. I had a good time picking out board books for the preschoolers that I know *my* guys liked. I Love You, Stinky Face, given to us by my friend D, is a particularly huge hit.

*********

I like lasagna. But I would be happy not to see another piece of it for a few weeks. Don't mean to sound ungrateful as a lot of friends have been bringing us meals - and some have brought yummy lasagna - but three lasagnas (lasagni?) in the space of a week is plenty. I froze a lot of it, and will be very thankful for it later. Meantime, I am plowing through my friend L's delicious dessert of strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries in some sort of whipped cream/sour cream sauce-y stuff. YUM.

********

Gina just asked me to go hear Salman Rushdie speak next week. I am so very psyched. Satanic Verses is one of my favorite books ever, and I loved Midnight's Children as well. Gina said I should come prepared with a question written down to ask him; would it be incredibly rude to ask when in the hell he is going to write another decent book? Because the last couple? Dreck. Redundant and derivative. Or actually, self-derivative, which being Salman Rushdie, could be worse, but still...

**************

*Salman Rushdie

"Fear of Triscuits!"*

Triskaidekaphobia.

The age of reason.



A mediocre movie.

WQED.




Sixth smallest prime.

Seventh in a Fibonacci sequence.

Atomic number of aluminum.

Mats Sundin.

Anniversary H and I celebrate today.

*************
* Ross, "Friends"

"You'll understand if I'm not in a particularly social mood." *

The older boys are at church with H – H helps run the children’s music program and since we don’t insist on the kids going to Sunday school, we do make them attend the music service. They always grumble (I think it’s the having to put on real pants (not sweatpants) and decent shoes (not sneakers) more than anything else) but they seem to enjoy it once they get there and spend the week humming the new songs they’ve learned

I opted to stay home with the baby – yes, it’s fifty degrees here, but it’s raining and everyone seems to be sick (including me) so I figured I’d keep him sequestered a while longer. My mother-in-law would approve – in her day you didn’t take babies anywhere until after they were christened (about six weeks). Quarto will be christened (Episcopalian), but maybe not at exactly six weeks, and he’ll be out and about before that, as I still have three other children who have things to do and places to go.

Meanwhile, I can use the relative peace and quiet to edit a sixty-page proposal I promised a client by Monday. I KNOW, I just gave birth, but this is the third client who has contacted me and pleaded with me to “just take a quick look, pretty please” (ok, he didn’t say pretty please, but he was very nice). The only people who seem to understand that I HAVE JUST GIVEN BIRTH (and seriously, you don’t want me editing anything with my diminished brain capacity right now) are my favorite clients with whom I have a standing gig, and they have told me to take all the time I need. Which translates to a few more weeks for me, thank God. But meantime….my other clients are frantically preparing dissertation proposals for defense, and childbirth cannot get in the way!

I have been happily procrastinating, however by reading voraciously. I finished Enigma Friday night, Sleep Toward Heaven Saturday morning, and Mrs Kimble last night. Well, you know, all I have been doing is nursing The Remora and reading.

Enigma was somewhat predictable but that didn’t make it any less enjoyable. Sleep Toward Heaven was an almost perfect little book – sparely written, but with real characters. I couldn’t put it down, and requested How To Be Lost the minute I turned the last page on Heaven. And I loved Mrs Kimble - way more than I liked Baker Towers which is saying something. I am greatly looking forward to Jennifer Haigh’s newest novel due out in the spring. Granted, none of these novels are destined to become great works of classic literature, but they are all well-written, very plot-driven, and completely engrossing.

Now I am started on Barack Obama’s Dreams from my Father, which I am enjoying. I am not sure how strictly autobiographical it is, in that it’s not full of facts and dates; it is more of a gentle rambling over childhood memories and impressions of people and events. But he’s a good, mostly clear writer and I like him. I like his voice, I like his honesty and introspection, and the way he explores and probes his conflicted feelings about and impressions of race.

In other news, The Remora is pooping dark green poop which according to reliable sources (um, the Internet) apparently indicates some sort of foremilk/hindmilk imbalance so now the jaundice is cleared up, I have something new to worry about. Yay, motherhood

Theoretically, the electrician is coming tomorrow to run the cable line up to the third floor so we can move the computer out of the boys’ bedroom finally and start organizing this disaster of a house. I love my books but am thoroughly sick of two-thirds of our books being piled in my bedroom, with paths left only to the bed and the closet.

And I made the mistake of looking at Us magazine’s profile of celebrity moms and their post-baby bodies (linked from Mamarazzi). Oh. My. God. My flabby stomach seems worse than it ever did. But it does make a nice shelf to prop The Remora on so I can type...

*************
*Karen, "Cabin Fever"

"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?"*

Don't tell me I don't love you - I am showing you this delicious bit of baby goodness, aren't I?

Happy Valentine's Day

*******************
*Romeo And Juliet, Act 2, sc. 2

"Machines take me by surprise with great frequency."*

I am still reading The Winter Rose because it's one hell of a long book and I didn't finish it in the hospital. But I did finish See You in a Hundred Years which I wound up enjoying way more than I thought I would, and The Tin Princess which I think was way better than any of the previous three Sally Lockhart novels.

So, having worked my way through the library books - and not able to get away to go to the library to pick up my next batch (Jennifer Haigh's Mrs Kimble, Amanda Eyre Ward's Sleep Toward Heaven, Gary Schmidt's Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, and John Elder Robison's Look Me in the Eye), I resorted to reading books I actually - gasp - own that were lying on my TBR shelf.

I started Allegra Goodman's The Family Markowitz and was disappointed to learn that it is really a book of short stories - all about the same extended family, granted, but short stories nonetheless, a form of literature I just don't appreciate, troglodyte that I am. So I put that down for the time being and picked up Haven Kimmel's Something Rising (Swift and Light), but fell asleep last night before finishing the first chapter. Doesn't bode well for the rest of the book - I might need my real brain back first before starting this book again.

And so, tonight, while nursing the baby in the bedroom, within arm's reach of the TBR bookshelf, I picked up and started both Robert Harris's Enigma and Alex Garland's The Beach. I am now seventy pages into Enigma and enjoying it greatly. Harris is a good writer, and I am intrigued by stories about cryptography. Not much of a nonfiction reader, I devoured Simon Singh's The Code Book and loved every page. Harris's novel is set in Bletchley, England, during WWII, and concerns one young mathematician's quest to break the Germans' Enigma machine code. Smart, fascinating, and fun.

The Beach started out promisingly, but since I have no idea what it's about (or even why I bought it wherever I bought it), I figured it could wait.

So there I sat, The Remora propped up on my stomach, fingers red from those crunchy little cinnamon hearts, reading about Alan Turing and the Enigma machine and German U-Boats and all sorts of other cool stuff. While H bathed the other three boys and put them to bed. Sometimes it's a bonus being the one with functioning mammary glands.

Sometimes.

*******************
*Alan Turing

“The snow itself is lonely...There is no other time when the whole world seems composed of one thing and one thing only."*

Boots: Check.
Two pairs of socks: Check.
Sweat pants: Check.
Snow pants: Check.
Sweatshirt: Check.
Jacket: Check.
ZIPPED: Check.
Scarf: Check.
Mittens: Check.
Hat: Check.
Time spent outside: 15 minutes.

Now I understand why my mother hated snow days.

***************************

*Joseph Wood Krutch

"All you zombies, hide your faces..." *

I know you all want a labor story, but I am still too exhausted by it to even think about it, so here, have some book reviews instead.

But Enough About Me: A Jersey Girl's Unlikely Adventures Among the Absurdly Famous – Jancee Dunn. Gina recommended this to me and I gobbled it up. Lots of fun and very amusing, it’s about the author’s experiences writing about celebrities for publications like Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, and GQ – and the path that got her there. Anyone who grew up in the late 60s/early 70s, ESPECIALLY if you grew up in Jersey, is going to appreciate Dunn’s experiences and influences. I knew I would enjoy it as soon as I finished the first chapter, in which she attends a Hooters concert. If you grew up near Philly in the eighties, you were a Hooters fan. That simple. I still have all their albums, albeit on tape. (I do not have a crush on Eric Bazilian anymore, though.)

The Tin Princess - Philip Pullman. The fourth book in the Sally Lockhart “trilogy.” (I know, I know…) As good as the other three, containing the same level of excitement and over-the-top Victorian melodrama. I am trying to decide if my friend’s 9-year-old would enjoy these, or if they are a tad too old for her yet…

Gastroanomalies: Questionable Culinary Creations from the Golden Age of American Cookery - James Lileks. My friend E gave this to me as a present recently. She knows me well. I had to stop reading it while in labor though because the laughing hurt too much. But that was ok because then it kept H entertained while I was stoned out of my skull on Nubain. Anyone who enjoyed The Amazing Mackerel Pudding Plan: Classic Diet Recipe Cards from the 1970s is going to enjoy this one, maybe even more.

The Heroines - Eileen Favorite. This book has a fabulous premise – the main character’s mother runs a B&B at which various heroines from classic novels show up for "vacation" or some rest. Promising as the plot was, the execution could have been better. I really felt like the two halves of the book were written for two separate novels, and although reading it so soon after A Good and Happy Child probably skewed my perception, the parts of this book set in a psychiatric hospital were just boring. Nonetheless, it kept me engrossed for a day in the hospital.

Then I moved on to Jennifer Donnelly’s The Winter Rose. You really want to go read Jess’s review as I haven’t finished the book yet, but *its* over-the-top Victorian melodrama was precisely the sort of brain-comfort food I wanted whiling away the second day in the hospital. I was all politicked out from Super Tuesday and just waiting around on bilirubin levels for Quarto, so I needed something light but relatively un-put-down-able and this fit the bill. Although I have to admit, I hid the cover from my doctor : ) I am such a literary snob.

I was really pleased I had borrowed both James Collins’ Beginner Greek and Marie Phillips’s Gods Behaving Badly from the library as I didn’t get further than forty or so pages into each before I knew I wasn’t interested in finishing either. Beginner Greek was pretty badly written – stilted and pompous (sort of like the main character) and overly laden with dull, unnecessary detail. Gods was just too contrived and precious for me; although, Gina liked the plot well enough but felt it wasn’t very well-written.

I have been skimming through Logan Ward’s See You in a Hundred Years: Four Seasons in Forgotten America, about a family from New York who decides to buy a farm down South and live as if it were 1900 for a year - which is exactly the sort of book I normally enjoy. Parts of the book are really interesting, and Ward is a spare and honest writer, but I find myself getting very impatient with him – maybe I just fail to see the point of this particular experiment.

I have Chris Bohaljian’s The Double Bind and Allegra Goodman’s The Family Markowitz waiting, and I just bought Barack Obama’s Dreams from my Father and Hilary Clinton’s Living History. As Caro correctly pointed out, what the heck else can you do but read, when you are nursing pretty much nonstop an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow-polka- er, jaundiced baby?

*************
*The Hooters, "All You Zombies"

"Where the boys are, someone waits for me..." *

"Ma! Whaddya DOING? D'you want the whole blogosphere to know exactly what I look like?"

Um, yes, just this once, yes, yes, I do. So listen up, listen carefully, I am only going to say this once:

Luke Francis
February 4, 2008
6 lb., 11 oz. 19-1/2 inches long


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I was going to use the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” lyrics, per Suse’s suggestion, for my quote on top of this post, but oh my God, have you ever read the REST of the lyrics? Terrible. Can’t do it.
Am going with Connie Francis. Because, let me tell you, if there was ever any doubt as to where the boys are, I can tell you now – they’re HERE (and in Australia, with Kim : )).

Everyone home now, and doing well. (It is SHOCKING how disgusting a house can get in forty-eight hours, though…) Will post more details later. He’s currently a wee bit jaundiced so is attached to me like a remora for the moment, making typing rather difficult.

And to any one who feels compelled to ask:

NO. I WILL NOT BE TRYING FOR A GIRL.

*************

* "Where the Boys Are," Connie Francis

So You're Probably Wondering . . .

Yep--It's a boy. :-)

BableBabe and her new babe are healthy and well.

“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that.” *

I didn’t think I cared who won the Super Bowl – heck, until this afternoon I couldn’t have even told you which teams were playing – but right after I had commented to H how boring I find football, the Patriots scored on an incredible passing play that kept me and H glued to the TV after all. And then….the comeback of the Giants – how exciting! So maybe I get it a little bit after all.

It could have been the basement-cleaning that took place today, or the walking around Bed Bath & Beyond looking for curtain hardware with my friend E yesterday – or I suppose it could have been “the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat” that caused my water to break just as what we thought was the Patriots’ winning touchdown was scored.

If it had been the Stanley Cup finals, though? I wouldn’t have even told H until the game was over.

I’ll keep you posted.

***************

* Bill Shankly (in all fairness, what we Americans call a soccer player)

"This case deserves to be a classic." *

The Queen of Japan narrates the following story:
A young Japanese boy, Sunoco, discovers his father has been killed. He enlists the help of the Queen, who orders Sherlock Holmes to time-travel (from present-day America) to help solve the mystery. Sherlock discovers that Sunoco’s father was murdered by a pig-Latin-speaking Roman centurion who had traveled to Japan for that explicit purpose. The Queen, Sunoco, and Sherlock band together to capture and imprison the centurion. And then Sherlock time-travels back home, and the Queen adopts Sunoco to become the prince.

The End.

Written, directed, and produced by Group #5 (Primo, A, E, and T).
Courtesy of Primo's first grade opera workshop project.

***********

*Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Priory School

"The Shepherd-boy shouted in an agony of terror: 'Pray, do come and help me; the Wolf is killing the sheep,' but no one paid any heed to his cries..."

Immediately after I posted the last post, the contractions stopped.
(That reminds me of that old joke about the coughing coffin...does anyone know what I am talking about?)

Anyhoo, the contractions eased up, so I am back to merely being grumpy, uncomfortable, and breathless. Exacerbated by the fact that now the public schools are not going to strike, they feel free to declare two-hour delays for just about anything including, it seems, the superintendent's hangnails. Oh, all RIGHT, I know we had an ice storm but when I was in school...let me tell you, uphill both ways, barefoot, in the snow...blah blah blah....

I did something else last night I am now really sorry I did (other than leading my Internet pals down the garden path): I skipped ahead in a book I was mostly enjoying to find out what happened and am pretty sure I ruined reading the rest of the book, since what happened in the book was of course meant to devastate the reader, and I actually didn't much care.

WHAT was I thinking? Now I need to rethink my hospital books again...

Oh! And I may not have a baby yet, but I am the proud owner of a lovely silver Honda Odyssey minivan (the whole process involved much less pushing than childbirth, too). I haven't driven an automatic since I learned to drive eons ago, but I suppose I'll manage. It's wonderful and ROOMY.

**************

*Aesop, "The Boy Who Cried Wolf"

"Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air, we wawl and cry." *

All that contracting and pressure and ouchies, and so out of breath last night that I couldn’t even sleep, and I am still only 1 cm. SO unfair. But my blood pressure was waaaaaayyy up – because today’s appointment and next week’s appointment had been cancelled – NOT by me – and my chart was missing.

Remember when I told you – did I tell you? – that I told H that he had to remember one thing, that I was strep B positive this pregnancy? And he said, “Well, it’s not as if it’s not in your chart. And how am I supposed to remember that?” And I glared at him and said, “*I* will be in labor. Surely you can remember ONE MEASLY LITTLE THING if I ask you to.” (He looked suitably abashed and mumbled, “Yes, but don’t call me Shirley.”) And there I go this morning, with NO CHART.

No wonder my normally lovely low blood pressure was 140 over 100. But they found the chart and resolved the appointment issue – turns out that the fact of a simple phone call – by me - to suss out the situation at my old doctor’s new practice was enough to cause appointments to be cancelled and charts to be moved, even though I had signed no release forms or cancelled any appointments my own damn self. Jesus Crisis.

When they rechecked my blood pressure before sending me home – no closer to labor than when I’d arrived – it was back to normal. So, I am still contracting, and am still hurting, and can’t breathe, and am very very VERY grumpy, and can’t even think about food, but I am apparently NOT about to have a baby, say, anytime in the next 24 hours. Dammit.

I zipped through The Wednesday Wars last night, though, so must replace that on my hospital stack. I LOVED it. I want to own it, will definitely reread it, and it prompted me to hunt down a copy of The Tempest to reread. I don’t know what happened to my pretty little blue clothbound Yale Shakespeare volume, but I dug out one of my volumes of the teeny red leather Works of Shakespeare – the ones that turn my fingers red, like dyed pistachios do - and started in. (I wasn’t about to lug around my Riverside.) So yeah, I am such a dork that I lay in my doctor’s examining room on my left side, waiting for my blood pressure to decrease, and read Shakespeare.

I thought I had more to say but in the hour since I started writing this post, I have started experiencing what may well be real contractions. So I'll wrap up now and go lie down. And wait for H to return from the car dealership. I called him at work and asked him to bring me a vanilla milkshake, but apparently he got distracted and is bringing me a blue minivan instead.

*************

*King Lear, Act 4, sc. 6, 179–180

Q: Once I'm in the hospital to deliver, who will see me in that position? *

My dear ones, I got NOTHING. No energy, no creativity, nothing to say to anyone, not even you.

I am sitting around (feeling somewhat akin to Baron Harkonnen), waiting for contractions to begin in earnest. I KNOW my due date is 8 days away, but frankly I am surprised I made it this far. No, I haven’t eaten pineapple or spicy food, had lots of sex (PUH-LEASE, that’s what got me into this mess in the first place), or resorted to nipple stimulation; I am not THAT eager. But I am doing a whole lot of wishing and praying and silent whispering to the fetus to GET. OUT. NOW (not that I don’t love you , baby…).

Public schools had a two-hour delay today – high winds, I guess? Who the hell knows? Not me. And Seg’s back at preschool for the first time in something like a week, still coughing like he’s afflicted by black lung but looking and acting considerably perkier. I am forgoing the usual housework Terzo and I do in the mornings to edit a couple papers before the baby comes. Oh, and, you know, write a post.

I finished the third Sally Lockhart novel yesterday – and in hopes of discovering more about the delicious coupling of Sally and Daniel Goldberg, and reading more adventures involving the delectable Jim, I requested The Tin Princess from the library.

I am about halfway through The Friday Night Knitting Club - reminiscent of Jennifer Chiaverini’s Elm Creek Quilt novels, which is a good thing. As usual in an ensemble piece, there are characters I enjoy and some that drive me batty. Some of the plot is out of left field, but that’s ok, there’s enough going on to distract from the occasional creak and groans of plot maneuvering. A very enjoyable read, so far. And it’s making me want to pick up knitting needles again. Dear Suse tried to teach me how to purl via the Internet and email, but I think I need hands-on instruction. My mother-in-law knits, and rather well, so when she returns from Florida, I will ask her to teach me to purl. Remedial Knitting 101. I don’t really want to do anything too complicated, maybe make a scarf or something. I like the idea of acquiring the womanly arts : )

I am still reading Loving Frank - two things: Frank Lloyd Wright was an egotistical, self-absorbed asshole, no matter how talented, and 2) it took me a while to figure out that it is a fictionalized account of the Taliesin murders, which are horrific. I will finish it but maybe not right now. I happen to know children die, and I am not sure I can cope with children dying right now (remember my idiocy in reading Sophie’s Choice while pregnant with Primo? Yeah, don’t want to repeat that mistake…)

My pile of books to take to the hospital keeps changing. Currently the stack includes The Friday Night Knitting Club, I Love You, Beth Cooper, and The Wednesday Wars. Yes, yes, I have some toiletries packed up, and some yoga pants and sweatshirts, but the books are the important thing, don’t you think? I mean, TWO WHOLE DAYS. Yes, of course, I have to feed the baby and whatnot, but still…one baby is nothing compared to the three I’ve got to wrangle at home. And once I get my epidural, I’ll have hours in which to read until I have to push. Contractions, take me away!

*********

* A: Authorized personnel only -- doctors, nurses, orderlies, photographers,
florists, cleaning crews, journalists, etc.

"Dani the girl is singing songs to me beneath the marquee...of her soul..." *

Cusk’s glory is her style, cold and hard and devastatingly specific, empathetic but not sympathetic. - Los Angeles Times

“…the twenty-first-century version of Austen or Thackeray…” – Baltimore Sun

Her prose is called stunning (Christian Science Monitor); evocative and elegant (London Times). Unerring. Masterful. Pitch-perfect.

I wangled a free review copy of Rachel Cusk’s latest novel about a group of mothers in a tony London suburb. I vaguely recalled not liking her previous outing In the Fold but figured that might just be a fluke, a plot that didn’t grab me or unsympathetic characters.

I sat down with Arlington Park Thursday evening.

The first chapter – all five pages – described a rainstorm. In minute, excruciating, painstaking detail. I felt like perhaps I had wandered into a modern-day setting of a horror film like Dracula, or perhaps a supernatural thriller of some sort - surely something dramatic and horrific was going to occur, and soon. But by the end of the chapter, I felt sorry for the poor rain – it had been tortured and twisted and corkscrewed into submission. (I suppose she gets a point or two for anthropomorphizing the rain so successfully…)

When three pages into the next chapter, a character “asseverates” something, I knew I wasn’t going much further. Why merely assert when you can asseverate? When you can use all the big words you know to let your readers know how very SMART you are. (I started making a list of these SAT words that pissed me off, but gave up halfway through chapter four.)

And why skip describing a single detail when you can pad your book with gloriously useless and irrelevant sentences like the following:

…glimpsing the armoured forms of the big, expensive cars crouched among the shadows in driveways all along the park, she had a sort of oceanic sense of malevolence, of a great, diffuse evil silently undulating all around them in the darkness. In the Milfords’ own driveway an enormous glittering Mercedes crouched on the gravel on giant, ogreish tires. Its tinted windows seemed to cast on everything their shuttered, annihilating gaze. Juliet had felt a force of pure aggression emanating from its metal surfaces..

Never mind all the indiscriminate descriptions of pointless details which a better author would know did not pertain to the story in any way, shape, or form, OR add to the atmosphere.

He liked to bathe the giant sixth-formers in the sound of the early English composers.

”I just love coming here,” Christne expostulated, surveying the brutal grandeur of the car park, where the sky still hurled down its unsteady shafts of light and the morning’s rain stood in beads on the coruscating metal of cars and made them look reborn.

(It was about here that I started feeling perhaps Cusk missed her calling as a luxury car salesman or a high-end auto mechanic.)

This particular blurb made me physically nauseated; Cusk describes the stuffed animal lovey of one of the children in the book (and by the way, every single child is completely annoying and unlovable, but you would be too if you had one of these cold automatons for a mother):
Robbie was grey and worn out with Ella’s need for him. He looked shapeless and insensate with the drudgery of love.

Oh PUH-LEASE.

Cusk writes like a talented college sophomore who hasn’t learned yet that less is more, that leaving things out is ok, especially if all those details merely overwhelm your story and your character development.

She needs more than a good editor, however; she needs to be less in love with the sound of her own words, with the detailing of Every. Single. Thought. That flits across her mind.

Why do I get the feeling that she writes her first drafts with a fountain pen, in longhand, perhaps on curling sheets of foolscap stacked untidily on the corner of her writing desk? Just a guess...

Her prose is not cold or hard – although most of her characterization is – but neither is it florid or flowery. You can see and feel every gear turning, every cog sliding into place. It’s steely and mechanical and ugly - rather like a (well-constructed) Rube Goldberg contraption.

************

*"By the Way," Red Hot Chili Peppers

"One of the disadvantages of being a patrician is that occasionally you are obliged to act like one." *

Daddy goes away and the mice will play, 'cause Mama is a CUPCAKE.
We ordered pizza for dinner tonight, which we ate in front of the Pens-Flyers game, topped off with chocolate pie for dessert and a late bedtime. I now understand why some people parent like this all the time - it's just so much easier. Never mind that my kids will be tired tomorrow, and if we ate chocolate pie every night we'd all weigh a ton. Oh well, it's nice once in a while to be the nice guy...

************

Important questions:

When did LL Bean stop making River Driver’s shirts for adults? I own one; I need a few more. They seem to only make them for children now. Dumb. Of course, LL Bean is also the company that made my favorite bathing suit of all time – for ONE YEAR. Leaving me to swim for the rest of my natural life in board shorts and a tankini top.

Are you actually supposed to eat gingerbread houses? And if so, how? Do you just pick it apart, leaving the wreck of a house sitting out like the detritus of a real-live Hansel and Gretel attack?

How many times a day does a normal dog poop?

Why do I gag at the sight and smell of any sort of meat for most of my pregnancy only to gorge on flesh in the last two weeks? With Primo, it was Reubens; with this one, it’s cheese steaks with mushrooms and onions. I am actually physically nauseated even as I consume giant-pile-o’-meat, and yet I keep chewing.

Is it wrong that I bribe my seven-year-old to do his homework by promising to request books he wants to read from the library once he's finished?

*********

For those of you following along at home:
1 cm and 50%.
If you have to ask, you really don't want to know (Joke, I am pretty much being discreet for you. You're welcome).

***********

Finished the second Sally Lockhart book, on to the third. An am halfway through Loving Frank which is pretty good. I have Gina's strong recommendation of I Love You, Beth Cooper to read next, and The Top Ten: Writers Pick Their Favorite Books to sit by my bed for my leisurely perusal (and probably making of umpteen lists). Picked up used copies at the library book sale shelf of Jamaica Kincaid's Lucy and Gail Tsukiyama's Dreaming Water.

*************

Everyone is purging, it seems. Badger. Poppy. Me. Tonight I sorted and finally discarded about 95% of my mother's tax returns, estate papers, and other flotsam and jetsam. As the executrix, I had held onto everything JUST IN CASE. (Just in case WHAT? The federal government needed proof that my mother paid for all of her prescriptions from the years 1995 through 1998? that the house that's been under new ownership for eight years now once had perfectly reliable, promptly-paid phone service? that my mother's nursing license was up-to-date till the day she died? I clearly needed to get a good, firm grip.)

My mother's life now apparently has been reduced to two brown paper bags for the recycling dumpster. Sob. But honestly, how long am I mean to hang onto ten-year-old phone bills and fifteen-year-old tax returns? It was time. And ultimately it felt good.

But this baby had better come soon, because otherwise my house will be Spartan.

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*Marcus Licinius Crassus, in "Spartacus"