* Dan has pointed out to me that perhaps Bush did not voice anything other than concern and compassion when he spoke to Europe; perhaps he only discussed homeland security with the American media. I hope so. I suppose I'll give the President the benefit of the doubt.
*My favorite quote so far (in other words, one that I wish I could have written):
No one has suggested that we stop playing cricket because of events in London. No one has said, 'Of course this game fades into insignificance compared to events in the real world.' Nor has anyone offered up the inane idea that if we stop playing cricket the terrorists will have won. The idea of stopping the game appears not to have occurred to anyone, which I think is wonderful and yet another example of the British stoicism of which you write.
*My poor timing to have just begun reading Paddington Bear stories to Simon a week ago. He is talking constantly about going to London, riding on the Underground, seeing Paddington Station - and he wants a Mind the Gap T-shirt. Of course I want to keep recent events from him, which in our house entails hiding the newspaper.
*************************
Ed McBain/Evan Hunter died Wednesday at the age of 78. I spent my first maternity leave reading every McBain mystery I could get my hands on, it helped pass those first three awful months when I was sure I was losing my mind. Thanks, Ed. RIP.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind
****************
Have I said enough about the self-absorption of Americans? I’ll shut up now.
*************
I just realized that one of my regular library patrons is a member of the symphony. I am totally star struck. I laughed at my husband when he came home after a wine-tasting event excited that he’d met one of the symphony musicians, but now here I am in the same boat and just as thrilled. God we’re dorks! I began to question my vocation as a librarian when I could not find a score this guy was searching for – I had one of those “I am a better librarian than THIS!” moments-- turns out we were both spelling the composer’s name incorrectly. Can I accost him the next time he comes in, and ask him what he thinks of the new pieces the symphony plays? (Dan and I like most of them, or at least appreciate having the chance to hear them, and think the symphony should try more new music.) and what did he think of a particular guest conductor? (Dan and I adored him and wished they’d hire him for good!)
I suppose that would be entirely unprofessional. Sigh.
***********************
I am reading Laurie R. King’s Justice Hall, and it is a page-turner. My favorite up to now of this series about Mary Russell, apprentice and then partner to Sherlock Holmes, has been O Jerusalem!, and many of the same characters appear in Justice Hall. I started it yesterday and am about halfway through. I had to go do my glucose tolerance test this morning which generally entails sitting around the waiting room of the outpatient lab for a goodly amount of time. But when you have a good book to read and your MIL has your kids, this can actually be a good thing.
***************************
They are already discussing this year’s Booker at the Guardian.
I don’t like Ian McEwan; I haven’t read any Julian Barnes or JM Coetzee; I love Rushdie but his last novel sucked and the new one isn’t due out till September. I haven’t read any Ishiguro since Remains of the Day which was all right but not earth-moving, although I would like to check out his new one. I could not get into Zadie Smith’s books at all, even though White Teeth came highly recommended by Gina whose taste I trust. And I have somewhat lost faith in the Booker since last year David Mitchell’s brilliant, beautifully written, and engrossing Cloud Atlas lost to Allan Hollinghurst’s godawful and boring Line of Beauty.
***************
In other news, the parasite has flipped. His head is down and to the left, and his butt is up and to the right, and he should stay put now. How my OB can tell all this just by pressing on my stomach I haven’t got a clue, but that’s why we pay her the big bucks. I’ll bet *she* couldn’t find a score by Hellmesberger. (Oh, wait, neither could I.)
*****************
I am generally an advocate of bicyclists, meaning that I find it admirable that people cycle to work to help the environment, stay in shape, etc. This city is not particularly a bike-friendly place. However-- within the past month or so, I have seen several bicyclists shoot through red lights or stop signs at which cars were obediently stopped; most of these scofflaws have not even bothered to turn their heads to see if perhaps there was traffic coming with the green light; I have seen bicyclists riding down heavily-trafficked roads in the dark, with no lights, no reflectors, no helmets, and not observing basic traffic laws. The next time I hear a bicyclist decry the general lack of courtesy on the part of city drivers, or even, God forbid, the next time one of these bicyclists gets flattened by a car, I will curtail my knee-jerk “It must have been the car driver’s fault” reaction. I will have to find out details about the accident before I am so ready to pin the blame on the driver of the car rather than the bicyclist, just by virtue of which each is driving.
********************
Am I posting too much? I don’t know if it’s new-blogger-enthusiasm or my tendency to want to communicate with an adult during the day, or what. But I don’t want to bore people. I just seem to have some things to say, and the time, at the moment, to say them.
London
I’m sad and angry. I’m sorry for London, and I’m sorry for the rest of the world, too. I wish there was something I could do. Does it really help to try and use less gas or not shop at Wal-Mart? Will it make a difference if I avoid buying things made of plastic? I don’t know what else to say.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Katie & Chuck
Okay, so I’ve just finished reading Katie Fforde’s Second Thyme Around, and while I’m embarrassed for her over that godawful title, I have to say that my heart is warm. Yes, I love love. I also love spunky old ladies who live frugally and die with dignity. In fact, I almost wish I had lived through WWII, because I think that might be an essential ingredient of spunky old lady-hood.
I complained to Val earlier today about the fact that you know how this book is going to end before you even turn the first page, but I’m chastened now, and I suppose that’s because of the aforementioned warm heart.
I don’t care if it’s lowbrow, and I don’t care if it’s chick lit. I’m happy.
And speaking of lowbrow, I never commented on the new Klosterman. I enjoyed the book, but I don’t know that many people will, and I can’t say that I have high hopes for his future as a writer. That’s harsh, I know, but I feel like I can say it because Klosterman reminds me so much of me: He’s clever and a decent writer, when he cares about his subject . . . but the subject he seems to care most about is himself. Reading this new book is like reading e-mails or blog entries written by a charming but vaguely lost and depressed old friend.
I can’t say that’s a ringing endorsement, but I’m glad I bought the book.
***********************************
Now, do I shut down and resign myself to tossing and turning, as I haven’t been able to sleep all week and can’t see why tonight should be any different? Should I watch 84 Charing Cross Road, which I borrowed from the library on Suzanne’s recommendation? Should I get started on my final searching assignment for Retrieving? I’m thinking I’ll probably start a book. The Rotter’s Club, I think.
I complained to Val earlier today about the fact that you know how this book is going to end before you even turn the first page, but I’m chastened now, and I suppose that’s because of the aforementioned warm heart.
I don’t care if it’s lowbrow, and I don’t care if it’s chick lit. I’m happy.
And speaking of lowbrow, I never commented on the new Klosterman. I enjoyed the book, but I don’t know that many people will, and I can’t say that I have high hopes for his future as a writer. That’s harsh, I know, but I feel like I can say it because Klosterman reminds me so much of me: He’s clever and a decent writer, when he cares about his subject . . . but the subject he seems to care most about is himself. Reading this new book is like reading e-mails or blog entries written by a charming but vaguely lost and depressed old friend.
I can’t say that’s a ringing endorsement, but I’m glad I bought the book.
***********************************
Now, do I shut down and resign myself to tossing and turning, as I haven’t been able to sleep all week and can’t see why tonight should be any different? Should I watch 84 Charing Cross Road, which I borrowed from the library on Suzanne’s recommendation? Should I get started on my final searching assignment for Retrieving? I’m thinking I’ll probably start a book. The Rotter’s Club, I think.
oh I sincerely miss those heavy metal bands
I am looking into RSS feed aggregators. I read about fifteen blogs on a regular basis, and all this clicking is doing a number on my carpal tunnels…it’d be nice to have one spot where I could check for updates. Much more time efficient as well. There are two problems I have encountered so far, though: the most recent postings for a particular blog are not always what’s linked to (ran into this with Mimi Smartypants), and at least in the aggregator I have tested, you cannot access comments on a blog, and the formatting is not the blog formatting. Now, I have only tried one (Bloglines) so I need to do a little research but if anyone has any suggestions or comments, they would be much appreciated.
*********************
I finally finished The French Lieutenant’s Woman. I did enjoy it, after a fashion, and it was clearly meant to be influenced by and viewed as a homage to Thomas Hardy and also Edith Wharton (Dante Gabriel Rossetti even shows up just at the end). But in the end it reminded me of nothing so much as one of those “Choose your own ending” books I used to read in junior high school. (These, not these!) So there are essentially two endings, one wanting to be Edith Wharton-worthy, and the other not so much. And neither particularly satisfying.
Another aspect I found incredibly annoying was that Fowles would wrap up a piece of the story lickety-split, in half a page, and then in the next few chapters, write in loving, minute detail about how the wrapping up happened. Once or twice, this is fine, but became a tiresome affect.
******************
Pittsburgh city buses have undergone a makeover in the past year or so, and now we have all these spiffy, graphically interesting buses rolling around. Some of them say, “Hello” in a gazillion languages all over the bus, some say, “Ride,“ some say, “Move,” and some say, “Connect.” Every time I see the Connect one, I think of Howard’s End.
************************
Jude is entranced with the idea that the baby is coming to the shore with us in September. “Baby to beach….in Mama’s belly?”
“Yes, Jude.”
And then, worriedly, “Baby home…in Mama’s belly?”
God, I hope so!
********
Rotten Mama moment 1,567,893:
Si is having a tough time when I drop him off at daycare these days. Lots of clinginess and crying, and I don’t know why, really. He loves school, and loves his teachers, and always seems to come home having had a good time and ready to tell us all about it. Today he cried to sit next to Jude at breakfast, and then he was fine momentarily until I started toward the door. I turned around to wave and there he was, mournful look on face, tears welling up in eyes, arm outstretched like…well, it reminds me of nothing so much as that old comedy skit with Heathcliff and Cathy (was it SNL? I couldn’t find a link), where they run past each other in the fog, arms outstretched, calling, “Cathy!” “Heathcliff!” And so I giggle. Instead of being sensitive and comforting, I giggle. Rotten mama, that’s me.
*************
Snippets, or, Why do I even read the news some days? Not in order of importance:
Someone please tell me that this is the child’s natural hair growth patterns and that she did not give the boy a Mohawk. That said, I think Angelina Jolie is a pretty intriguing person. I don’t know if she’s a good actress or not, I haven’t seen her movies, but I do think she’s a good person who is trying in her way to make a difference in the world. I give her a lot of credit, despite all her weirdness re: Billy Bob and his vial of blood. (That *might* be the title of the seventh HP, by the way.)
This is beyond making laws and enforcing them. Men who believe gang-raping an innocent person is the appropriate reaction to someone else’s ill-advised love affairs are beyond man-made laws. We need to start considering entire cultural influences. We can’t think that we’ll just abolish an oppressive body of power such as the Taliban (or a dictatorial government) and suddenly we have enlightened millions of people. It doesn’t work that way.
I do not even know what to say about this, other than “Tee-hee” and perhaps “What the f**?!” What child voluntarily signs up to go to a camp where the primary activity is nudity? And why is this a national story? Good thing we don’t have any more important things to worry about.
*********************
I finally finished The French Lieutenant’s Woman. I did enjoy it, after a fashion, and it was clearly meant to be influenced by and viewed as a homage to Thomas Hardy and also Edith Wharton (Dante Gabriel Rossetti even shows up just at the end). But in the end it reminded me of nothing so much as one of those “Choose your own ending” books I used to read in junior high school. (These, not these!) So there are essentially two endings, one wanting to be Edith Wharton-worthy, and the other not so much. And neither particularly satisfying.
Another aspect I found incredibly annoying was that Fowles would wrap up a piece of the story lickety-split, in half a page, and then in the next few chapters, write in loving, minute detail about how the wrapping up happened. Once or twice, this is fine, but became a tiresome affect.
******************
Pittsburgh city buses have undergone a makeover in the past year or so, and now we have all these spiffy, graphically interesting buses rolling around. Some of them say, “Hello” in a gazillion languages all over the bus, some say, “Ride,“ some say, “Move,” and some say, “Connect.” Every time I see the Connect one, I think of Howard’s End.
************************
Jude is entranced with the idea that the baby is coming to the shore with us in September. “Baby to beach….in Mama’s belly?”
“Yes, Jude.”
And then, worriedly, “Baby home…in Mama’s belly?”
God, I hope so!
********
Rotten Mama moment 1,567,893:
Si is having a tough time when I drop him off at daycare these days. Lots of clinginess and crying, and I don’t know why, really. He loves school, and loves his teachers, and always seems to come home having had a good time and ready to tell us all about it. Today he cried to sit next to Jude at breakfast, and then he was fine momentarily until I started toward the door. I turned around to wave and there he was, mournful look on face, tears welling up in eyes, arm outstretched like…well, it reminds me of nothing so much as that old comedy skit with Heathcliff and Cathy (was it SNL? I couldn’t find a link), where they run past each other in the fog, arms outstretched, calling, “Cathy!” “Heathcliff!” And so I giggle. Instead of being sensitive and comforting, I giggle. Rotten mama, that’s me.
*************
Snippets, or, Why do I even read the news some days? Not in order of importance:
Someone please tell me that this is the child’s natural hair growth patterns and that she did not give the boy a Mohawk. That said, I think Angelina Jolie is a pretty intriguing person. I don’t know if she’s a good actress or not, I haven’t seen her movies, but I do think she’s a good person who is trying in her way to make a difference in the world. I give her a lot of credit, despite all her weirdness re: Billy Bob and his vial of blood. (That *might* be the title of the seventh HP, by the way.)
This is beyond making laws and enforcing them. Men who believe gang-raping an innocent person is the appropriate reaction to someone else’s ill-advised love affairs are beyond man-made laws. We need to start considering entire cultural influences. We can’t think that we’ll just abolish an oppressive body of power such as the Taliban (or a dictatorial government) and suddenly we have enlightened millions of people. It doesn’t work that way.
I do not even know what to say about this, other than “Tee-hee” and perhaps “What the f**?!” What child voluntarily signs up to go to a camp where the primary activity is nudity? And why is this a national story? Good thing we don’t have any more important things to worry about.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
It is the first responsibility of every citizen to question authority.
The Guardian is guessing (along with most of the world's bookies) that Albus Dumbledore is going to be killed off in the next HP. The paper is sponsoring a "Write the death of Dumbledore in the fashion of a famous writer" contest, and most of them are pretty entertaining. It might just help tide you over till the 16th.
*************
For all we librarian geeks (c'mon, admit it, your personal library is arranged according to Dewey or LOC. I personally use LOC because it's easier and I am lazy.):
http://www.loc.gov/catdir/cpso/lcco/lcco.html
This is very helpful. Not that it for one moment dilutes my cravings for one of those big LC classification schedule posters to hang in my office at home.
*****************
Si and I are reading A Bear Called Paddington. I had no idea that Paddington was such a haughty, sarcastic little bugger, but this endears him to me. I find it strange that all my life I thought Paddington was this cuddly little talking teddy bear, like Corduroy, but no, he’s this smart-ass real bear from Darkest Peru who just takes up residence with a family in London on the spur of the moment. (Although I personally think he looks more like a hedgehog…)
I did have to explain to Si the concept of many chapters = one book = one big long story. The idea that what happened in the last chapter carries over and is relevant to what happens in the next chapter was one that I think he grasped, and eventually enjoyed.
*******************
Things that happen when you wake up early and your boys do not (because of course it’s a school day and you must be somewhere soon):
• You spend way too much time futzing while getting ready and instead of sticking to your normal moisturizer–lip goop–perfume routine, you put on way too much eyeliner and mascara and look like you are ready to clubbing with a bunch of Goths rather than being off to the library where you sit at the ref desk all day. Fortunately my little wire-rimmed glasses hide most of the effect.
• You read all the web stuff you were saving up for reading at work when it got slow.
Speaking of, I need all these evil bloggers who have reeled me in with enticements of laughs, toddler stories, political commentary, and other riches to post more than once a week (finslippy, this means YOU! How can I miss someone I have never met? And yet I do…) And then I realized I posted every day this holiday weekend, and twice on Saturday, and realize that perhaps, just perhaps, these other bloggers are not lame, anti-social misfits and have real lives to attend to. Unlike yours truly. Who did nothing all weekend but sit around, read, and sleep. And post.
****************
Last night we hung out with our neighbors, pooling all our leftovers and odds and ends for a veritable potluck feast. We pushed our luck with the boys and Jude was getting cranky. He banged his head on the mailbox while playing on the porch. Then, climbing into my lap to be comforted, he managed to bang his head into the porch column I was leaning against, with a little help from his clumsy mother. We decided to pack it up and go home, and Jude held my hand as we walked down the steps. At which point Dan turned to say goodbye and smacked Jude in the head with his guitar case. Poor kid. Good thing he’s got the Harduk noggin – good Eastern European peasant stock. Solid as a rock.
Or maybe that explains why he slept so late this morning : )
*************
For all we librarian geeks (c'mon, admit it, your personal library is arranged according to Dewey or LOC. I personally use LOC because it's easier and I am lazy.):
http://www.loc.gov/catdir/cpso/lcco/lcco.html
This is very helpful. Not that it for one moment dilutes my cravings for one of those big LC classification schedule posters to hang in my office at home.
*****************
Si and I are reading A Bear Called Paddington. I had no idea that Paddington was such a haughty, sarcastic little bugger, but this endears him to me. I find it strange that all my life I thought Paddington was this cuddly little talking teddy bear, like Corduroy, but no, he’s this smart-ass real bear from Darkest Peru who just takes up residence with a family in London on the spur of the moment. (Although I personally think he looks more like a hedgehog…)
I did have to explain to Si the concept of many chapters = one book = one big long story. The idea that what happened in the last chapter carries over and is relevant to what happens in the next chapter was one that I think he grasped, and eventually enjoyed.
*******************
Things that happen when you wake up early and your boys do not (because of course it’s a school day and you must be somewhere soon):
• You spend way too much time futzing while getting ready and instead of sticking to your normal moisturizer–lip goop–perfume routine, you put on way too much eyeliner and mascara and look like you are ready to clubbing with a bunch of Goths rather than being off to the library where you sit at the ref desk all day. Fortunately my little wire-rimmed glasses hide most of the effect.
• You read all the web stuff you were saving up for reading at work when it got slow.
Speaking of, I need all these evil bloggers who have reeled me in with enticements of laughs, toddler stories, political commentary, and other riches to post more than once a week (finslippy, this means YOU! How can I miss someone I have never met? And yet I do…) And then I realized I posted every day this holiday weekend, and twice on Saturday, and realize that perhaps, just perhaps, these other bloggers are not lame, anti-social misfits and have real lives to attend to. Unlike yours truly. Who did nothing all weekend but sit around, read, and sleep. And post.
****************
Last night we hung out with our neighbors, pooling all our leftovers and odds and ends for a veritable potluck feast. We pushed our luck with the boys and Jude was getting cranky. He banged his head on the mailbox while playing on the porch. Then, climbing into my lap to be comforted, he managed to bang his head into the porch column I was leaning against, with a little help from his clumsy mother. We decided to pack it up and go home, and Jude held my hand as we walked down the steps. At which point Dan turned to say goodbye and smacked Jude in the head with his guitar case. Poor kid. Good thing he’s got the Harduk noggin – good Eastern European peasant stock. Solid as a rock.
Or maybe that explains why he slept so late this morning : )
Monday, July 04, 2005
Gina's Lists
Love
1. When my big, brown thug of a boy still reaches to hold my hand.
2. Pizza with a wafer-thin crust.
3. Diet Coke with lots of ice.
4. The satisfaction of taking a good snap shot.
5. Mornings when I can wake up, grab my glasses, and get back to the book I was reading before even setting foot on the floor.
6. Birkenstocks.
7. Book stores and libraries.
8. Taking a shower after I’ve run—I love that I can taste the salty sweat as the water carries it down and off my face.
9. Roller coasters.
10. Being on the air during pledge drives.
11. Canvas tote bags. No idea why, but I’ve got some sort of fetish.
12. Apple pie with the crumbly stuff on top instead of crust.
13. Neil Young.
14. The way everything smells after you’ve been near a campfire.
15. Quiet.
16. Naps.
17. Reading on a porch swing.
18. Reading in a hot bath.
19. Tent and campers with lots of built-ins and compartments.
20. Cursing/cussing/swearing.
21. Watching Teddy sleep.
Hate
1. The constant worry/fear that comes with being a mother.
2. Bee stings.
3. The idea of sick parents.
4. Flossing.
5. Panic attacks.
6. The need to wear a bra in order to prevent Sweaty Under-Boob Syndrome.
7. Tight pants.
8. Litter.
9. The fact that smoking is bad for you.
10. Most vegetables.
11. Shrimp. Egad! I can’t believe it ever occurred to people to EAT shrimp!
12. Worrying about money.
13. Dying houseplants.
14. The dirt that accumulates on window fans.
15. “Hazy, hot and humid.”
16. The idea that people in other countries might honestly hate me just because I’m an American.
17. Getting my period.
18. The commercials you’re forced to sit through before the previews begin at the movies.
19. Lipstick smudges.
20. Zits.
21. Hot tubs.
1. When my big, brown thug of a boy still reaches to hold my hand.
2. Pizza with a wafer-thin crust.
3. Diet Coke with lots of ice.
4. The satisfaction of taking a good snap shot.
5. Mornings when I can wake up, grab my glasses, and get back to the book I was reading before even setting foot on the floor.
6. Birkenstocks.
7. Book stores and libraries.
8. Taking a shower after I’ve run—I love that I can taste the salty sweat as the water carries it down and off my face.
9. Roller coasters.
10. Being on the air during pledge drives.
11. Canvas tote bags. No idea why, but I’ve got some sort of fetish.
12. Apple pie with the crumbly stuff on top instead of crust.
13. Neil Young.
14. The way everything smells after you’ve been near a campfire.
15. Quiet.
16. Naps.
17. Reading on a porch swing.
18. Reading in a hot bath.
19. Tent and campers with lots of built-ins and compartments.
20. Cursing/cussing/swearing.
21. Watching Teddy sleep.
Hate
1. The constant worry/fear that comes with being a mother.
2. Bee stings.
3. The idea of sick parents.
4. Flossing.
5. Panic attacks.
6. The need to wear a bra in order to prevent Sweaty Under-Boob Syndrome.
7. Tight pants.
8. Litter.
9. The fact that smoking is bad for you.
10. Most vegetables.
11. Shrimp. Egad! I can’t believe it ever occurred to people to EAT shrimp!
12. Worrying about money.
13. Dying houseplants.
14. The dirt that accumulates on window fans.
15. “Hazy, hot and humid.”
16. The idea that people in other countries might honestly hate me just because I’m an American.
17. Getting my period.
18. The commercials you’re forced to sit through before the previews begin at the movies.
19. Lipstick smudges.
20. Zits.
21. Hot tubs.
Happy Independence Day!
I include two links:
One to the Declaration of Independence, which every American should read occasionally;
and a current link, to a site which indicates pretty clearly my personal feelings about this country's leadership at the moment.
I love my country, I am proud to be an American and we do a lot of things right. Part of what makes this country so great is a citizen's right to free speech - in many countries, I could be imprisoned or even killed for expressing my dissent and disapproval of the current administration's policies.
*******************
Why are firecrackers illegal?
And since they are, why do so many teenagers in my neighborhood 1) have them, and 2) set them off well into the night with complete impunity?
I personally think they should be legal. People blow off their hands or scorch off their eyebrows regardless, so why not just have them be legal? Of course, I feel the same way about street drugs, so perhaps I should not be taken seriously?
I love fireworks. I love the banging and booming; I hate the lousy musical soundtrack that people play on their radios (broadcast on DVE) at the fireworks at the Point.
Does anyone know all the words to This Land is My Land? I find I don’t.
Is it inappropriate to sing the national anthem to my boys at bedtime?
I still get goose bumps, singing the national anthem while lying on the bedroom floor singing over the hum of the AC to two sleepy boys.
America the Beautiful would be a just-fine national anthem too, and it is indeed way easier to sing.
Jude’s looking sporty and festive today in a Gap fireworks T-shirt and red shorts.
Will a red Spiderman T-shirt and navy sweat shorts be enough of a festive red-white-and-blue outfit for Si?
Do they even make sparklers anymore? I loved sparklers as a kid. I routinely scorched the tips of my fingers every July 4th with them.
My friend Lauren and I once drove to West Virginia on the Fourth of July to buy large jugs of cheap red wine to make sangria for a barbecue my boyfriend and I were having. We mixed the sangria in two five-gallon paint buckets. I guess we figured all that fruit and alcohol would offset any paint remnants.
Is it un-American to buy alcohol on the Fourth of July? Is that why you can’t in Pennsylvania? Does Rick Santorum have anything to do with this silliness?
I think blueberry pie is more all-American than apple pie.
One to the Declaration of Independence, which every American should read occasionally;
and a current link, to a site which indicates pretty clearly my personal feelings about this country's leadership at the moment.
I love my country, I am proud to be an American and we do a lot of things right. Part of what makes this country so great is a citizen's right to free speech - in many countries, I could be imprisoned or even killed for expressing my dissent and disapproval of the current administration's policies.
*******************
Why are firecrackers illegal?
And since they are, why do so many teenagers in my neighborhood 1) have them, and 2) set them off well into the night with complete impunity?
I personally think they should be legal. People blow off their hands or scorch off their eyebrows regardless, so why not just have them be legal? Of course, I feel the same way about street drugs, so perhaps I should not be taken seriously?
I love fireworks. I love the banging and booming; I hate the lousy musical soundtrack that people play on their radios (broadcast on DVE) at the fireworks at the Point.
Does anyone know all the words to This Land is My Land? I find I don’t.
Is it inappropriate to sing the national anthem to my boys at bedtime?
I still get goose bumps, singing the national anthem while lying on the bedroom floor singing over the hum of the AC to two sleepy boys.
America the Beautiful would be a just-fine national anthem too, and it is indeed way easier to sing.
Jude’s looking sporty and festive today in a Gap fireworks T-shirt and red shorts.
Will a red Spiderman T-shirt and navy sweat shorts be enough of a festive red-white-and-blue outfit for Si?
Do they even make sparklers anymore? I loved sparklers as a kid. I routinely scorched the tips of my fingers every July 4th with them.
My friend Lauren and I once drove to West Virginia on the Fourth of July to buy large jugs of cheap red wine to make sangria for a barbecue my boyfriend and I were having. We mixed the sangria in two five-gallon paint buckets. I guess we figured all that fruit and alcohol would offset any paint remnants.
Is it un-American to buy alcohol on the Fourth of July? Is that why you can’t in Pennsylvania? Does Rick Santorum have anything to do with this silliness?
I think blueberry pie is more all-American than apple pie.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
oh I wish I were an Oscar Mayer weiner
I have just completed my first-ever eBay purchase. I made the plunge for a talking Muck from Bob the Builder. I lost my bid on a talking Lofty the Neurotic Crane (“I’m afraid of heights! What sort of lame crane is afraid of heights? I forgot to take my Paxil today, oooohhh...”), but I won Muck. It was fun in a way, and somewhat nerve-wracking – it would be more so if you really really wanted something. But I may do some of my Christmas shopping on eBay. Large plastic objects are way cheaper on eBay.
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We ordered pizza for dinner, and I plunked the boys down in front of a video while we ate. Such decadence. The empire will crumble any day now. I even gave them chocolate milk for dinner – unheard of! Jude was lying on the floor on his belly, watching Bob and drinking his milk, and without (clearly without!) thinking about it, rolled over onto his back --- with his full glass still in hand and to his mouth. I wonder if chocolate milk is a good hair conditioner?
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I’ve been rereading Laurie Colwin books for the past twenty-four hours. I really like her stuff but sometimes she’s just a bit too precious for me. However, in Passion and Affect, there’s one story, “Wet,” that is haunting and beautiful and almost exactly what a perfect short story should be. I feel like Gina does, that many times short stories are unsatisfying because you either want them to go and on and they don’t, or they are so superficial that you couldn’t care less about any of the people in them. Another thing that irks me about short stories is when an author puts out a book of stories that are obviously cribbed from parts of a larger, already published novel (Richard Russo’s The Whore’s Child) or they are the beginnings of what later became a novel which you have unfortunately already read (Colwin’s Passion and Affect fit this description; two of the longest stories in the book wound up as Happy All The Time). One book of short stories that I loved, that falls prey to neither of these, is Robert Girardi’s A Vaudeville of Devils; Girardi’s books are so memorable and so strikingly odd that perhaps he just feels that he can’t get away with this?
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Snippets:
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We ordered pizza for dinner, and I plunked the boys down in front of a video while we ate. Such decadence. The empire will crumble any day now. I even gave them chocolate milk for dinner – unheard of! Jude was lying on the floor on his belly, watching Bob and drinking his milk, and without (clearly without!) thinking about it, rolled over onto his back --- with his full glass still in hand and to his mouth. I wonder if chocolate milk is a good hair conditioner?
****************
I’ve been rereading Laurie Colwin books for the past twenty-four hours. I really like her stuff but sometimes she’s just a bit too precious for me. However, in Passion and Affect, there’s one story, “Wet,” that is haunting and beautiful and almost exactly what a perfect short story should be. I feel like Gina does, that many times short stories are unsatisfying because you either want them to go and on and they don’t, or they are so superficial that you couldn’t care less about any of the people in them. Another thing that irks me about short stories is when an author puts out a book of stories that are obviously cribbed from parts of a larger, already published novel (Richard Russo’s The Whore’s Child) or they are the beginnings of what later became a novel which you have unfortunately already read (Colwin’s Passion and Affect fit this description; two of the longest stories in the book wound up as Happy All The Time). One book of short stories that I loved, that falls prey to neither of these, is Robert Girardi’s A Vaudeville of Devils; Girardi’s books are so memorable and so strikingly odd that perhaps he just feels that he can’t get away with this?
******************
Snippets:
- I just discovered that Girardi has a fairly new novel out that I did not know about, The Wrong Doyle. I am probably going to break my reading-classics resolution for this one sometime soon.
- In an author interview I found while researching a different author, Rosamunde Pilcher said that she will probably not write another novel “at [her] advanced age.” I am so sad. I look forward to my favorite authors putting out new books, and frankly, she doesn’t look THAT old. Retirement be damned, Rosamunde, get your AARP ass in gear and write another book please!
- I’m freehand-quilting a baby quilt at the moment and can’t decide if the process is completely nerve-wracking or completely freeing. But I just couldn’t see spending how many hours drawing the meant-to-be-random swirly quilting pattern on the thing just to repeat it all with a needle. The very thought was making my head hurt.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Listmania, idea swiped from Say La Vee and Badger...
The Love List:
1. The way my little guys smell (generally a combo of a bit of sweat, Waterbabies sunscreen, and peanut butter)
2. Si’s skinny little calves and ankles (just like his daddy’s) and his beautiful green eyes and his thousand-watt pointy-chinned smile
3. Jude’s blond sticky-out hair and his plump little starfish-y hands and his hobbit feet
4. Jude’s rendition of Radiohead’s National Anthem
5. Radiohead
6. Rum and Coke, no lime
7. Chocolate peanut butter ice cream from Baskin Robbins (two scoops in a waffle cone)
8. Panzarottis
9. The smell of The Good Home Beach House hand soap
10. Blue glass
11. The shore
12. Clean cotton sheets
13. Enough pillows
14. Walking around barefoot all summer
15. The New Email icon
16. Eeyore
17. Blue cheese of just about any kind
18. Pickup trucks
19. Finding a great new blog to read
20. Sharks
21. Dar Williams
22. Naps
23. August tomatoes
24. Curb Your Enthusiasm
25. Long flowy skirts
26. Wearing my retainer
27. Nineteenth-century novels
28. Epidurals
29. The library
30. The way I feel after I’ve had a good run
31. Water in just about any form – fountains, lakes, ponds, creeks, pools, bathtubs, puddles
The Hate List:
1. People who play their car radios so loudly my windows rattle
2. Drivers who don’t use turn signals
3. Mayonnaise
4. Lukewarm sushi
5. Taco dip
6. Couches that aren’t long enough for me to lie down on
7. Sticky tables
8. People who act like it’s my fault that their print job did not turn out properly because they didn’t check their settings
9. SUVs
10. Maternity clothes without pockets and/or with flower applique
11. Barney the Freaking Purple Dinosaur and those saccharine horrors of children that accompany him
12. Socks
13. Bras
14. Guns
15. Gratuitously depicted violence in movies, oh ok, violence in general, how very liberal of me
16. The Diaper Genie
17. Migraines - actually, the pre-migraine phase when every little sound makes me tweak, and my eyes hurt from the light
18. Crunching on things (Cheerios) and sticking to things when I walk across the kitchen floor
19. Epidurals
20. Genetic counselors
21. The new GD effing system to record reference transactions in the library. Why does everything have to be made *more* complicated? Occam’s razor, anyone?
22. Automated phone service systems (“Press 1 for English…”)
23. Loonies who crank-call the ref desk and hang up
24. Bugs
25. Sweat
26. Mosquito bites
27. Short men with teeny-tiny, pudgy hands
28. Perms
1. The way my little guys smell (generally a combo of a bit of sweat, Waterbabies sunscreen, and peanut butter)
2. Si’s skinny little calves and ankles (just like his daddy’s) and his beautiful green eyes and his thousand-watt pointy-chinned smile
3. Jude’s blond sticky-out hair and his plump little starfish-y hands and his hobbit feet
4. Jude’s rendition of Radiohead’s National Anthem
5. Radiohead
6. Rum and Coke, no lime
7. Chocolate peanut butter ice cream from Baskin Robbins (two scoops in a waffle cone)
8. Panzarottis
9. The smell of The Good Home Beach House hand soap
10. Blue glass
11. The shore
12. Clean cotton sheets
13. Enough pillows
14. Walking around barefoot all summer
15. The New Email icon
16. Eeyore
17. Blue cheese of just about any kind
18. Pickup trucks
19. Finding a great new blog to read
20. Sharks
21. Dar Williams
22. Naps
23. August tomatoes
24. Curb Your Enthusiasm
25. Long flowy skirts
26. Wearing my retainer
27. Nineteenth-century novels
28. Epidurals
29. The library
30. The way I feel after I’ve had a good run
31. Water in just about any form – fountains, lakes, ponds, creeks, pools, bathtubs, puddles
The Hate List:
1. People who play their car radios so loudly my windows rattle
2. Drivers who don’t use turn signals
3. Mayonnaise
4. Lukewarm sushi
5. Taco dip
6. Couches that aren’t long enough for me to lie down on
7. Sticky tables
8. People who act like it’s my fault that their print job did not turn out properly because they didn’t check their settings
9. SUVs
10. Maternity clothes without pockets and/or with flower applique
11. Barney the Freaking Purple Dinosaur and those saccharine horrors of children that accompany him
12. Socks
13. Bras
14. Guns
15. Gratuitously depicted violence in movies, oh ok, violence in general, how very liberal of me
16. The Diaper Genie
17. Migraines - actually, the pre-migraine phase when every little sound makes me tweak, and my eyes hurt from the light
18. Crunching on things (Cheerios) and sticking to things when I walk across the kitchen floor
19. Epidurals
20. Genetic counselors
21. The new GD effing system to record reference transactions in the library. Why does everything have to be made *more* complicated? Occam’s razor, anyone?
22. Automated phone service systems (“Press 1 for English…”)
23. Loonies who crank-call the ref desk and hang up
24. Bugs
25. Sweat
26. Mosquito bites
27. Short men with teeny-tiny, pudgy hands
28. Perms
I Heart Steve Almond
Really. I heart him. I want to cut out his picture from the dust jacket of The Evil B.B. Chow and Other Stories and hang it in my locker.
I got B.B. Chow from the library yesterday, and all I can say is that I’m glad I had the nice people at Barnes & Noble order me a copy (can you believe they didn’t have it?), because I must own it. And maybe sleep with it under my pillow.
Here’s the crazy thing: As a rule, I don’t like short stories. I used to like writing them, but only because I don’t have the wherewithal to write a novel. Mostly, I find that short stories either leave me cold, or they leave me angry, wanting more. Almond’s stories, though, are mostly these perfect little presents. I’m not sure what differentiates them (for me, at least) from others’ short stories, but . . . somehow he writes the stories that I want to read.
There are a few misses. I didn’t like the Lincoln story at all, and the one called Human Consumption didn’t do much for me, but the others were charming, or disturbing, or haunting, or funny . . . sometimes all at once. I think this collection is far better than My Life in Heavy Metal, and I really liked that one.
All I have to say now is that Steve Almond should come to Pittsburgh, get a job teaching at Pitt, and marry me. Then he should write a novel.
I got B.B. Chow from the library yesterday, and all I can say is that I’m glad I had the nice people at Barnes & Noble order me a copy (can you believe they didn’t have it?), because I must own it. And maybe sleep with it under my pillow.
Here’s the crazy thing: As a rule, I don’t like short stories. I used to like writing them, but only because I don’t have the wherewithal to write a novel. Mostly, I find that short stories either leave me cold, or they leave me angry, wanting more. Almond’s stories, though, are mostly these perfect little presents. I’m not sure what differentiates them (for me, at least) from others’ short stories, but . . . somehow he writes the stories that I want to read.
There are a few misses. I didn’t like the Lincoln story at all, and the one called Human Consumption didn’t do much for me, but the others were charming, or disturbing, or haunting, or funny . . . sometimes all at once. I think this collection is far better than My Life in Heavy Metal, and I really liked that one.
All I have to say now is that Steve Almond should come to Pittsburgh, get a job teaching at Pitt, and marry me. Then he should write a novel.
One can't complain. I have my friends. Someone spoke to me only yesterday.
Starbucks closed so I cannot get a caffeine fix: Boo!
Free parking: Yay!
Holiday weekends when the only thing open on campus is the library: Boo!
Having to go to work this morning where it’s cool and quiet: Yay!
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A new (to me) blog to check out, via Say La Vee, (and I stole her list idea, which I shall post as soon as I feel it’s complete. Of course as soon as I post, I will think of many other things I love and hate, and that are much cleverer than those I posted. It’s always the way; same with those clever little email surveys that make you ferret out fifty odd facts about yourself. No sooner have I sent it on and read other people’s than I realize how boring my answers were. Welcome to my life.)
Also recently discovered: Half.com’s book department. Oh my god, I could go nuts and probably will someday soon.
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My mother-in-law and I may finally have something in common. I gave her a Rosamunde Pilcher novel to read recently, The Shell Seekers. Her usual reading tastes run to Nora Roberts, Danielle Steele, and sometimes Maeve Binchy. Mine do not. But I love Rosamunde Pilcher’s big novels: Shell Seekers, September, Coming Home, and Winter Solstice. Despite her romance-novelist name, she is a good writer who weaves meandering and delightfully detailed big stories, with interesting and complex characters. Her plots are not predictable, but also not outrageous. She reminds me a little of Joanna Trollope – although I should say that the other way since I like Pilcher more. Her books are big fat comfort-food books, and I highly recommend them for winter reading, curled up in bed under a comforter with a cup of tea, or, alternately, lying on the beach with an iced tea close to hand. My MIL enjoyed Shell Seekers, and then read its sequel-of-sorts, September. She called me at work Thursday while she was babysitting at my house, to find out where the others were, so she could start a new one. I felt irrationally happy; I wish for a MIL who loves me and with whom I can hang in the kitchen and talk and drink tea and be friends. After ten years of marriage, I am fairly certain that’s not going to happen, but at least I managed a bit of that connection and I am truly glad. She was well into Winter Solstice by the time I got home from work Thursday evening, and she seemed to be enjoying it.
********************************
I read my favorite Winnie the Pooh story to the boys last night, “In which Pooh invents a new game and Eeyore joins in.” Eeyore is bounced into the river by Tigger and interrupts Pooh’s and Piglet’s game of Pooh Sticks, and then they all try to figure out how to get Eeyore out of the river. I just adore Eeyore’s dry wit and sarcastic humor, and they shine in this particular story.
My favorite line from the story, useful in many more situations than you would imagine:
“Bouncy or coffy, it’s all the same at the bottom of the river.”
******************************
Stopped at a traffic light on the way to daycare, Simon asked me why the light wasn’t making noise. I asked him what he meant. He said, “At your school (Pitt), the traffic lights make noises so people can cross the street.” So, in Oakland, the traffic stops all four ways and a little beeper makes a cuckoo-sound, so the blind people can safely cross a very busy intersection. This is what he was remembering. I explained that not every intersection had that, and that they were mostly in Oakland because there is a sort of school for the blind there. Simon absorbed this information and then asked me, “How do they do their art projects?”
******************************
Two quick things:
I saw the new boobs for the first time yesterday. For those of you not intimately involved in the ongoing saga, my Perfect sister-in-law got a boob job and a tummy tuck last February. I must admit to boob envy; they are lovely. I want *my* shirts to be filled out that way, just slightly straining at the buttons of my cute little madras top. But alas, I think her butt needs work now. I suppose once you start down that path, you never stop?
Also, speaking of jello cake (we weren't but I digress...) my MIL made an atrocity of a dessert last night. Seems it is French vanilla ice cream mixed with chocolate pudding, poured on top of crushed Ritz crackers and topped with Cool Whip. Unbelievably vile. I've had something similar made with coconut pudding and that was better. Now I really want this cookbook. Do you suppose she'd take it amiss if I gave it to her for Christmas?
**********************
I am taking votes. Next book to read:
Captain Correlli’s Mandolin
Vanity Fair
Son of the Circus
David Copperfield
Free parking: Yay!
Holiday weekends when the only thing open on campus is the library: Boo!
Having to go to work this morning where it’s cool and quiet: Yay!
*****************
A new (to me) blog to check out, via Say La Vee, (and I stole her list idea, which I shall post as soon as I feel it’s complete. Of course as soon as I post, I will think of many other things I love and hate, and that are much cleverer than those I posted. It’s always the way; same with those clever little email surveys that make you ferret out fifty odd facts about yourself. No sooner have I sent it on and read other people’s than I realize how boring my answers were. Welcome to my life.)
Also recently discovered: Half.com’s book department. Oh my god, I could go nuts and probably will someday soon.
*******************
My mother-in-law and I may finally have something in common. I gave her a Rosamunde Pilcher novel to read recently, The Shell Seekers. Her usual reading tastes run to Nora Roberts, Danielle Steele, and sometimes Maeve Binchy. Mine do not. But I love Rosamunde Pilcher’s big novels: Shell Seekers, September, Coming Home, and Winter Solstice. Despite her romance-novelist name, she is a good writer who weaves meandering and delightfully detailed big stories, with interesting and complex characters. Her plots are not predictable, but also not outrageous. She reminds me a little of Joanna Trollope – although I should say that the other way since I like Pilcher more. Her books are big fat comfort-food books, and I highly recommend them for winter reading, curled up in bed under a comforter with a cup of tea, or, alternately, lying on the beach with an iced tea close to hand. My MIL enjoyed Shell Seekers, and then read its sequel-of-sorts, September. She called me at work Thursday while she was babysitting at my house, to find out where the others were, so she could start a new one. I felt irrationally happy; I wish for a MIL who loves me and with whom I can hang in the kitchen and talk and drink tea and be friends. After ten years of marriage, I am fairly certain that’s not going to happen, but at least I managed a bit of that connection and I am truly glad. She was well into Winter Solstice by the time I got home from work Thursday evening, and she seemed to be enjoying it.
********************************
I read my favorite Winnie the Pooh story to the boys last night, “In which Pooh invents a new game and Eeyore joins in.” Eeyore is bounced into the river by Tigger and interrupts Pooh’s and Piglet’s game of Pooh Sticks, and then they all try to figure out how to get Eeyore out of the river. I just adore Eeyore’s dry wit and sarcastic humor, and they shine in this particular story.
My favorite line from the story, useful in many more situations than you would imagine:
“Bouncy or coffy, it’s all the same at the bottom of the river.”
******************************
Stopped at a traffic light on the way to daycare, Simon asked me why the light wasn’t making noise. I asked him what he meant. He said, “At your school (Pitt), the traffic lights make noises so people can cross the street.” So, in Oakland, the traffic stops all four ways and a little beeper makes a cuckoo-sound, so the blind people can safely cross a very busy intersection. This is what he was remembering. I explained that not every intersection had that, and that they were mostly in Oakland because there is a sort of school for the blind there. Simon absorbed this information and then asked me, “How do they do their art projects?”
******************************
Two quick things:
I saw the new boobs for the first time yesterday. For those of you not intimately involved in the ongoing saga, my Perfect sister-in-law got a boob job and a tummy tuck last February. I must admit to boob envy; they are lovely. I want *my* shirts to be filled out that way, just slightly straining at the buttons of my cute little madras top. But alas, I think her butt needs work now. I suppose once you start down that path, you never stop?
Also, speaking of jello cake (we weren't but I digress...) my MIL made an atrocity of a dessert last night. Seems it is French vanilla ice cream mixed with chocolate pudding, poured on top of crushed Ritz crackers and topped with Cool Whip. Unbelievably vile. I've had something similar made with coconut pudding and that was better. Now I really want this cookbook. Do you suppose she'd take it amiss if I gave it to her for Christmas?
**********************
I am taking votes. Next book to read:
Captain Correlli’s Mandolin
Vanity Fair
Son of the Circus
David Copperfield
Books Read - July 2005
Gina:
The Evil B.B. Chow and Other Stories (Steve Almond), Killing Yourself to Live (Chuck Klosterman), Second Thyme Around (Katie Fforde), The Rotter's Club (Jonathan Coe), Fat Girl (Judith Moore), Stately Pursuits (Katie Fforde), The Time Traveler's Wife (Audrey Niffenegger), Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (JK Rowling), The Walls Came Tumbling Down (Babs H. Deal), Must Love Dogs (Claire Cook)
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BabelBabe:
Passion and Affect: Stories - Laurie Colwin
Shine On, Bright and Dangerous Object - Laurie Colwin
The French Lieutenant's Woman - John Fowles
Justice Hall - Laurie R. King
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - JK Rowling
The Historian - Elizabeth Kostova
The Evil B.B. Chow and Other Stories (Steve Almond), Killing Yourself to Live (Chuck Klosterman), Second Thyme Around (Katie Fforde), The Rotter's Club (Jonathan Coe), Fat Girl (Judith Moore), Stately Pursuits (Katie Fforde), The Time Traveler's Wife (Audrey Niffenegger), Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (JK Rowling), The Walls Came Tumbling Down (Babs H. Deal), Must Love Dogs (Claire Cook)
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BabelBabe:
Passion and Affect: Stories - Laurie Colwin
Shine On, Bright and Dangerous Object - Laurie Colwin
The French Lieutenant's Woman - John Fowles
Justice Hall - Laurie R. King
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - JK Rowling
The Historian - Elizabeth Kostova
Thursday, June 30, 2005
isn't he the most beautiful baby ever?
Here is my brother and his wife's new little boy, Andrew, born last Friday. He looks just like my little brother. ACK! My little brother is a father! Life is so weird sometimes.
Can we build it? Yes we can!
I wish someone could explain to me why I feel guilty that I am obliged to do some housework rather than hang out and play with my kids. Is it because a) I don't really want to play with my kids, because is there anything more boring than pretending to be Bob the Builder or one of the Thomas trains? Or is it because b) I feel guilty that by giving in to my desire to put away laundry and vacuum and maintain some semblance of order within the house, I am submitting to my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and so I feel that I should just be able to leave the mess and play with the kids? (See a).
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Yesterday I spent the morning trawling the Red White and Blue thrift store. I went to look at maternity clothes but knew I couldn’t restrict myself to just those. I did however buy a nice plain navy blue dress with sunflowers printed on it that will do nicely for work. I also bought a little blue glass-bead necklace that caught my eye. (The nice thing about thrift store items catching your eye is that they rarely cost more than a few bucks and sometimes less, so you can indulge yourself with out too much guilt.)
I picked up some kids’ books (most of the adult ones I already owned or they were Harlequin romances…). I got Si two Richard Scarrys that we didn’t have, a counting one and What Do People Do All Day? (Answer: Damned if I know!); Amelia Bedelia’s Christmas; Ginger Pye (Eleanor Estes) and Runaway Ralph (Beverly Cleary) (we are moving towards simple chapter books to accommodate Si’s reading tastes and level); and two Elmo Golden books and a Teletubbies book for Jude.
The big score of the day however was Scoop from Bob the Builder, whom my boys have recently discovered. This Scoop is about 8 inches tall and talks and moves its shovel up and down and moves its eyes around -- for a dollar! I also picked up a Tonka tow truck for a buck. Jude immediately adopted Scoop – he slept with him last night and brought him into bed with me this morning. It’s freaky enough that I wake up to find Mimi staring me in the face some days (see the beauteous Mimi in pic at right), all I need is a backhoe too.
Total spent: sixteen dollars.
**************************
I have been trying to finish A Year by the Sea for the past day, but it is not the kind of book that lends itself to being read while two small children squabble incessantly over who gets to play with Muck and who gets Scoop.
*******************
Yesterday I spent the morning trawling the Red White and Blue thrift store. I went to look at maternity clothes but knew I couldn’t restrict myself to just those. I did however buy a nice plain navy blue dress with sunflowers printed on it that will do nicely for work. I also bought a little blue glass-bead necklace that caught my eye. (The nice thing about thrift store items catching your eye is that they rarely cost more than a few bucks and sometimes less, so you can indulge yourself with out too much guilt.)
I picked up some kids’ books (most of the adult ones I already owned or they were Harlequin romances…). I got Si two Richard Scarrys that we didn’t have, a counting one and What Do People Do All Day? (Answer: Damned if I know!); Amelia Bedelia’s Christmas; Ginger Pye (Eleanor Estes) and Runaway Ralph (Beverly Cleary) (we are moving towards simple chapter books to accommodate Si’s reading tastes and level); and two Elmo Golden books and a Teletubbies book for Jude.
The big score of the day however was Scoop from Bob the Builder, whom my boys have recently discovered. This Scoop is about 8 inches tall and talks and moves its shovel up and down and moves its eyes around -- for a dollar! I also picked up a Tonka tow truck for a buck. Jude immediately adopted Scoop – he slept with him last night and brought him into bed with me this morning. It’s freaky enough that I wake up to find Mimi staring me in the face some days (see the beauteous Mimi in pic at right), all I need is a backhoe too.
Total spent: sixteen dollars.
**************************
I have been trying to finish A Year by the Sea for the past day, but it is not the kind of book that lends itself to being read while two small children squabble incessantly over who gets to play with Muck and who gets Scoop.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Worst Album Covers Ever
Seriously. Have I ever made you look at this? I have it bookmarked--it never fails to make me laugh.
The Plot: The Secret Story of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion
I just finished reading this, and I am so sorry that Will Eisner is dead. What a wonderful, sensitive, thoughtful, talented man. I’m happy, at least, to know that there are many books to look forward to, including Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which, according to the Eisner bio in The Plot, “. . . is based in good part on Eisner.” Chabon can be too wordy for my taste, but I’m interested in learning more about Eisner.
Oh dear what can the matter be? Seven old ladies are stuck in the lavat'ry...
I was up way early today – 530. Couldn’t tell why. It actually cooled down a bit last night, what with the rain, so the sleeping was comfortable enough. One of the neighbors’ babies was crying (we are a block full of babies and toddlers, this is a not-uncommon occurrence); but it didn’t wake me up, I just noticed once I was awake. I actually feel pretty good – no low-lying hum of anxiety or morbid thoughts swirling thru my defective brain. Sometimes you just wake up early, I guess. And so you blog : ).
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I came home from work yesterday to a package containing a book – John Irving’s Son of the Circus, which I want to read and thought I’d just buy until Peg offered her copy. Thanks, Peg!
It’s such a cool thing to get a book in the mail. My friend Allie once called me, very excited, because a friend of hers who worked for a publishing house in New York had sent her a random box of review copies and new books that were just lying around the publishers. Not that she had even opened it yet; just the *anticipation* of a WHOLE BOX OF BOOKS, all for her. She told me she called me because I was the only other person she knew who would be as excited, and would be excited for her.
It reminded me of receiving a package from my mom when I was in college. My mom was a world-class package-sender. I got them for all major and most minor holidays, and sometimes just because. Sometimes she’d send one to my roommate too, or my best friend, or my boyfriend, depending on her mood. And they were marvels of packing. Not an inch of space was wasted, and they were always full of the best, most unexpected things, and comfort foods, and little doodads that just cheered me up and made me happy. I think one of the things I miss most since she’s gone is my mom’s packages. The only thing that remotely approaches that happy, anticipatory feeling is when someone sends me books in the mail!
******************
The French Lieutenant’s Woman is picking up steam. The characters become increasingly compelling. However, I am finding a very strange juxtaposition between the 19th-century Hardy-esque tone of the narrative concerning the characters, and the parts where the narrator steps beyond what in theatre we call the fourth wall and explains his motivation behind the characters’ actions, or his lack of control over his characters, or whatever. It’s written well, but each time he does it, I feel as if I am missing something about the story, and sometimes I get annoyed and just want him to go away and let me, the reader, get on with the story: can’t he make his characters and their actions do the exposition for him? I am hoping I discover his purpose for this device as the book continues.
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Yesterday Jude brought home his Humpty Dumpty art project. He was wildly excited and couldn’t wait to tape it to his bedroom wall. I’ve know for a while now that he loves Humpty; I have a Humpty cookie jar on a shelf in the kitchen that sends him into paroxysms of joy. So I guess Humpty is his favorite nursery rhyme. I have always liked Hey Diddle Diddle the best, although the sinister nuances of the word diddle do give me pause for thought. Am I crazy that, at the age of 35, I have a favorite nursery rhyme? Hmmm…
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In honor of this website with hilarious commentary on modern-day baby-naming practices (and atrocities), which has kept me entertained at work for several hours (thank you, Jeenah!), I am renaming my children. Or at least re-spelling their names. Si will be Psymn, and Jude will henceforth be Jhood. The new one will be Jhamyz if a boy and Eallynhoor if a girl. The cats will be Emmmi and Sep will become 7timus. The goldfish will become Kneemo Aenghys.
Wow, I give those people credit, that’s harder to do than you’d think!
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I came home from work yesterday to a package containing a book – John Irving’s Son of the Circus, which I want to read and thought I’d just buy until Peg offered her copy. Thanks, Peg!
It’s such a cool thing to get a book in the mail. My friend Allie once called me, very excited, because a friend of hers who worked for a publishing house in New York had sent her a random box of review copies and new books that were just lying around the publishers. Not that she had even opened it yet; just the *anticipation* of a WHOLE BOX OF BOOKS, all for her. She told me she called me because I was the only other person she knew who would be as excited, and would be excited for her.
It reminded me of receiving a package from my mom when I was in college. My mom was a world-class package-sender. I got them for all major and most minor holidays, and sometimes just because. Sometimes she’d send one to my roommate too, or my best friend, or my boyfriend, depending on her mood. And they were marvels of packing. Not an inch of space was wasted, and they were always full of the best, most unexpected things, and comfort foods, and little doodads that just cheered me up and made me happy. I think one of the things I miss most since she’s gone is my mom’s packages. The only thing that remotely approaches that happy, anticipatory feeling is when someone sends me books in the mail!
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The French Lieutenant’s Woman is picking up steam. The characters become increasingly compelling. However, I am finding a very strange juxtaposition between the 19th-century Hardy-esque tone of the narrative concerning the characters, and the parts where the narrator steps beyond what in theatre we call the fourth wall and explains his motivation behind the characters’ actions, or his lack of control over his characters, or whatever. It’s written well, but each time he does it, I feel as if I am missing something about the story, and sometimes I get annoyed and just want him to go away and let me, the reader, get on with the story: can’t he make his characters and their actions do the exposition for him? I am hoping I discover his purpose for this device as the book continues.
***************
Yesterday Jude brought home his Humpty Dumpty art project. He was wildly excited and couldn’t wait to tape it to his bedroom wall. I’ve know for a while now that he loves Humpty; I have a Humpty cookie jar on a shelf in the kitchen that sends him into paroxysms of joy. So I guess Humpty is his favorite nursery rhyme. I have always liked Hey Diddle Diddle the best, although the sinister nuances of the word diddle do give me pause for thought. Am I crazy that, at the age of 35, I have a favorite nursery rhyme? Hmmm…
***************
In honor of this website with hilarious commentary on modern-day baby-naming practices (and atrocities), which has kept me entertained at work for several hours (thank you, Jeenah!), I am renaming my children. Or at least re-spelling their names. Si will be Psymn, and Jude will henceforth be Jhood. The new one will be Jhamyz if a boy and Eallynhoor if a girl. The cats will be Emmmi and Sep will become 7timus. The goldfish will become Kneemo Aenghys.
Wow, I give those people credit, that’s harder to do than you’d think!
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