I have, in the past several months, committed myself to the Seattle Public Library for two main reasons:
1) Clare loves to go to the library. Not only do they have books, they have a big, furry stuffed gorilla. She goes “ah ah ah” every time we get near the library or anything resembling a library. So we go once a week to pick out new books for her and to pick up the books being held for me.
2) Money. I have vowed to cut back my book expenditure. Since I haven’t been tracking it that closely, I’m hard pressed to know if I’m actually saving money or just reading even more voraciously because all the books I have on hold keep arriving. Even if I suspend hold dates to buy more time, I still seem to have six or eight books on my night stand. And I do still buy a few books here and there. Maybe more than a few. Saving money? Maybe so…maybe not. Hey, at least I’m Zen about it.
I am a Tana French fan. Edge-of-your-seat, literary, psychological who-dunnits = Hello Summer! I read both of her books in three days each, easy. Couldn’t put them down. Some suspension of disbelief is involved but the suspending is no problem. Her lyrical writing and compelling plots seduce you right along with them, page after page after page.
In the Woods and The Likeness. Check them out.
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Goodbye to Skatewife, hasta la vista and until we meet again. I felt compelled to re-christen this neglected blog-child because I have not skated in three years, since before carrying the bambina along for the 9 / 10 -month gestational ride. It was starting to feel wrong somehow. Posing as someone else. Which made me think, “Aren’t we all in some respect, posing as someone else?” Whether it’s the public “face” versus the private one, or for writers, fiction and non-fiction alike, what truths they choose to reveal about themselves, what facts and stories they omit, embellish or downplay to suit their creative purpose, to make their point truth-be-damned, or to save face. A recent big, bald and unabashedly executed (i.e. liar liar, pants on fire) example of this, of course, is James Frey and his incredibly and fictitiously creative memoir, “A Million Little Pieces.”
But without venturing into Frey territory is the land of Truth without revealing the Whole Truth. Of writing about a specific topic, a life vignette that doesn’t reveal the whole life, the whole picture, but is nonetheless true — and hopefully somewhat entertaining and insightful. It’s the land of David Sedaris, Bill Roorbach, and countless others who aim to tell a good yarn and are undoubtedly reliable narrators. We don’t doubt their integrity or good intent. But wait a minute…should we doubt them? Frey was credible until he wasn’t.
Aren’t we all a little crazy? Don’t we all have our own perspective? Our own shade of the truth?
The New Testament was compiled 40 years after Jesus died, narrowed down from hundreds of submissions. Reliable narrators? Hmmmm.
And so here is The Unreliable Narrator. Because aren’t we all?
Margaritas have been on my mind lately, perhaps because of the days of sunshine we have been getting now and then, and the promise of summer and fun in an icy cold glass. Truth be told, I have been fairly well obsessed with margaritas for over a month. If I was a cartoon character I would have a permanent “think bubble” over my head with a picture of a margarita in it.
For one reason or another, it wasn’t until last weekend that it was finally Margarita Time. My colleague shared her all-time favorite recipe with me a couple of weeks ago, declaring “THIS IS THE BEST MARGARITA EVER!”
John mixed up the drinks and we invited a neighbor over for some chips and salsa and tippling. And Oh My Goodness.
THOSE WERE THE BEST MARGARITAS EVER.
Here’s the recipe:
12 0z. can frozen limeade
12 0z. can beer
12 0z. tequila (you can cut this with Triple Sec if you don’t want to get totally smashed in three minutes)
What’s on my nightstand:
“Breaking Dawn,” the last of the Twilight series. Finished it already. The third book was the best I think…. Definitely brain candy.
“The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian,” by Sherman Alexie. Fantastic. Read this book. It’s as powerful and beautifully penned as “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle.”
“Childhood Unbound.” Halfway through this one. This book is just in case you are stuck in 1960 and didn’t realize times have changed. Well, okay, I’ll stop being snarky. It is interesting to see what’s going on out there in kid-land, and the deconstruction of post-boomers raising what the author calls the “free-est” generation.
“Away” by Amy Bloom. Haven’t started it yet but it was on the NYT’s 10 Best Books of the Year if I remember correctly.
This article in the WSJ, Bad Parents and Proud of It, reflects some of what I talk about on occasion, but is in my mind perhaps a bit extreme in saying “Bad Parents.” It seems to be just another swing of the pendulum. Perfect Parents. Bad Parents. Perfect Parents. Bad Parents. Is there no middle ground?
Well, yes, there is a middle ground, but extremes are always more interesting, aren’t they?
I did laugh at the Canadian woman who (jokingly, we find out) twittered that she felt like smothering her daughter when she wouldn’t go down for a nap and the Mounties showed up at her front door to see if the kid was okay. It’s funny and disturbing at the same time, I guess, for a couple reasons.
1) Inside voice, outside voice. Did no one teach you what to keep to yourself?
2) Seriously: the MOUNTIES SHOWED UP? Based on a Tweet? If only the Unabomber could have tweeted….
My friend Cass sent me this book, Momma Zen, in January and I just finished reading it a couple of weeks ago. It’s a lovely read, a wise reminder of how to live everyday, not just as a parent trying to do right, to be calm in each moment, but as a human being on this vast planet trying to be gentle with yourself, to live each day for itself and not for the next day or the day after that. It’s a reminder that the small shared moments, the daily rituals – standing next to your partner in the bathroom and brushing your teeth together, everyone sitting on the kitchen floor playing with the pots and pans while the bacon sizzles – are what eventually add up to The Meaning of Life. Otherwise, we’re just one long boring To Do List. Bills, take out the trash, get ready for the conference call, grocery store, dust, sweep, blah blah blah. It’ll get done. Sit down and chill.
It’s a good Poppa Zen book too. John and I kicked off the New Year wading our way through the nasty brambles of life and cleared them away with lots of reading and discussion about everything from meditation, child rearing and vampires (yes, John actually read Twilight!).
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I just read this article about breast feeding in The Atlantic and want to jump up and down. Not because I am against breast feeding or don’t believe it’s beneficial (I nursed Clare for six months, although when I went back to work at three months I had to start mixing in formula as the work stress made the milk factory slow down), but because the author acknowledges how much pressure is on parents today, moms especially, to do the exact right thing for their kids every second of every day. What working mother doesn’t have some wacked out story about manually pumping in a restaurant bathroom during a business dinner, flying their nursing baby and father / nanny / grandma with them on business trips or FedExing their liquid gold home to a waiting baby? As glad as I am that I was able to nurse for six months, when I was finished I did a little dance that involved mad leaping off the couch and cheerleading splits. And I am not a cheerleader.
Oh, the article also acknowledges how you have to scrutinize studies to find true conclusions – as someone who reads about how big pharma companies sometimes manipulate clinical trial results, I should already know this, but somehow I blindly trusted all breastfeeding studies, perhaps because there seems to be no financial gain for corporations.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: baby names, Ballard Community Center, Daisy, Thor
I’m behind in my posting by like a week in that I had hoped to get this up before or upon my return from Dallas, but then again I still haven’t unpacked my bag from the trip either. Ha ha to me.
Last Tuesday the 6th Clare and I went to the Ballard Community Center playroom. She loves it there because they have one of those Playskool plastic kitchenettes, a plastic treehouse, lots of dolls and other toys. There were a couple other moms and kids there and we smiled at each other, exchanged niceties. About 10 minutes after we arrived, a woman who looked vaguely familiar walked in. It was until she called her son “Thor” – pronounced “Tore” – that I realized that I knew her.
Sometime before Thanksgiving (I think it was in November), I was walking Daisy home from the video store. We were passing a couple with a baby jogger who said, “Oh, hey, it’s Daisy. Hi Daisy!”
This is not unusual, although it may sound odd for total strangers to say “hello” to my dog and call her by name. Daisy is frequently in our front yard for hours on her leash and it seems that half the neighborhood knows her from walking by all the time. She’s very recognizable, being one of a few Irish Setters around, and also uber-friendly.
This couple and I chatted for a moment and then the dad called his son “Tore.” Now rewind the time machine to when I was still pregnant with Clare, and my friend Wendy Q and I were talking about unique baby names. She mentioned that her friend just had her baby whom she named “Tore,” spelled “Thor.”
You see where I’m going now. I asked this couple if they knew Wendy Q and we all exclaimed “Oh, what a small world!” and “I love Wendy! How do you know her?” It was dark out and we all wore knit caps so it was a bit hard to see each other, but I remember Wendy telling me that I would like this couple a lot and that we should meet someday, she was pretty sure we lived fairly close together. Turns out they live blocks away and cruise by our house and Daisy often.
Last Tuesday I reintroduced myself – we both agreed we looked very different in the daytime – and hung out for the next hour, exchanging information before we left. I’m looking forward to meeting up with Thor’s mom in the near future.
Where does the Strange Names, plural, come into play? More and more moms and kids came into the playroom and we all asked what the kids’ name were. Here’s the list, and I swear I am not making this up:
- Topanga
- Achilles Steven Thomas McKinomas (the last name an combo of the parents respective last names)
- Coal (named after a coal train)
- Marita Spritz
- Penny Lane (after the Beatles song)
Not to be, well, racist or ethnicist or whatever the PC term is nowadays, but I’m pretty sure we were all whiter than Wonder Bread. Maybe some Norwegian or a splash of Greek or European something or other here and there. It seems to be unique in naming your child these days, you should consider Jennifer. Or maybe Linda. I’m not slamming the names, don’t get me wrong. I’m partial to creative names, like Quinn, for instance (which I realize is pretty popular now, supporting my point I guess). But seriously? Not a Jack or Lucy in the room?
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I’m an avid reader, as are many of you friends who are reading this, and since I can’t keep up with GoodReads, here’s what’s on my night stand:
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, which I am currently reading. I am totally enthralled. The writing is exquisite.
Lincoln, The Biography of a Writer. I picked this up after the election, of course, because of Obama’s channeling of Lincoln at times. I also started re-reading John Adams by David McCullough. Both were readers of Shakespeare so I’m determined to read Hamlet and Macbeth again soon.
New Moon, the second in the Twilight series. I have to say, the writing is seriously crap in this one and I’m having a hard time getting excited about it. I’d almost say Nicholas Sparks can write relative to what’s in this book, and I think he’s heinous.
Momma Zen, a book my friend sent to me and that I am very anxious to start. She is reading it along with another mutual friend. I could use some Zen!
Brain, Child, a momma magazine.
O Magazine. No explanation needed. (Note our friend John Ritter’s illustration on page 149. He’s a regular here and in many other national pubs, it’s quite fun to stumble across his work).
The Articulate Executive, a book to improve those cat herding skills.
