To Read: Let's Pretend This Never Happened
I was actually at a Blogher conference in New York the firsttime I heard mention of “The Bloggess.”
“I was recently retweeted by The Bloggess,” one attendee said,“and she’s huge.” Then, a reverential hush fell over the room in honor of boththe name mentioned and the accomplishment. The discussion was about connectingwith other bloggers and marketing, but I was much more fascinated by themention of this Bloggess. The name was obviously awesome, and speaking of her had rendered a room full of bloggers speechless – not exactly an easyfeat.
Of course, I wasn’t going to admit to my ignorance at thetime. After all, I was at a blogging conference and, clearly, one of the bignames in the game had just come up. If anything, I was supposed to be with itand knowledgeable of my industry (or so my Twitter feed would have youbelieve), but obviously, I was out of the loop on one very important point.
What I gathered from the crowd, apart from the fact that itwas a very big deal to be mentioned by the Bloggess (not something that I’m atall contesting, Maria Shriver favorited one of my tweets and it made 2012), wasthat the Bloggess was a big fan of “the f-word.” And that was good enough forme.
Getting to the real point here, I loved Let’s Pretend ThisNever Happened by the Bloggess, also known as Jenny Lawson.
I’d love to tell you more about this book, but I also feellike if I call out specifics I’ll be the jerk who says punch lines to otherpeople’s jokes or that person in the Facebook feek who keeps posting about deaths onDownton Abbey/The Walking Dead without any seeming comprehension of what aspoiler is or that most people these days use a little something called DVRrather than watching shows in real time.
This book is simply too funny, and I want you to discoverall of that funniness for yourself. Let’s Pretend This Never Happened is a bookthat is all about voice, and for that reason, you’ll want to read these storiesfor yourself.
Entering Jenny Lawson’s world is a hysterical treat. So, doyourself a favor and don’t be one of the last people to catch on here. (Trustme, it’s not a fun place to be.)
As I believe Jenny Lawson might say now, you’re welcome.
This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.
Book Review: Trust Your Eyes
Trust Your Eyes by Linwood Barclay is a gripping thrillerwith engaging characters, an intriguing plot and a strong narrative voice.
Ray Kilbride returns home to the small town of Promise Fallsafter the death of his father. He is charged with overseeing his father’sestate and deciding the fate of his schizophrenic brother Thomas.
Thomas is obsessed with maps (obsessed is putting itmildly), and through his keen observation skills, uncovers what he believes tobe a murder. What unfolds is a story of political machinations, devious deedsand family.
The relationships between the characters are varied andcompelling. Brothers Ray and Thomas have what is obviously a complicatedrelationship and must learn how to communicate with one another without rippingeach other’s heads off in addition to navigating the perils of the crimethey’ve uncovered. A young woman desperate for money in New York City makespoor decisions that evoke both disgust and pity in the reader. Ray’s father’sfriends appear in a variety of roles with motives of their own for manipulatingRay and Thomas’ actions. And that’s only a fraction of the fascinating castthat rounds out this novel.
When I do read thrillers, I consider myself pretty adept atpredicting plot twists and finding the culprit, but Barclay throws in twistsuntil the very end that are unexpected without being implausible. I woulddefinitely recommend this to fans of mystery, suspense and crime novels. Ienjoyed it thoroughly.
This is a paid review for BlogHerBook Club but the opinions expressed are my own.
Review: My Artist's Way Toolkit
Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way, is offering a new online service that can prove invaluable to a writer/artist -- especially those that might have trouble with motivation from time to time. (Not that I know anyone like that, of course.)
With My Artist's Way Toolkit, you login to the site and are met with weekly artist's dates (like going on a long walk), writing prompts as well as motivational quotes and inspiration.
One of Julia Cameron's musts is also morning pages in which one sits down to write anything that comes to mind until three long-hand pages are full of words.
As a writer, I sometimes have trouble with accountability. Without a deadline or a writer's group/partner, it can be very easy to put off my personal writing projects/work in the name of paying work, laundry or even a nap. However, My Artist's Way Toolkit provides a service to which I feel accountable. I want to complete my morning pages because I'm part of a program. I also really appreciate the artist's dates and writing prompts. I found myself tackling new topics and acomplishing more writing on a daily basis.
In what can be a solitary pursuit, My Artist's Way Toolkit helped me to feel supported, nurtured and pushed in my endeavors. I would recommend the service to any writer, especially those looking for a little extra push.
I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.
Book Review: You Have No Idea
You Have No Idea by Vanessa Williams and Helen Williams is an intriguing and honest look into the world of celebrity, tabloid scandal and family. While chronicling Vanessa Williams’ life, beginning with her discovery of the nude photo scandal that would end her reign as Miss America, and leading up the present, as she ponders an empty nest after years of child-rearing, the book also explores Vanessa and Helen’s feelings about the course their lives have taken and the love they share.
While I enjoyed reading the behind-the-scenes take on Vanessa Williams’ life in the spotlight, it was Helen’s character that I found most fascinating. Raised away from her biological mother and often beaten by her adoptive parents, Helen’s life was not easy. Despite these formidable beginnings, Helen earned a place in college, met and married Vanessa’s father Milton, raised two children and enjoyed a decades long career as a school teacher.
Helen admittedly had trouble expressing affection for her children because of the stark contrast to her own childhood, but her support and love for Vanessa, from scandal to failed marriages, is unwavering. I believe she refers to herself as a force to be reckoned with in the book, and I have no doubt it’s true.
I imagine most people have a Helen somewhere in their family, even if she doesn’t resemble your mother. Her no-nonsense, take-it-on-the-chin approach to life, loss and all of the in between is frank and familiar. Helen is a woman you would want in your corner. (You have to check out her list, and if I was any of the ladies from The View, I’d watch my back.)
If you want to peek into the world of celebrity and family, You Have No Idea is a good read.
* This is a paid review for Blogher, but the opinions expressed are my own.
Book Review: Born Wicked
Born Wicked by Jessica Spotswood is the first installment in the new Cahill Witch Chronicles. Set in an alternate 19th century, the novel takes place 120 years after witches have been run out of New England (or forced into hiding) by the Brotherhood, a patriarchal religious order whose mission is to maintain control by preventing witches from rising to power again. Young girls are often accused of practicing magic and sent to labor camps or Harwood, an institution.
Cate Cahill and her two younger sisters, Maura and Tess, are witches capable of powerful magic. With a deceased mother and largely absentee father, the primary responsibility of caring for the family and protecting the sisters’ secret falls to Cate, a headstrong but cautious young woman.
In this alternate history, girls must declare their intentions at 16 to either marry or join the Sisterhood, a religious order for women. With a deadline fast approaching, Cate must decide what to do with her future. All of this is complicated by a marriage proposal from a family friend, unexpected feelings for the town bookseller’s son and secrets revealed by a cryptic note from the godmother Cate never knew she had.
When Elena, a governess from the Sisterhood, arrives to help the Cahill sisters with their education and better enter society, Cate is wary. Her suspicions are confirmed as Elena’s presence seems to drive a further wedge between the sisters – particularly Maura and Cate.
Born Wicked is a fun and intriguing read. It took awhile for me to get into the book, primarily because so much information is needed to set up the world of witches as well as its rules and regulations. However, the last 150 pages of the story move at an incredible pace. The plots twists and reveals offer everything one could want, and I ended the book anxious to see what would happen in Book Two.
This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.
Book Review: Diary Of A Mad Fat Girl
Diary of a Mad Fat Girl by Stephanie McAfee recounts the story of Ace Jones, a loud-mouthed, pizza-loving, Chiweenie owner who works as an art teacher at the high school she once attended in Bugtussle, Mississippi.
Ace spends most of her time with her two best female friends, Lilly and Chloe, college friends who also teach at the school, as well as Coach Tanner and Ethan Allen, another former classmate who now operates the town’s favorite watering hole. When her plans for a trip to the Redneck Riviera go awry, it seems that most everything else in Ace’s life goes downhill from there as well.
Diary of Mad Fat Girl is largely plot-driven. A lot happens between the opening of the book and the ending – from accusations of sexual harassment at school and a domestic violence attack to a stake out at a strip club and encounters with a mysterious and wealthy older woman who seems to know anything and everything that happens in Bugtussle. Some story lines are fun and interesting to follow, while others seem hastily tossed into the narrative and don’t necessarily resolve themselves in a satisfactory manner.
It took me about 30 or 40 pages to like the protagonist in the book, but once I did, I enjoyed her shenanigans. The book was also laugh-out-loud funny at times. While I wouldn’t ordinarily read something like Diary of Mad Fat Girl, I enjoyed the novel, and I think it’s a perfect beach read. If you have a Spring Break trip planned, I’d grab a daiquiri, a copy of Diary of Mad Fat Girl and head for the nearest chaise lounge.
This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.
Book Review: The Rules Of Inheritance
The Rules of Inheritance by Claire Bidwell Smith is an insightful and beautifully written memoir that recounts the author’s adolescence and young adulthood as she struggles with the deaths of her parents. Told in a non-linear fashion using the stages of grief as a frame, Smith bounces back and forth in time adding a great level of interest and intrigue to the narrative. The author’s life unfolds for the reader through the moments that define her – from a rocky relationship begun in a bar at 18 to a trip to Europe with her father to uncover more about his World War II experience.
Smith’s writing is lovely and her observations on grief will resonate with anyone who has experienced loss.
“Grief is like another country, I realize. It’s a place,” (94) Smith writes. This is how I often felt after losing my cousin in 2007, like I had crossed a border into another land I had no idea existed before and with rules and norms that seemed so drastically different from what I had thought of the world only hours before.
After my cousin’s daughter passed away at the age of five last year, I began to feel like I was in an even smaller part of that country – the place for those who have loved a child that died.
I still sometimes think of myself as living in that different country, and the isolation that comes with that can be overwhelming – until you find people to talk to. As Smith also points out, you never know what’s going on behind the door of any given house on any given street, and the pain others are holding in.
Smith’s words give definition to so many of the feelings that accompany grief, these being only a few of those I took with me, with incredible honesty.
I realize that this book review is more of a personal response to Smith’s work than an editorial one, but this particular memoir resonated with me on that level, and I can’t necessarily separate my feelings about the tragedies in my own family over the last five years with Smith’s re-telling of her own.
Overall, The Rules of Inheritance is a beautiful memoir that I believe will leave an impact on all readers. I’m glad I found Smith’s work, and her captivating and touching story is well worth the journey.
This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.
The Magic Room
In The Magic Room, Jeffrey Zaslow explores the world of Becker’s Bridal, a decades-run family business in the small town of Fowler, Michigan, as well as changing trends in marriage and weddings and the lives of the individual brides who come to Becker’s in droves.
Becker’s Bridal itself has been a destination for engaged women for generations, with many mothers who bought their dresses there returning years later with their own daughters, in search of “the one” – the perfect dress. Zaslow unveils (no pun intended) the story behind the store and what it took for a family to keep the business growing and thriving throughout the years.
Zaslow also delves into the personal narratives of eight soon-to-be-married women – from a chaste twenty-something who saved her first kiss for the man she would marry to a forty-year-old bride who thought she might never have a wedding of her own. The stories are heartfelt, thoughtful and touching.
The title refers to a special place within Becker’s Bridal with soft lighting, many mirrors and the opportunity for women to see themselves as they’d always hoped on such a special occasion – as a truly beautiful bride ready to begin the next phase of her life.
In all honesty, I didn’t expect to like The Magic Room. The topic struck be as a bit saccharine, and I worried I would find the book sappy, but The Magic Room is anything but. Each aspect of the book – from the struggles of the Becker family to the portraits of the eight brides and their families – is well-told, and I was struck by the honesty, depth and beauty of the stories. There is no pretense of perfection or princesses, and this makes The Magic Room all the more powerful a read.
The Magic Room is about far more than weddings. It is about love, possibility, and, in some ways, fear. As The Magic Room unfolds, one is struck by the commonalities between theses brides, their families and the Becker’s – all of whom have known love, know how quickly life can change and still stand ready to face the uncertainties of the future with strength, grace and ultimately, hope.
If you’re anything like me, you’ll want to keep the Kleenex nearby.
I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.
Theodora: Great With History, A Little Light On The Sexy Details
Theodora: Actress, Empress, Whore by Stella Duffy is a fascinating work of fiction depicting the early life and ascent to power of a woman who rose from the world of theater and brothels to prominence in the royal court.
Stella Duffy is a gifted storyteller, and her choice of subject matter makes for a compelling read. Sixth century Constantinople and its surrounding areas come to life through Duffy’s vivid descriptions. The setting of the novel nearly wrestles with its heroine for the reader’s attention. Markets, city life and even the desert pulse with energy thanks to Duffy’s writing.
Of course, Theodora is an intriguing main character. From actress and prostitute to penitent and spy in the palace and finally empress, both her physical and emotional journey make the reader curious as to what transformation and cast of characters await on the next page.
However, any fan of romance novels or other books you might secretly buy before checking out at the grocery store will most likely be disappointed. The “whore” part of the title is a little misleading. Yes, Theodora is a prostitute, and she takes her share of lovers of both sexes, but the reader is told rather than shown this aspect of Theodora’s life. There are no steamy scenes, no drawn-out seductions. Duffy lets you know the characters had sex and moves on. If you’re an open or secret fan of anything slightly more salacious, you won’t find it here.
As historical fiction, Theodora will delight readers. It shines light on an often-unexplored time in history and one of its more obscure characters with vibrant language and ample intrigue. But, if you prefer your reading material with barrel-chested men on the front, this really is a book you can’t judge by its cover.
I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.
Lunch Wars: The Underworld Of School Food*
Lunch Wars by Amy Kalafa is exactly what the book purports to be, a guide on “how to start a school food revolution.” Filled with facts about local produce, the business of school meals, the impact of nutrition on children’s behavior and overall well being, as well as practical advice on who to approach in your school’s food program when working for change, templates for letters and petitions demanding better lunches, and lists of resources to get you started, Lunch Wars is the ultimate how-to guide for building a healthier school cafeteria.
Kalafa takes what would seem to be a daunting task – weaning children away from sugar and snacks to healthy meals while staying on budget and getting the school system’s support – and breaking it down into manageable and logical steps.
She never claims that the transition will be easy, but her determination and success stories are inspirational.
When I started the book, I was pretty sure Kalafa was preaching to the choir, and while she was doing that with gusto, I wasn’t always enjoying the read. (When the idea of foregoing candy on Halloween for other sugar-free activities came up, she almost lost me.)
I am not a mom, but I have had my own experiences with school lunches as well as spending time in cafeterias as a substitute teacher.
In my elementary school, the “cool” kids brought their lunch from home. I went to private school my entire life, so bringing lunch from home wasn’t a show of money, it just meant that if you already had your lunch in hand, you were guaranteed a spot at the cool table rather than having to wait in the lunch line and risking that the only seats left would be on undesirable cafeteria real estate. We also always had half an hour for lunch, so time was never a concern.
In my high school (also private), lunch was included in the price of tuition, so everyone ate at school. Also, since my high school was populated with both boarding and day students, you could eat three meals a day there. Our lunches included the standard hot fare of pizza and fried burritos, but we also had a baked potato bar and salad bar. There were healthy options, and when one attractive high school girl takes a salad, the rest tend to follow.
(My school was founded on the motto “learning through living,” so at one time it had been an actual working farm with students tending to cows and going to class. That ended pretty quickly since taking care of a farm can be too time-consuming when there’s other book learning to be done.)
My high school remains ahead of the trend in the “lunch wars” by Kalafa’s standards. Today, students grow a garden on the grounds and sell their produce at a local farmer’s market throughout the summer.
With my experience based only on private education and wealthy school districts, and conscious of the socio-economic makeup that seems to dominate my Saturday visits to the farmer’s market, I had concerns about less affluent schools that have trouble finding money for books, let alone freshly grown produce.
As a former managing editor of a magazine, I visited a school in an under-served area when the kids were given a playground as part of a grant from Kaboom!. I kept thinking that if playgrounds are a hard sell, what happens to school food – especially when government regulations are involved.
However, Kalafa changed my thinking on that. Her examples and anecdotal evidence come from all kinds of school districts throughout the country. Her data and commitment are compelling, and the end of Lunch Wars convinced me that healthy eating must be a priority in our schools and culture. I began to re-think my own eating habits, and I would recommend this book to anyone interested in food politics and the ever-changing landscape of how and why we eat the way that we do.
(Not that I'm ready to give up all of my bad habits yet, Cadbury Creme Eggs will always have a special place in my heart.)
* This was a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.
In Other News
Please check out my upcoming creative writing classes in the left-hand sidebar. "Telling Your Story" will be a class focused on essay and memoir as well as general good-writing practices at Canterbury United Methodist Church. "Fundamentals of Creative Writing" is a broader course covering the basics of creative writing as well as both fiction and non-fiction genres offered through Samford University's After Sundown Continuing Education program.
My friend and former colleague Michelle Hazelwood-Hyde and I have also recently published a children's book for the Birmingham area entitled Night Night Birmingham. I invite you to check it out and also join us at our launch party at Oak Hill Bar & Grill on Thursday, September 15 from 5-8 p.m.
Thanks so much!
A Good Hard Look
No, this is not one of my super-introspective, somewhat-depressing posts. (With that title, I could understand your concern.) Rather, it's about a great book I just read. A novel of historical fiction set in Flannery O'Connor's hometown of Milledgeville, Georgia, A Good Hard Look by Ann Napolitano is truly a work of art ...
No, Thank You
So, I do book reviews now. If you'd like to know what I thought about The Kid by Sapphire (in case the title of this post didn't give too much away), please follow the link below.
I won’t lie. I avoided seeing the movie Precious like the plague ... (read more)
Sister Wives '70s Style
Today, I am grateful for two things:
1. I am not Daryl Hannah or Peter Gallagher, so I don’t have the movie Summer Lovers on my resume or imdb profile.
2. I did not come of age in the ‘70s or early ‘80s, so the subconscious soundtrack to my youth does not feature music from this time frame. (As always, Dan Folgerberg, you are excluded from any and all criticism.)
I was going to put that I was just glad that I didn’t come of age in the ‘70s until I learned that Summer Lovers was actually made in 1982. Based on the quality of the film, I did not see that one coming. (It also messed with my title, but I left it anyway.)
For those who haven’t had the opportunity to see it, and I wouldn’t recommend that, Summer Lovers is the tale of a couple abroad that learns to expand their horizons and defy convention, or some kind of early ‘80s new age crap of a similar vein. I just think of it as Sister Wives 1.0.
Why did I watch this movie? Because occasionally Netflix live-streaming and I have an unhealthy relationship, and after awhile, Summer Lovers is too much of a train wreck to look away from.
In the movie, Michael (Peter Gallagher) and Cathy (Daryl Hannah) go to Greece the summer after they graduate college, and inspired by the lack of inhibitions around them, strike out on a new path that involves living together with a French woman named Lina.
The movie thrives on two main principles:
1. Michael has to have an affair with a French woman that he meets because his “whole life has been planned out for him.” Really? We’re going to continue to trot this one out. Really? All I could hear in my head was James Van Der Beek saying “I don’t want your life” in Varsity Blues, and I actually preferred his acting to Peter Gallagher’s. (That’s right, I just made Varsity Blues a superior film.) Why can’t we just be honest and say that Michael has an affair with a French woman because he’s young, he’s a man and he can? The psychological subtext is weak, to say the least, and even though his girlfriend Cathy can’t see through it, I think the rest of us do.
2. Cathy can only enjoy self-discovery and liberation from Puritanical American values by not only accepting Michael’s love of Lina and overcoming her jealousy, but also falling in love with Lina, too. Or, as the rest of us call it, low self-esteem.
For anyone who thinks I watched this movie for the “sexy” scenes, let me assure you that there are none. (I think it’s a big mistake to make a movie with “lovers” in the title and not have good sexy scenes. I also think this movie would have really benefited from some better love scenes, and I think it’s rare to find that gem of a film that would be improved by taking more cues from porn.)
There is lots of nudity, but it’s all early-‘80s-at-the-beach nudity. It’s not pleasant. Also, having been to Greece, I can assure you that the beaches are not teeming with naked, attractive young people. Most everyone who takes advantage of the “optional” part of “clothing optional” is eligible for AARP membership or could really benefit from a few less gyros.
Now, you would think this movie might explore themes like what happens to a relationship of this sort or even what happens when summer ends. (Vicky, Christina, Barcelona is a good movie after all.) Summer Lovers doesn’t.
Spoiler Alert: Instead, you get this – once Lina the free-spirited European realizes that she might be developing feelings for Michael and Cathy, she runs away with someone who looks like he escaped from the set of Xanadu. She’s afraid of getting close to people. Saddened, Michael and Cathy decide to end their trip to Greece three weeks early. They are just about to board a plane off the island, when Lina arrives on a moped after doing some soul-searching. The very fact that she would ride a moped shows that Lina has broken through her own barriers since she swore the horrible scooters off after spraining her wrist during a particularly arduous moped outing for the threesome. (During this part of the movie, I mainly thought about how that sprained wrist must have been a real bummer for Michael.) Lina wants Michael and Cathy back, and the movie actually ends with a still shot of the three of them frolicking on the beach.
Clearly, I’m not speechless, but I’m having trouble here. Someone wrote this, someone else decided to throw money at it, and then someone convinced Daryl Hannah and Peter Gallagher it would be good for their careers. I find that both impressive and sad. (It’s similar to the feeling I get when I read some published authors and then count my rejection letters or watch Julia Stiles.)
My favorite scene was when Cathy’s mother paid the couple a surprise visit with her friend, only to find Lina living with Cathy and Michael. Later, the three of them then show up for dinner with Mom and gal pal.
In the end, I took two very important lessons from this film:
1. It’s hard on a couple when your girlfriend breaks up with you.
2. Your mistress should not join you for dinner with your mom. It’s just bad manners and makes everyone feel uncomfortable. Mistresses should stay home for family functions.
Also, "I’m so Excited," "Just Can’t Get Enough" and Chicago’s "Hard to Say I’m Sorry" – all featured on the soundtrack – are now ruined for me. If there was any music that I wouldn’t have minded from this era, thanks to Summer Lovers, it’s now dead to me anyway.
In the future, I think I need to take more caution with my Netflix recommendations. Clearly, the video service and I don't always see eye to eye, and considering my love of Lifetime, I could watch every bad movie in film history before this is over if I'm not careful.
The Birds And The Bees
No one ever had the sex talk with me.
My mother once asked, while I was locked in the car (her preferred means of trapping me for uncomfortable conversations), clearly embarrassed herself, “Do you have any questions about sex?”
I, equally embarrassed and after a long pause, said, “Yes.”
“Do you have specific questions?”
I shook my head “no.” I was not prepared for this, although I did have a bad feeling when the lock dropped on the passenger seat door for our impromptu “fun trip to the mall.”
“Do you think you’d like a book or something?”
I nodded.
A few days later, my mom slid a large picture book under my bedroom door. (I was 11 at the time and hadn’t read a picture book since about the age of 5.)
Of course, I immediately dove into the picture book. I had had questions about sex for years (or two, whatever). When we went to my grandmother’s house, I used to grab the “S” World Book encyclopedia for her shelf and look up “sex” when I thought no one was looking. (I always kept a hand on another page like “Syria” or “sulfur” just in case someone would come downstairs and wonder what I was researching.) Unfortunately, the 1963 World Book only covered sex as a topic having to do with plant reproduction, so that was a quick dead end.
When I was six or so, a friend of mine told me what sex was as she’d learned from her older sister, but I had a hard time with her definition. In the end, she was right, but it sounded awfully made up at that point.
What I remember from the picture book were drawings of an overweight couple and mention of loving one another a whole lot, nudity and friction. It might be because I was a very shallow child, but the really overweight cartoons were an immediate turn-off. (I now think it was an excuse to keep from making the figures anatomically-correct. Those bellies covered a lot.) These people just disturbed me, and I was glad they had found one another, but I did not want to read about their expressions of physical love.
That book was the last mention of sex my mom made to me for another eight years.
We clearly had sex education in school, but our first sex ed program was a little extreme, and I think it scarred most of us for life.
At the beginning of the day, a woman stood before us with a pink paper heart. “There once was a girl named Jane. Jane met a boy that she liked. She thought she loved him. Jane decided to have sex with this boy – before they were married. Then the boy dumped Jane, and she lost a little bit of her heart …” At this point, a corner of the paper heart was torn off.
“Then Jane meets another boy, and she thinks that she loves him too …” she went on. Before long the entire heart lay shredded before us.
“By the time Jane wants to get married, she has no heart left to give.”
There was a later story along similar lines about a girl who decided to wear the special pearls her parents were going to give her on her wedding day before their special time. She snuck in to her parent’s room and stole the pearls to wear when she went out (which is what everyone does with pearls); so that by the time she received the pearls on her wedding day, they were brown and dirty. In short – damaged goods.
The latter story bothered me only because I knew from my mom that pearls needed to be worn to keep their shine. Something about the oils in your skin being good for the jewelry. I got where the woman was going with her story. I just thought she should have chosen a more accurate metaphor.
The day ended with abstinence pledges that were “our choice” to sign, but everyone from the program stood over our shoulders for extended periods of time while handing them out.
After the disastrous paper heart incident and poorly-chosen allegories, the school stuck to puberty and “our changing bodies.” When I changed schools, sex ed was led by someone who looked like the picture-perfect grandma, and after she said “fellatio” more than once with her lovely, I-made-you-cookies-dear smile, I think we were all traumatized in a different way. (If trauma was meant to counter raging teenage hormones, I suppose it was borderline successful.)
Cosmo was my new textbook, for better or worse.
It wasn’t until years later, when I was already in college that my father referenced the sex talk my mom and I had had when I was younger. My mother, my father and I were in the car on the way back from dinner.
“Sex talk? What sex talk?” I said.
“Your mother and I talked about it, and she agreed that she would be the one to give you and your sisters the sex talk. Surely, you remember that?” my dad said.
“There was no sex talk,” I said.
This is when my mother finally 'fessed up. “I couldn’t go through with it,” she said. “It was just too hard. I couldn’t do it.”
“Laurel’s mother!” (I don’t like to use real names.)
“You try it,” she said. “It’s not easy.”
“Clearly,” my father said, “but I think it’s a little too late for me to give it a shot.”
“You promised,” my father said.
“Well,” my mother said, "like you said, it's a little late."
Finally, the missing piece of my adolescence made sense. “So,” my father said after a few minutes, “where did you learn about sex?”
And that’s when I gave him the answer every parent wants to hear, “On the street, of course.”
The Curious Case Of The Found Pants
Like most kids, I enjoyed my mystery series, with Encyclopedia Brown being at the top of the list. (It was in the ice cubes the whole time!)
Well, I enjoyed most mystery series. Nancy Drew was an exception. When my mom handed me my first Nancy Drew book, The Secret of the Old Clock, I remember looking at the cover art – which was of a girl kneeling next to a clock with a document next to it – and thinking, “There’s a will in the clock. Done.” I never read past page four, and I never picked up another Nancy Drew novel. Truthfully, I was a little insulted. (Insulted by the series, not my mom.)
I also liked to watch Alfred Hitchcock Presents on Nick at Nite, so I preferred my mysteries with unexpected twists – murder victims that became feed on the farm didn’t bother me at all.
And, thanks to my grandmother’s love of Murder, She Wrote, my favorite murder giveaway goes something like this:
“I can’t believe poor Mrs. Winters was shot to death.”
“I never said anything about Mrs. Winters being shot. How could you know that? Unless …”
[Insert slow clap.] “Well, I guess you’re onto me now, aren’t you?” Or, for the more sympathetic criminals, there were doe eyes and, “She was going to ruin me Jessica! Don’t you understand? She was going to ruin me!”
As an adult or child, I never get into Sherlock Holmes (unless he is being played by Robert Downey, Jr. – another story for another day). I want a chance to figure out a mystery, and if I have to know obscure 18th century ceramic patterns and cigar bands from India to solve the crime, I’m just not interested.
I will, however, watch most anything loosely-based on Sherlock Holmes – House (until they got rid of Cameron and ruined it for me), The Mentalist and Psych included. (Hugh Laurie, Simon Baker and James Roday may, or may not, have something to do with that.)
While I also like to play armchair detective when it comes to the news (“The killer is obviously a white male with Mommy issues”), I prefer not to go looking for mysteries in my own life. As a child, yes, I was all about lost money or old wills or treasure, but as an adult, I find the daily hunt for my missing keys to be enough of an extracurricular mental challenge.
This is only one of the many reasons I don’t like it when strange things occur around my house. These days, I have no need for secret admirers, long-lost relatives or neighbors trying to stuff rugs in the backs of their cars late at night. A quiet, peaceful home works just fine for me.
So, to whoever left their pants outside my door over the weekend – stop it! I don’t want to consider the possibilities of how your pants got there (ew), why you were pants-less on my property (more ew) or why you picked my house of all places, to gallivant. (The pants incident is still very jarring for me, so I’ve kind of run out of words for the whole thing. Hence, for you unfortunate reader, “gallivant.”)
As far as I’m concerned, clothes belong on people, and if anyone is going to leave clothes around my house, he or she is going to at least be someone I know.
Whoever you are, oh mysterious provider of pants, please find another stoop for your leftovers. This particular armchair detective has enough to worry about with her car keys and finding that tax form I tried to file last week.
Impatient and Decisive, Not Always the Best Combo
I like to think of myself as a decisive person. I don’t linger over choices for too long – what color the bedroom should be, how many towels we need, what appetizer to order. I don’t like to linger over major decisions either – when I was offered a job in Nashville, I accepted it over lunch without even asking for 24 hours to think about it. I didn’t know anyone in Nashville, the pay wasn’t enough, but it was the only offer on the table (sorry for another bad pun), so in the span of about 45 seconds, I said “yes.” The SO knows that if we are faced with the end of the world, I want to see it through to the end. There will be no suicide or standing on the beach before the tidal wave for me. (I made that choice in about 20 seconds while watching some asteroid movie, and I don’t intend to go back.)
(Now, there are a few decisions I can’t, and probably never will make, but that has more to do with knowing myself than anything else. Never ask, “If you ever got a tattoo, what would it be?” My answer is that I would never get a tattoo. I have commitment issues, and I’m certainly not putting something permanent on my body when I’m usually tired of my “favorite sweater” after about four days.)
Truth be told, maybe it’s not that I’m decisive, it’s just that I’m impatient. I don’t like lingering, considering or going back and forth. If a wall color doesn’t work, repaint it. If a college doesn’t work, transfer. Can’t pick between two different colored sweaters? Buy both and return the other. (It also helps to only shop at stores with liberal return policies, save receipts and keep pertinent essays on file should you choose to live your life in this manner.)
Awhile ago, I decided that I would rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do, so I have a very hard time with the idea of opportunities passing me by. I once flew across an ocean because of an “I miss you." (In addition to saving receipts, one should also be prepared for a little heartbreak with this approach to life.)
Many of the decisions I do make, while they might seem impetuous, have been running around in my head for months, and thanks to the Internet, I can do lots of research before having to present a plan to potential nay-sayers.
A few years ago, after a lay-off and a bad break-up, I decided to get out of dodge. I took some money from a savings account and found a sub-let on an apartment north of Wrigleyville in Chicago for the rest of the summer.
By the time I had my plan in place, I approached my parents with a very familiar phrase, “Here’s the thing …”
After 20+ years, they’ve come to expect that this intro means I will either be relocating, changing schools, tearing down walls in my home, heading to a foreign country or possibly in need of bail (only kidding on that last one, knock on wood).
Yet, this past Saturday, I was a near wreck at Lowe’s when I couldn’t choose a color for the kitchen walls. I wanted chocolate brown, burnt red or some shade of orange, and the SO had to intervene.
“Remember,” he said, “when it comes to resale, most people like neutrals.” Not only was I reminded that I’m weird (I love color, what can I say?), I also became lost in a world of tans, taupes and sands. And if anything drives me crazier than cell phone rings that are animal sounds, it’s being unable to make a decision.
After 30 minutes, I let the guy who mixes the paint at Lowe’s make the call. “I’d go with that one,” he said. “It’s a little dark for my taste, but I like how plain it is.”
Plain? Plain? I took the paint and hung my head in shame.
Unfortunately, while this breakdown at Lowe’s probably should have been expected, it’s the harbinger of what to come when I can’t make choices that worries me most of all.
As sure as I can be when I’m making most decisions, there’s nothing like a little bout of depression to make me start questioning each and every one of those decisions – nearly dating back to whether or not I gave up the pacifier too soon.
When I was pretty sure I needed to transfer colleges, I didn’t just worry about the choice I’d made for school. I worried about the job I’d taken summer after my senior year of college, if I should have applied to schools further away from home/closer to home the year before, if I should have taken pre-cal my junior year rather than skipping it for straight-up calculus, whether Habitat for Humanity would have been a better club to join than Key Club.
After college, when I hated my job it was whether or not I should have studied abroad, where I should have studied abroad, if I should have majored in history instead of government, if I stopped taking French classes too soon, whether or not living off campus my senior year was the best choice, if I should have tried to make more friends, if I went out too little, if I went out too much.
Whenever my life doesn’t seem to be quite what I’d like it to be, rather than finding the strength to make a plan, get on a path and start working towards a new goal, I seem to need to spend at least two weeks questioning exactly where I went wrong in the 20 years beforehand.
Right now, I’m wondering if I sabotaged my career (forever, by the way) by never having lived in New York. If you want to write, you go to New York, right? You meet other writers. You spend long hours at magazines writing paragraphs that get torn apart and never carry a byline until someone lets you interview George Clooney and suddenly your piece is the cover of Esquire? True?
I was reading the memoir Please Excuse My Daughter this week, and when the author talked about the professional photo shoot for her contributor photo, all I could think about was how I’ve been on two contributor pages, and I had to crop my friend out of a beloved photo because it’s the only picture I think my hair looks nice in. I’m hardly complaining about the exposure and breaks that I have gotten, but I seemed to have missed a turn somewhere.
Even Chicago or L.A. would have probably been a good idea. If it’s not what you know, but who you know, what have I been doing all this time?
When I spent the summer in Chicago, I had a call back from Playboy for an fact-checking position, and I jumped on it. (They really do have articles.) By the time the editor-in-chief called me back (Wednesday to Friday, by the way), they’d already found someone for that job but wanted to “keep my resume on file.” That’s the last I heard from them.
Then again, when I have lived in bigger cities, it nearly drove me insane. Living in big cities is great – when you’re not poor. New York, Chicago and L.A. are meant for people with money. While it’s wonderful to have the world at your fingertips, if you have about $12.00 in expendable cash each month, there’s not a lot to do.
Plus, I think it should take less than three hours to go to the grocery store, less than 30 minutes to park and under an hour and a half to get home from work.
The big cities and I probably wouldn’t have made it together, but I still can’t help but think about it from time to time – would I still be toiling away in obscurity if I’d gone to New York at 21? Will I toil in obscurity forever? Does it matter? Maybe it’s not the place. Maybe it is the talent. And, if that’s the case, I have even more to worry about.
So, while I cannot offer any career advice to anyone (except to return editor’s phone calls immediately, even if it doesn’t work out, and not to turn down Oprah, ever), hand me a gift registry to choose from or ask what to read next, and I’m the gal with a quick answer.
Four Movies That Make Me (And Only Me) Cry
I've said it too many times -- love that fourth wall. So, without further ado, the list:
4. Hotel for Dogs
It's a kid's movie. Emma Roberts stars. Dreamworks and Nickelodeon produce. What could go wrong, right? Well, throw in homeless dogs and kids in foster care, and apparently, I just can't cope. About an hour into the movie, I became convinced that all of the dogs would end up at the pound, where they would most assuredly be euthanized, and Emma Roberts and her little brother would never find a forever family or see their dog again. This thought spiral led to intense waterworks.
"You know there's still half an hour left in the movie, right?" the SO said. "Everything is going to work out. This is Hotel for Dogs, Laurel."
"It may work out in the movie," I said, "but that doesn't mean it would work out in real life."
A real life hotel for dogs?!?! Feel free to be just as bewildered as the SO. I guess in the absence of a good reason for crying during the actual movie, which was, of course, going to turn out fine, I decided to blame my tears on the tragedy of real homeless dogs and children in the foster care system. It's a legitimate reason to cry, but the truth is that those little four-legged critters running from the law (and the very presence of Don Cheadle) just got to me.
3. Frequency
Now, this movie is genuinely touching. A recently-separated-from-his-wife son finds a way to connect with his dead father through an antique radio in the back room of the family home he inherited. There are firemen, baseball games and '60s nostalgia. It's a lovely and magical combination. A lot of people probably teared up.
Most people probably did not cry so hard that they had to remain in the theater past the credits to compose themselves.
I have a special place in my heart for Dennis Quaid, and I do love James Caviezel. (Confession: I didn't see Passion of the Christ because of the controversy or the violence or the fact that I'm not Catholic, etc., etc. I didn't watch the movie because I had issues with the idea of being sexually attracted to Jesus. There, I said it -- it's kind of nice to have that one off my chest.) But, it was something about a family getting to be that wasn't that, well, kept me in the theater trying to get it together long past the last scene.
You know it's bad when strangers seek you out in the dark. "Are you going to be OK, princess?" a very kind gay couple asked me on their way out.
2. Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events
I love kids books and I love kids movies. (Holes is another favorite, and I did get choked up on that one, too, but I'm trying to maintain my forward momentum.) I particularly love the way that the Lemony Snicket books are written, and I recognize that they are a bit darker than your standard children's fare.
In fact, I don't even think I'd be embarrassed to have cried so much during this one if I hadn't been with actual children at the time.
You see, I took my nine- and seven-year-old cousins to see Lemony Snicket while they were out of school for Christmas vacation. They thought Jim Carrey was funny. I held their hands when the snake got away. We were having a good time. Then, right at the end, came that montage about "sanctuary" and what it means, and I was a mess.
"I'm ready Laurel," Cousin #1 said as soon as the film ended.
"In just a minute."
"Can't we go yet?" Cousin #2 said, much more emphatically.
So, we left the theater in a throng of children and their parents -- my cousins happy as larks and dry to the bone while I trailed behind them puffy-eyed and sniffling.
1. Road Trip
I know what you're thinking -- Stiffler and Tom Green made a movie that brought anyone to tears for a reason other than pure embarrassment for their careers/parents? Unfortunately, the answer to that question is yes. (But, no, it was not a prostate joke that caused the crying.)
Just after my sophomore year of college, I found out that my boyfriend of a few years was cheating on me. (We were young and at different schools, and it was bound to happen, but the end of first love is the end of first love. To say that I was a little vulnerable would be like saying Alabama's gubernatorial candidates are kind of conservative.) To keep me from staring at photos or the ceiling and asking "why, why, why," my cousin decided to get me out of the house for awhile.
"Staring at Russell Crowe makes everyone feel better," she said when we got to the theater.
We were supposed to see Gladiator that day, and Gladiator probably would have been a good distraction. At least I didn't have to deal with an evil emperor and fight strangers to the death, right? Maybe I could have found a little perspective there.
"We're sold out for Gladiator," the guy behind the ticket counter said.
"What about the 3:45 showing?"
"We're all sold out for both," he said.
"How about a comedy then?" my cousin said, turning around. "Some laughter will do you good."
Her logic was spot on. The only trouble was that the entire premise for Road Trip is that the main character, who goes to a different school from his girlfriend, cheats on her, makes a tape of it and then accidentally mails said tape to the girlfriend. The whole road trip that gives the movie its name is a desperate attempt to get to the girlfriend's college before the sex tape does.
Let's just say that I didn't cheer up that day.
Also, a large number of teenage boys probably thinks that they saw that film with someone with severe emotional and/or psychological issues sitting in the theater.
In Defense of Memoir
Irecently finished reading the ginormously successful Eat Pray Love. Did I lovethe book? No. Do I have to see the movie? Have I learned Italian? Am I buyingthe World Market line of products based on the story? No, no and no. But, saywhat you want about the book – love it or hate it – the problem is not that theauthor spends too much time talking about herself. (A recent review of the movie claimed a bettertitle for the film would have been Me Me Me.)
After all, Eat Pray Love is a memoir and telling your own story is the verydefinition of memoir. It’s an autobiography. It’s supposed to be just about you.
Unfortunately,most of the time you only hear about memoir when it’s sensational (“you mayhave been sexually abused by your father as a child, but I had a sexualrelationship with my dad as an adult”), written by celebrities (while we’re onthe subject, Mackenzie Phillips) or not true (thanks for that one James Frey).However, as a genre, it’s not sensationalism that drives memoir.
Iapologize in advance to anyone that thinks I’m talking down to them by thebasics I’m about to go over. I am not nearly a good enough writer to talk downto anyone. It’s just that I need to start at the beginning. After all, as LewisCarroll taught us, the beginning is a very good place to start.
Allgood writing must have tension – the phenomenon that happens when two seemingopposites co-exist. It’s one of the reasons mysteries, romances and sportsstories are so prevalent and popular; the tension there is easiest to find.Will the protagonist win or lose? Be rejected or find love? Live or die? Thelatter being the most obvious example of tension one could find and the mostuniversal – mortality. It’s hard to find a bigger gap than the differencebetween life and death, and it’s the tightrope all of humanity walks everysingle day. (Hey, I said I was going back to basics.)
Eachindividual memoir has its own tension, but a tension drives the genre as well.As a literary art form (and I do think it is one), here’s how it works: bydelving as completely as possible into one’s own individual psyche, one triesto discover some universal truth. The opposing forces? The lone individual and the restof the world. A piece and the whole.
Wemay enjoy reading them, but the best memoirs aren’t stories that focusprimarily on other people – be it your mother, father or significant other.(Not that these elements aren’t important to memoir, but let’s not confuse thecharacter with the relationship. The main character in memoir is the author,and relationships are vital because of what they reveal about the author.However, generally speaking, memoirs that focus too much on other characters doit out of fear — talk all about crazy mom so you won’t have to acknowledge thescary truth about yourself.)
Thegenre is defined by revelation and isn’t necessarily for the faint of heart.You may laugh at anecdotes, but they don't qualify as art without the revelation of atruth that applies to a larger audience than one.
Memoiris an exploration of the depths of self – that terrifying abyss that includesour inner most thoughts, fears and failings. It isn’t easy to write, and it canbe hard to read. It’s beautiful because in daring to look at those darkestparts of ourselves, we can discover a universal truth of human nature. Indaring to be so completely exposed, we uncover that we aren’t alone in these vulnerabilities.That, generally speaking, we all sing along to the same songs on the radio fora reason. We all crave acceptance and fear rejection. No one wants to bevulnerable but we all are. We need love, and we’ll do desperate, awful andoften hurtful things to get and/or keep it. We’re primarily selfish even thoughwe try to pretend we’re not, and we all want to peek behind the neighbors’curtains to see just how different/alike from them we might be.
Memoirinvites you in. Memoir throws open the door and says, “Look, here I am, wartsand all. This is my most naked self. Feel free to have an opinion.”
It’sbrazen. And while it may be self-centered, in the most literal sense of theword, it is not narcissistic.
But,memoir also isn’t for everyone. Few things are. So, if you think a personalnarrator is kind of whiny, that’s fine. I’d just suggest you read fictioninstead. And while I think Elizabeth Gilbert is probably doing just fine withher international bestseller, film rights and ancillary products, I do thinkshe should be cut a little slack on those “me, me, me” criticisms.
Grover, Horton And The Woman I Am Today
A few years ago, I got into a discussion with some friends about our favorite children's books. After naming all of our favorites, I started to wonder if maybe those early reading choices might have been some kind of sign as to the adults we would all grow into.
One friend named a book about a little girl who wanted to go live alone in her own apartment and her own house (even at five), and twenty-five years later, I can't say that I was all that surprised. Is Alexander's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day the pick of a future pessimist? Goodnight Moon the sign of a calm, content child? If You Give a Mouse a Cookie the favorite of a suspicious tot, always wondering what request is coming next?
Personally, I had two favorites. The first was There's a Monster at the End of This Book. For those of you haven't read it -- here come the spoilers. Grover from Sesame Street is the main character, and he begins the book by begging the reader not to turn the page because there is a monster waiting at the end of the story. (Hence the title, although that hardly needs to be said. I just feel like typing today.)
Of course, you have to turn the pages. I mean, that is the point of reading the book after all. And with every turn of the page, Grover grows more desperate. He puts up fences and builds brick walls to keep you from going forward. And every time you do, he screams, "I told you not to turn the page! What about the monster!"
I thought it was hysterical and giggled out loud every single time because at the very end, there is no monster. It turns out that Grover is the monster, and he realizes how silly he's been this whole time. All that worry when he was the supposed culprit all along.
As a natural worrier, it seems quite appropriate that I would have fallen for this one. Constant concern about the future? Worrying about what's coming next only to find that, really, what's most detrimental every time is fear itself? That anyone can be his or her own worst enemy? Not much of a shocker there.
My other favorite was Horton Hears a Who. I was appalled by the injustice of the fact that no one would listen to Horton when all he wanted to do was save a cute, little town full of cute, tiny people. So what that no one else could see them? Horton heard them, and they should have believed him. When they called Horton crazy and tried to tear the flower away from him that was full of that miniature colony, I was beyond distressed. Why wouldn't they listen to him? Why didn't they care?
Horton was right, he was the only one who was right and no one would listen. How couldn't they see that?
Again, I know it's bewildering that a gal with as many opinions and convictions as myself would find herself appalled by the fact that someone so right could be ignored time and time again. That she would want to hear this particular story repeatedly at bedtime.
I just felt all of Horton's pain. It is so hard to be right all the time. Poor, poor Horton and me.