"I did not have three thousand pairs of shoes, I had one thousand and sixty."*

I have a lot of shoes. Especially for someone who is not especially girly.

I have sexy silver strappy high heels (that I haven’t worn in, oh, eight years).

I have businesslike black and brown pumps (you know, the ones that kinda resemble penny loafers with chunky heels).

I have an elegant pair of Paul Green black Oxfords that cost me a remarkable sum of money and due to my ensuing four pregnancies no longer really fit me – but I refuse to give them up.

I own an embarrassingly large number of running shoes, all Adidas and in varying stages of wornness.

I have any number of summery shoes – brown strappy sandals with a wedge heel, several pairs of plain black flipflops, pink Mary Jane Crocs, Tevas from my college days, and brown Keen Mary Janes that go with everything, make my legs look really trim and muscular, and are on my feet (if I must wear shoes) constantly from about April till October.

I have Doc Marten boots, and LL Bean boots, for snow. I have Uggs for cold. I have both flat and heeled dressy black boots. My flat boots are kind of boring, with a buckle round the ankle and a zip up the side. But my heeled black boots – my heeled black boots are calf-length, microfiber, square-toed, and incredibly sassy. Just pulling them on makes me feel fun and flirty and hothotHOT.

Stephanie Kallos’ Broken for You is the sexy black boot of my bookshelf. You can recommend it to people knowing that if they read it, they will not only like it, but it will move them, it will make them think, and it will cement their perception of you as a discerning and intelligent reader. It does all the work for you.

But Kallos’ new book, Sing Them Home? Is the brown Keen Mary Jane. Just opening this book every night was a pleasure. It went with every mood. I hated to see it end, much as I am dreading the eventual demise of the shoes I wear nonstop for six months of the year (In fact, I really should just order another pair or two right now.)

Yeah, this metaphor is a little strained, I know. It sounded better at 3am when I was dazed with sleep and with an infant attached to my breast. But when I turned the last page of Sing Them Home? I wanted more. I wanted it to keep going on and on and on, this saga of the Jones family and the town of Emlyn Springs and its inhabitants. I wanted to know who got married, who died, who had babies, who went away to school. I just simply wanted it to continue.

If that’s not one of the nicest things any reader can say about a book, I don’t know what is.

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

*Imelda Marcos (Who else?)

"There is a world of difference between domesticity and domestication." *

I love getting mail. Birthday, anniversary, and Christmas cards; notes from my elderly aunts; little treat packages from various points on the globe; even the bills give me a weird frisson of pleasure, reveling in orderliness and organization (of course, it's H's problem to pay them and balance the checkbook, so I would bet that he doesn't like them at all). I especially enjoy receiving magazines. I only subscribe to a couple - Newsweek, Brain, Child, the now (sadly) defunct House & Garden (Dominique Browning, this means you can have time to write another book now!), and the also now (sadly) defunct H&G substitute, Domino.

My point about my love of snail mail is twofold.

First, the mail this week brought me an eagerly awaited gift to myself, the new Persephone edition of DE Stevenson's long out-of-print Miss Buncle's Book.

When I was a small-ish girl growing up in NJ, I read all of DE Stevenson's gentle little romances. Every one was set in England, in a cosy world of afternoon tea and housekeepers and vicar's wives, and all of them end happily. They are the perfect comfort reading - like A Secret Garden or A Little Princess for adults. Miss Buncle's Book was the first half of a two-book omnibus (the second half was the sequel, Miss Buncle Married) that I checked out of my local library probably every few months. I read it over and over again, and I couldn't have been the only one because the library copy slowly grew more dilapidated until it finally fell apart and was removed from circulation.

Miss Buncle, a spinster living in the small rural village of Silverstream, writes a novel about her village and its inhabitants. The book, written under a pseudonym, is an unexpectedly runaway bestseller. When the citizens of Silverstream begin to recognize themselves in the book, the fun truly begins. (The only thing that could have made this book even more perfect would have been if Stevenson had seen fit to pen Barbara Buncle's actual novel for us, too.)

I searched for a copy of my own for years and years. It's been out of print for so long that any copy that turned up on Amazon or half.com was exorbitantly expensive. But recently, the wonderful Persephone Books republished it, and I now own my very own beautiful copy of Miss Buncle's Book.

Which brings me to my second point: I couldn't remember where I'd discovered Persephone Books. I thought I'd seen them in an issue of Domino, because I often see lovely things in that magazine that I then long to own. Persephone's elegant editions would fit into its stylish pages quite nicely.

But some casual conversation with Suse, and some research consisting of wandering through the pages of another book I quite like, and I realized I had run across them in Jane Brocket's also-cosy The Gentle Art of Domesticity. She has more than one photo of Persephone novels, their dignified yet charming dove-grey covers making them stand out from their more gaudily colored bookshelf companions. In one photo, if I recall correctly, she even has a stack of the beauties, on an end table or nightstand, and I instantly coveted that sedate pile of books.

Their fronts are quiet, but their endpapers are gorgeously vintage.

The typeface is simple and elegant.


I even love the numbers on the back, which at the same time press home the point that I own ONE of these, and - groan - there are at least EIGHTY MORE I need.
I want.
I covet.

Persephone Books detail, in novel, poetry, and biography, the everyday lives of women. From the Persephone website: "Persephone prints mainly neglected fiction and non-fiction by women, for women and about women." The books are "readable, thought-provoking and impossible to forget." (There is a neat little piece on how Persephone finds and/or picks its books here.)

They are pretty, oh so pretty.
And they play well with others.


My one little grey book makes me feel, just for a moment, that I too could pull off the gracious living depicted in the pages of the style and decor magazines that will no longer liven up my mail delivery once a month.

************
*Jane Brocket in her lovely The Gentle Art of Domesticity

The Victoria bushfires in Australia have left a trail of tragedy in their wake - the death toll is 131 and still expected to rise.

The fire jumped an insane distance in moments and wiped out the entire community of Kinglake (you can see the photos on CNN, it WILL break your heart).

Please, please go donate to the Red Cross to help the thousands left homeless.
http://www.redcross.org.au/default.asp
(FYI, $25 American equals about $16 Australian dollars, at least according to the XE conversion website).


My dear Suse, and Penni Russon from Eglantine's Cake are safe (I think the rest of my Aussie blogger friends are in Sydney...). I worry about other Melbourne bloggers...my thoughts are with you all, and my heart hurts for what you are going through.

Be safe, and please keep us posted.

"The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness."*

I went on a Stewart O'Nan spree when I first discovered him. I started with Prayer for the Dying, which appealed to me at first due to its plague theme. (Do you know anyone else who regularly reads the Weekly Morbidity and Mortality Report?) But what a ride! Nail-bitingly suspenseful, inevitability worthy of Shakespeare's tragedies, haunting, eerie cover art - and it made me cry too. I don’t think a book has affected me so much since, except for Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. (And since both books deal with similar themes – mainly, the often futile battle against inexorable evil - that doesn’t surprise me.)

Then I tackled Snow Angels. Very good as well, a little less polished, a bit more teen-angst-y due to the age of one of the main characters, a completely different book, but the same spare, elegant writing and gripping storytelling.

Wish You Were Here was gentler and not as focused, but more involved with characterization.

I was wowed by my find, but for some reason didn’t follow through by ordering from Amazon, or the library, the rest of his novels. However, I was recently thrilled to stumble over his newest, Songs for the Missing, at a dashing visit to my library last week. It boasts all of O’Nan’s usual detailed but natural storytelling, compelling characters whom we get to know almost uncomfortably well throughout the book’s course, and an occasional plot twist that you never see coming but that makes all the sense in the world. O’Nan doesn’t write thrillers, or police procedurals, but I often perceive those elements in his novels.

Of course, due to total lack of sleep and consequent brainlessness, I have set aside Songs, just for the moment, in favor of rereading Book 4 of the Twilight series, Breaking Dawn. It just goes better with the Cherry Cordial Hershey Kisses I have been snarfing down in a spate of what I like to refer to as “survival eating.” When my brain functions return to their regularly scheduled efficiency, I will pick up Songs again. And now I have to go, because I am This. Close. to experiencing brain bleed from the now-healthy, perkier-than-ever, and endlessly nattering three-year-old.

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

*Joseph Conrad (Did you know Conrad wrote his brilliant novels in his THIRD language? I consistently find this fact utterly amazing.)

Open letter to Mayor Luke Ravenstahl and the Pittsburgh Board of Education

Mayor Ravenstahl:

I am sure you are aware of the planned delay scheduled for Pittsburgh Public Schools this upcoming Monday, February 2.

I want you also to be aware that, happy as I am for the Steelers, this is in no way appropriate, and I am livid, and disappointed beyond belief, with the people in charge of my child's education.

I am the parent of a second-grader and a kindergartener in the Pittsburgh Public Schools system. My children have had at least three previous snow/cold days this winter, and at least a couple delays. Inconvenient though these may be, I fully understand the necessity of keeping our students safe, warm, and protected from the elements and/or hazardous road conditions.

But to schedule a school delay because of a football game (however "important" and exciting it may be)? The event is the NIGHT BEFORE, not during school hours (not that I personally think that would be ok either, but that's neither here nor there.) I am beside myself with anger and astonishment. We are tacitly condoning any sort of immature behavior that would affect parents' and employees' ability to do their jobs the next day- to get their kids to school, and to transport and teach our students. Worse (in my opinion), we seem to be expecting this sort of behavior from people to whom we entrust our children, and I for one think it's insulting to my sons' fine teachers and aides to assume they can't be responsible enough to perform their jobs the next day.

How can PPS continue to try to lure parents to the public school system, using, among other things, the Pittsburgh Promise, improved test scores, and incentives such as the IB program, and then delay school because of any or all of the above reasons? How do you expect the students to take our efforts as engaged parents and educators seriously? What sort of example does this flagrant disregard for the importance of education set for our children?

Also, we must consider the impact a school delay has on many parents who struggle to obtain adequate childcare for legitimate delays. To force a parent to juggle these issues for a football game is insulting.

In addition, my son will miss, for the third week in a row, his scheduled gifted education program. I plan to look into how these district-enforced absences impact his IEP, and perhaps the tax dollars received by the district due to the services they are supposed to provide due to those IEPs.

I have emailed everyone in charge I can think of and asked them to consider canceling this delay. I have asked them to please consider impressing upon our children how very important it is to be mature and responsible about the privileges of education.

And you as Mayor of this fine city should know that if you intend to continue to improve Pittsburgh's public school system, this sort of disregard for educational standards is completely unacceptable.

Thank you.

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

Dear 'netties:
If you wonder where I am, I have spent all my creative energy firing off angry missives similar to the one above to everyone I can think of who might have anything to do with the above insanity.
Perhaps when my anger has cooled (and the Steelers have won), I will have some energy to write actual posts about things like BOOKS.
Perhaps.
Or I may need a nap.

Later,
BB

"Good housekeeping lies at the root of all the real ease and satisfaction in existence."*

I am thoroughly enjoying this book, curling up in bed with it at night and pretending I have any amount of time to work on MY gracious living.

***********
*Harriet Prescott Spofford

"The American people are hungry for change."

And today it starts!

Congratulations to our 44th President of the United States, Barack Obama.


I am beside myself with joy and excitement and optimism.

“A little more persistence, a little more effort, and what seemed hopeless failure may turn to glorious success.”*

Everything was going swimmingly until I realized that there was a breach in the deep end. The water must have seeped through the plastic seam - next year I will spring for a solid piece of plastic. This year I had to make do with 2 long rolls of 10' width each. But I let the water freeze solid overnight and will resume - one hopes successfully - filling today. It certainly is cold enough - it's so cold my guys are off school.

H wanted to know how deep is deep enough? (I believe he was envisioning our water bill...) I think 6 inches will do it. A line level could have solved the depth question - for example, if our yard were only an inch off end to end, I could have built the thing with 2x4s. I used the widest boards available at Home Depot (2x10) since I didn't level more accurately. But once the first layer is frozen, it will (one hopes) seal the end, as it were, and therefore the water will find its level and fill the whole shebang.

Unfortunately, the outdoor spigot is frozen solid - how do I know? Because the hose snapped in two while I was trying to take it off and it was full of ice. Hose-shaped ice. Also unfortunately, that was my longest hose so there's some jury-rigged hosiery going on outside as well. And I had to figure out a way to run the hose up from the laundry room in the basement without leaving the doors wide open to the subzero temps...'cause what would suck more than the rink not working? My laundry hoses freezing.

I'll keep you posted as to when you can come over to skate and slurp hot cocoa liberally laced with kahlua. Yeah, kahlua. Did I mention we are staring down the face of a four-day weekend two weekends in a row now? Yeah. Top up my kahlua, please.

**************
*Elbert Hubbard (NO, NOT Elron. Sheesh.)

"In skating over thin ice our safety is in our speed."*

I was VERY busy this morning.
And as soon as H comes home with a new hose and a pressure coupler for the basement faucet, we can fill this baby and then...
let the skating games begin!


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

"For argument's sake, let's say I'm not smart."

If I were a vampire…

I’d bite you in the morning, I’d bite you in the evening…all over this land…wait, no, that’s just me not able to help myself, sorry.

Let’s try again.

If I were a vampire, I would, as Edward Cullen points out somewhere in the third book, have an awful lot of free time. They don’t need to sleep or eat or go to the bathroom. (I wonder if they need to shower?) I would have an eternity, without any distractions, right?

I would have time to read every book I have ever wanted to read – hell, I could finally finish Anna Karenina. For that matter, I would have time to learn Spanish and Russian, so I could read War and Peace and Love in the Time of Cholera not in translation.

I would have tons of time to write – but oddly, probably not as much to write about, or the ability to be as truthful or introspective as I might now.

I would have all sorts of time to knit and quilt. I’d be an expert. (Suse, is that your secret? Are all your perfect and charming knitted adorables a result of you being one of the Undead?)

I could listen to a lot of music. I have proof that vampires like Radiohead, and in fact, if I were to discover that Thom Yorke was a vampire, it wouldn’t shock me hardly at all. I would probably never ever have to listen to “Philadelphia Chickens” or a Wiggles album ever again; there is a noticeable dearth of vampire toddlers.

I would have time to bake all I wanted, but without the inclination to sample the goods, what would be the point? I suppose I could “swallow manfully” (as Edward does his wedding cake, and, boy, is that a phrase you ever expected to hear in relation to Edward Cullen?), but again, what would be the point? This is a problem for me. I know Bella doesn’t want to give up human sex, but I? Wouldn’t want to give up human brownies.

BUT, theoretically, I could eat all the baked goods I wanted (if I ate) - vampires are by necessity physically lovely, and have you ever heard of a fat vampire? I would have all kinds of time to run and swim and skate and bike, like I try to do now to stay fit and – no, not beautiful, maybe marginally-less-repulsive, but I am sure I could not uphold an unnecessary exercise regime. I considered running marathons as a vampire, and socking away my winnings (doesn’t one of the vampires consider that in one of the books?), but there’s the sparkly skin-in-sun problem there…and eventually the other marathoners would catch on, don’t you think? Basically, what I am saying is that my being a vampire would probably not change my fundamental laziness.

Two things I could not do if I were a vampire:

I could not have babies. Any more babies. I am okay with that. See next point.

I could not hang out with my husband and/or kiddoes, lest their luscious scent tempt me to kill them. (Their luscious scent of what? Baby poop?) And dudes, seriously, it’s hardly their delicious smell that makes me want to kill them – one more snow day, yes; yummy scent, not so much.

One more random vampire thought – I chew my cuticles, often till they bleed. Yes, I realize, bad habit, blah blah blah. What would Edward have done if Bella were a dedicated nail-biter? A ripped hangnail could have sent him right over the edge. Inquiring minds want to know…

What? You didn’t think I was engineering world peace or considering the next Secretary General of the UN while I was plodding out my three miles around the reservoir on weekend mornings, did you?

**************
*Bella Swan, "Twilight"

"So much of life, it seems to me, is determined by pure randomness."*

Random random:

1. Can I tell you how pleased I am that today didn't turn out to be a snow day?

2. The difference between the first child and the fourth child: Quarto is sitting on my (admittedly filthy) kitchen floor right now, shaking the contents of his morning bottle on the floor and swishing them around the tiles with a grubby little paw. He crawls through the damp mess once in a while for good measure. But he's quiet and smiling and isn't getting stuck in the undersides of the kitchen chairs. So instead of distracting and preventing and clearing up the milk (and probably giving said baby a bath AND mopping the floor, both of which I would have done with Primo), I shrug my shoulders and keep playing WordTwist. Yeah. See how much my mothering skills have...um...improved?

3. I went to see "Twilight" again last night. I haven't seen a movie in a movie theatre since the second Harry Potter, and now twice in two weeks, and THE SAME MOVIE BOTH TIMES. I don't think I need an intervention yet but possibly soon.

4. I will say that "Twilight" is THE sexiest movie without any sex in it I have ever seen. EVER. And Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen makes me swoon like the geeky 13-year-old girl I definitely was and still feel like inside.
(Excuse me as I go hunt for my retainer, which I am pretty sure I left on my lunch tray in the cafeteria. Yeah, I was one of THOSE girls.)

5. Things that amuse me no end:
The way Terzo pronounces Byron the train “Bye-RON.” As in, "Bye-RON wants some ice cream but Thomas won't share."
Which reminds me of another amusing thing: the way he also says “Byronicles” instead of "Bionicles."
Yes, I have the cleverest children on the planet. I know. What?

6. I bought a bunch of yarn yesterday; my local yarn shop was having a bit of a sale. I don't even need to knit anything with it (but I will); I could just sit and run my hands lovingly over it and get my money's worth that way. Suse, darling, this is ALL YOUR FAULT.

7. Badger brought it to my attention that Haven Kimmel has a new novel, Iodine. But according to Amazon, it's a departure from her usual style. And I love her usual style so much that I own everything else she has written. So, I will buy it (because I like giving authors I enjoy my money) and I will read it, but if YOU don't like it? Don't hold it against me.

8. I am also reading Perri Klass's Mercy Rules and think it's a terrific novel. You'd like it.

9. I am shocked and amazed that neither the cats nor the baby have even attempted to dismantle the giant and intricate Hot Wheels structure H and the older boys built in the living room last night (after I went to the movies to feed my vampire jones). Shocked and amazed, I tell you.
The tracks were a Christmas gift I forgot to give them on Christmas, so they unwrapped them last night as we celebrated Ukrainian Christmas. (Drooling over hot, gorgeous vampires is a new Eastern European holiday tradition, didn't you know?)

10. I am awaiting my Beloved Babysitter so I can ostensibly run away to edit a dissertation about...something that adults write dissertations about...but really? I will finish the third Twilight book. Because if Edward doesn't bite Bella SOON, *I* may die.

******************
*Sidney Poitier

"What whiskey will not cure, there is no cure for."

Here we are again: another nasty winter, yet another child to pass his germs along to me, and said child causing even less sleep than I had before thought humanly possible to survive. (Does that sentence make sense? I am not sure, and equally unsure that I care...)

And I would like to announce my annual bout of hurty ears/swollen glands/feels-like-broken-glass-when-I-swallow throat. (See this post. Wow, I was quite a good bit funnier when I only had three children, wasn't I?) Since I seem to have been pregnant for the past eight years (or at least close to it), and since I have had three different primary care physicians run away from the practice I went to, I have no doctor.

I briefly considered, while hauling three of my four children to the pediatrician THREE times in the past two weeks, begging my dear Dr R for antibiotics for ME (I don't care if it tastes like cherry instead of orange, even, see how easy I am? How could he resist?) but I managed to manfully act like an adult and just procure a thousand and one prescriptions for my germy, snotty, cough-y children.

After shivering through the night Sunday, I thought about the new urgent care center that just opened right across the bridge. The one that is on the way to the grocery store, the one with oodles of free parking right outside its door, the one with a doctor in attendance twelve hours a day. And this morning, after self-medicating with Motrin and Excedrin and whiskey-in-tea all last night, I hooked a quick left instead of continuing past Go to the grocery store and handed over my brand spanking new insurance card (MY co-pays went up this year, you?) and was seen by a bona fide doctor (although at this point I don't care if he only played one on TV). He poked around in my ear and said what every doctor who has ever done that says: "Huh. Adults USUALLY don't get ear infections. Oh. But, I see..." and wrote me a lovely scrip for amoxicillin. He also recommended judicious use of Sudafed, but hey, judicious schmudicious...

And know what? The words "Magic Swizzle" NEVER passed his lips.
Must be because he was older than 18, or maybe 'cause he was a REAL doctor.
Or maybe I am scarier than ever.

**********
*Irish proverb (natch)

"He looks at you like you're something to eat."

I have been brainwashed. And I am not talking about my Facebook obsession any longer. I am talking about my Twilight problem. Yeah, I have a little Twilight problem.

A friend lent me the first book – and shockingly, despite its somewhat repetitive prose and mundane heroine, I enjoyed it thoroughly. Stephenie (note the “e”) Meyers isn’t so adept with normal people, but her vampires and their history, myths, and legends are fascinating.

I sealed the deal by going to see the movie. I was leery of the casting at first, but Robert Pattinson (Edward Cullen) warms up and emerges into his role about twenty minutes into the movie, by which time I was crushing so badly I felt like I was 13. His eyes, people! My God, those eyes. Kristin Stewart as Bella is just lovely, and Charlie is perfect, although so much sexier than I anticipated. The bad vampires – Laurent, James, and especially Victoria – are incredibly perfect. I wasn’t sure about Peter Facinelli as Carlisle Cullen, but he pulls it off. His obvious love for his family is what clinches it for me, as well as his remarkable self control. It can’t be an easy feat to work in the ER as a bloodthirsty vampire, and I do like a man with self-restraint. A tortured soul with self-restraint? Even better. All the vampires were fine – Alice was especially adorable, even if Jasper had a bit of that Edward Scissorhands vibe going. The scene when Edward brings Bella home to meet his family, and they are all chopping vegetables and grating cheese to make her an Italian dinner, even though they have no need to eat human food? Priceless. Possibly my favorite scene in the whole movie.

The movie is better than the book (and oh so pretty); the movie somehow makes Bella a real person, not just a whining, obsessive nitwit (which is definitely how I feel about her in the book, even halfway through the second one). And the special effects are quite nice to look at - the scene where Edward shows Bella his super vampire skills is unbelievably sexy. There's something about a man trying to convince you not to love him...

That whole obsessive relationship thing that people squawked about? Doesn’t bother me. I mean, yeah, it’s maybe a little creepy that Edward watches Bella sleep, but she wants him there, and really, what the hell else is he going to do all night? Why the heck not? Aren’t there worse rules to break – such as sucking the blood of humans? Or murdering a bunch of humans to get to the one you want? What did bug me - at least in the book, the movie handled it much more subtly -were all the stupid excuses Bella conjures up to explain all her injuries. It was too reminiscent of excuses one hears for domestic abuse - even though that’s so not what is happening. In fact, Edward is indeed the last character in the book who would ever harm Bella – but also the most likely, should he ever lose control.

Here’s my new take on the Edward Cullen phenomenon: Everybody wants the bad boy. But in this case, the bad boy is also the very, very good boy (I mean, can you get much better than a vampire who is dying to sink his teeth into you but won’t because he loves you?) which makes it exponentially more romantic. (See: Mr. Rochester - if he hadn't been fooled by Bertha's family into marrying someone destined for insanity, he wouldn't be such a romantic figure - he'd just be an asshole.) So Edward's “bad,” (I mean, he’s a vampire for Pete’s sake) but we can love through that because deep down, essentially, he's GOOD.

So would I argue that Twilight is akin to Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights? You know, I just might. I read Jane Eyre as an adult, and enjoyed it tremenedously, but it follows the same story arc - only Mr Rochester has a crazy wife, not venomous teeth. Wuthering Heights? Throughly, completely overwrought and full of angsty, melodramatic characters who wander around pointlessly on the moor, with not a whole lot of character development anywhere. How is this so much different than Twilight?

The writing in these classics is obviously so very much better, I am not arguing for the quality of Twilight's writing. Is Meyers a good writer? She’s adequate (although, as my friend A points out correctly, each book does get better - at least the writing does.) But honestly, the book reminds me of nothing quite so much as the long serial novels my best friend in seventh grade and I used to scribble during boring math classes.

My enjoyment of the books and Meyers’ take on her supernatural creations, and my crush on Edward, has been fed by the draft of Midnight Sun available on Meyers’ website; it is a take on the first book from Edward’s perspective, and it enlightens us as to his (admittedly bipolar-esque) behavior, and more of his history. It develops his human side by elaborating on his vampire side, also nicely highlighting Meyers’ strengths.

I am looking forward to reading the next two books, and even more looking forward to going to see the movie again. Which is, as the cashier at the box office informed us, geared to target the 30-something mom demographic. I feel oddly flattered. Or should I be insulted? I don’t care. I’d like a small popcorn, a small Coke, and Edward Cullen, please.

*************
*Mike Newton to Bella, about Edward, "Twilight"

"Somehow or other it came just the same!"

Yikes. Christmas Eve - it's grey and rainy here, with highs predicted in the 40s, so no chance of snow.

Three of my four boys are coughing like 80-year-old emphysematic men. The nebulizer adds a not-so-pleasant white noise hum to the proceedings.

My brother is expected this afternoon. I am prepared to stuff him full of turkey and wild rice stuffing and jam squares and gingerbread. I was going to make his favorite rum balls but I got overwhelmed - I knew when I was contemplating having the boys roll the rum balls for me that I had truly lost my mind and I punted on those.

Nonetheless, it's Christmas Eve, and somehow that old magic has wormed its way back into my heart - it may skedaddle while I am choking down a plethora of overcooked, cold seafood at my mother-in-law's "Feast" of Seven Fishes. People, tuna salad has NO PLACE on the Christmas Eve table. But for now, I have presents to wrap, and some last-minute gift deliveries to make (the people who make my coffee for me deserve a nice tin of cookies, as well as my friendly and protective mailman), and a Christmas Eve children's service at 430.

To my friends who are celebrating this year with new little people around: enjoy, and kiss that baby for me. The little ones lend a whole new delightful aspect to this holiday.

To all my Internet friends, you are dear to me, and I wish you all the merriest of Christmases.

"My secret weapon is PMS." *

Is THIS a surprise to any of you? Not to me, uh-uh. I mean, I like my husband and all, but c'mon, folks...we are talking sanity here...(it wasn't till halfway through the article that I realized the option to give up neither was, well, an option.)

In other, not-so-controversial news, both Stephanie Kallos (Broken for You) and (of slightly less importance) Wally Lamb have new books out. I bought the Kallos in hardback, following my usual strategy of giving my money to the authors I want to keep writing (some of you, I am thinking I had better just start writing you direct checks, hmmm?); I may buy the Lamb, but more likely will wait for the paperback.

Otherwise, I am reading Twilight. Shut up. A friend recommended I give it a second shot, and while I still find the heroine wildly whiny and annoying, and it reminds me of nothing so much as those serial novels my best friend in 7th grade and I used to write surreptitiously in math class, I can't complain that it's boring. Oh, no.

I survived Primo's birthday weekend, and am now heading determinedly into Christmas, head down, teeth gritted. Bring on the holiday merriment, goddamnit!

***************
*Buffy the Vampire Slayer

"How can you be so stupid? How can you be so cruel?"*

I am awake this morning without a baby attached to me, or a toddler peeing in my bed, or a five-year-old worrying about polar bears, or...well, you get the idea. I am awake. Alone. In the kitchen, on my SECOND mug of hot tea. Pleasantly full of Italian bread and apricot jam.

Today will be better than yesterday was. I swear. I won't yell at my boys for asking for orange juice while I am buttering their toast, or requesting whipped cream on their hot chocolate while I slap together the eleventy gazillionth peanut butter sandwich of my motherly existence. I won't yell at them for asking for a red vitamin instead of a purple vitamin when they KNOW DAMN RIGHT WELL, GODDAMNIT, THAT THERE ARE NO RED VITAMINS LEFT ANDIAMBUYINGMORETODAYISWEARFORGOD'SSAKE!

I hate when I make them stare silently into their cereal bowls and stolidly zip up their jackets and trudge out the door to another day of school, instead of their being silly and loud and loony. And I want to chase them down and cover them with kisses and hug them, and cry.

I wonder if it's right or wrong to tell them that my brain doesn't always work right? Would this help them, or make it worse? It doesn't help ME, but then again, it's my brain.

I showered last night. I swallowed my pills. I slept. All these things have to matter. Yes, the holidays are upon us, but I am taking a deep breath and trying to ride it out. (I will resort to my illicit Valium stash if absolutely necessary.)

Today I have to go buy a new toaster. I should be able to handle this. How difficult can buying a toaster be? (I mean, after I return the one I bought last week because it burns all my toast - but isn't deep enough to burn the full slice...poor planning. Where was Product Development when this decision was made?)

I have a weekend full of odious...I mean, holiday events, sandwiched and stacked and draped all over each other. Full of people and pleasantries and cute singing children and cooing grandparents...oh God, I am tired already.

I'm fine. I really am. Just overwhelmed and dreading all the family holiday crap. Not my immediate little family (I actually love Christmas morning and attending hoopla with my boys). It's all the other obligations that drive me round the bend, that make me want to crawl into my bed and stay there with the duvet over my head till sometime 'round Valentine's Day.

Why didn't I just enter a convent? Or go quietly crazy like Mr. Rochester's wife, so I could live peacefully in the attic? I'll bet they didn't make HER come to Christmas Eve dinner at the in-laws'.

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*Jane to Mr Rochester, "Jane Eyre" (1996)

"It's the most wonderful time of the year..."

This?

Turned into this. And after I make another rectangle, I will attempt to connect them into a poncho for my niece. All you expert knitters out there, do NOT laugh. Or if you must - and I don't blame you - do it quietly. Thank you. My knitting ego is very fragile at the moment.

Also, I have to finish the poncho, and this by Christmas, so posting may be as light as it's been, until maybe just before Christmas.

Just be glad I didn't discover plastic canvas, or everybody'd be getting toilet paper cozies or something.

"Man shall not live by bread alone..." *

If you don't eat anything all day because you are worried your stomach is still recovering from the Plague this weekend, and then decide to have tea and a couple of slices of toasted, buttered, and apricot-jammed fresh Italian bread for a snack at 4pm, and your baby downs an entire slice of such treated bread himself - don't...um, what? Were the heck was I going with this? You wouldn't BLAME me, because this is delicious and almost good for you. Anyhoo, oh, yes, BREAD.

We have the best Italian bread ever, baked by a teeny bakery in the pseudo-burbs, called Mancini's. My mother-in-law will argue for Sanchioli's (but OF COURSE she's wrong, it's too mushy and soft), and I know people who swear by Rimini's (too crispy-crusted and oily), but I am here to tell you that Mancini's is the BEST. Period. End of discussion. (My baby would tell you the same but his mouth is full of bread and jam right now.)

Which brings me to my second point. (Ha! Like how I did that, acting like I HAD a point?)

Bread Alone by Judith Hendricks.
Wynter Morrison, once a promising baker's apprentice and talented breadmaker, is ditched by her obnoxious executive husband and takes off for Seattle, where she supports herself by working as a baker's assistant.

That's the bloodless synopsis. There are crusty (ha! I kill myself!) work colleagues and devoted old friends, and a quaint old apartment she makes her own, and a couple random quirky characters, and of course love interest(s), but really, all you need to know about this book are the following two facts:

1. It is perfect vacation reading. In fact, it is so perfect that that is where I discovered it. It was sitting on the bookcase in the rec room at our vacation cabin rental, next to the fine literature of Danielle Steele and Frank Peretti. (There was also a remarkably extensive collection of Silhouette romances.)
I picked it up on a lark on Saturday morning and gobbled it down in two days, which, with four boys, and hiking and fishing and making S'mores and birthday celebrations going on around me, is fairly impressive.

2. This book will make you hungry. Very hungry. I ate an entire Trader Joe's Pound Plus bar of milk chocolate with almonds, and the rest of the pan of Terzo's birthday brownies, in two days while reading it. So prepare yourself.

But with Mancini's (NOT Rimini's or Sanchioli's).
Just Mancini's, and, maybe, a little apricot jam.

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*Matthew 4:4 (King James Version)

"My dear doctor, I’m surprised to hear you say that I am coughing very badly, because I have been practicing all night."*

So it's come to this.
I seem to be posting once a week.
I used to post once a DAY.

Is it that I am busier?
That I just don't care?
That Facebook has become, as another blogger put it, the lazy blogger's blog?

I guess I just don't have a lot to say, of any import or interest.
Here's what I got:

1. I started Meg Wolitzer's Ten Year Nap tonight. Tedious, self-absorbed, and didactic do not BEGIN to describe the book or its characters.

2. I also started Eva Ibbotsen's Island of the Aunts. I find Ibbotsen's books hit or miss, but this is a hit. Yes, it's a kid book but that may well be where my brain is these days.

3. I started knitting a poncho for my little niece - of course I picked different weight yarn than the pattern recommends, so I am winging the measurements. But it's a PONCHO. How specific could the measurements have to be? (I want to make one for myself but worry about the effects of a poncho on a full-grown woman.) And I don't know what I would do without Suse or Shirty for knitting advice. Thanks, you guys!

4. Huh. Were those gunshots?

5. I bought The Queen of Bedlam, The Amazing and True (or something) Adventures of the Hunt Sisters, another copy of Jen Lancaster's Bitter is the New Black, and Sophie Kinsella's Cocktails for Three (only it's her other pseudonym...alter ego...whatever...) at the thrift store last week. And a video of "The Mighty Ducks" which we watched Friday night and enjoyed very much. Also Primo's third winter jacket, Quarto's first winter jacket, very cute rainboots for him, for when he's a bit older and can, um, WALK, and an awesome knitted sampler-type afghan for the couch.
And - SCORE! - a Liz Claiborne black cotton zip-up cardigan that fits perfectly, with the tags still on, for three dollars.

6. I wonder if there's any hot water left? With the stomach flu rampaging through the house in the past 2 days and the laundry going 24/7 - not to mention hosing down pukey little boys regularly - geez, I'd love a hot shower but I am not sure there's any hot water left for me.

7. If there's a snow day tomorrow, I may die.

8. That's about it.

Oh.

9. Just 'cause I am not posting more often does not mean I lurve you all any less.

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*John Curran Philpott (and no, I have no idea if he's real...)

"All the forces in the world are not so powerful as an idea whose time has come."*

When I was what is these days called a “tween,” I was enamored of orphan stories. Anne of Green Gables, Emily of New Moon, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Sarah Crewe and Mary Lennox and Pollyanna and Rose Campbell and Elizabeth Ann Putney. But much as I adored each and every one of these poor, parentless girls, my all-time favorite was Judy Abbott, of Jean Webster’s Daddy-Long-Legs. Judy is plucked from an orphanage and sent to college where she wholeheartedly enjoys her studies and living life as a normal girl. Her education is paid for by a rich benefactor, one of the trustees of the orphanage, and in return she is obliged to write a duty letter occasionally, informing him of her progress in her studies. Instead, Judy enthusiastically adopts said trustee, pretending he is an elderly uncle, and writes him amusing, anecdotal letters (accompanied by adorable little sketches) about everything she is doing and learning and loving. These letters comprise the book Daddy Long Legs (the nickname is what she affectionately calls her “uncle.”)

Judy Abbott is exactly the sort of girl you'd want for your roommate, so she could involve you in all her adventures large and small. Her sunniness, openness, and enthusiasm make her a joy and a delight to be around. The novel is comfort reading of the first degree and I have no idea how many times I have reread it, and its sequel, Dear Enemy.

Until I opened The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society yesterday evening, I had not encountered such an enchanting heroine detailing her life in letters since my first encounter with Judy. And now Juliet Ashton has captured my heart and my imagination. Written in the form of letters, the book details the German occupation of Guernsey Island, and the ways in which its occupants, cut off from the world for five years, cope. Juliet, an author interested in writing the island’s story, is charming and funny and wry. The book is completely captivating; I could not stop reading. I was in love, with Juliet, with the island, with its inhabitants, with Sidney, Juliet’s editor, and with Sophie, Sidney’s sister and Juliet’s best friend. And indeed, there is a feisty and engaging orphan featured as well. I don’t want to tell you more – I want you to go read it. I want to buy my own copy to have and reread and look at on my shelf. It’s a wonderful little book. (And I have to say it would make a fabulous Christmas gift for anyone on your list for whom you have absolutely no idea what to buy.)

And now, just as Juliet points out how wonderful it is that a book captures you with a tiny detail which leads you to another book and a detail in that book leads you to a third, I must go read up on the history and inhabitants of Guernsey, embarking on yet another tangential treasure hunt.



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*Victor Hugo