Neighborly

Our neighbor Pamela, who lives across the street from us, rang our front doorbell earlier this evening. I was a little embarrassed to answer the door as I was in my pajamas and robe, even though it was only 6:45.

I rarely see Pamela unless something traumatic is happening. The last time we visited, she came over to tell me her house had been burglarized. The time before that, she and I captured a runaway dog that was loping down our street and we hung out with it until its owner showed up. The time before that, she had just backed into Sean's car. Tonight, though, she simply came over to deliver a poinsettia and say thank you for being so nice about everything when she backed into Sean's car.

I think I am a rude neighbor because I never know what to do in these situations. Is the conversation going to last 20 seconds or 20 minutes? Should I invite the doorbell ringer inside or chat at the front door? Tonight I opted for the latter move even though it was chilly and raining, and Pamela must have felt the central heat pouring out the open door. Still, she chattered away on our front porch for about 15 minutes and didn't treat me like I was the world's worst neighbor.

I learned an amazing amount about this woman, whose last name I don't even know, during that quarter hour. Stuff like she works in marketing, she used to own a clay studio, and her husband, whom she met on match.com and married after two months, has a 27-year-old son who's an alcoholic. The son and his girlfriend, who's ten years older than he and a 20-year heroin addict, have a baby who will be one year old next week and is living with foster parents, who are a gay couple. Her husband's 12-year-old daughter just moved up to Washington with his ex-wife, who's "kind of a jerk." She said a lot of other things, too, but that's most of what I could retain from our brief exchange, which consisted mostly of her talking and me saying, "Uh huh. Really? Wow." Finally, as the conversation was winding down, she took a good look at me and my pajamas and asked, "Are you sick?" I told her I was just enjoying a rare evening alone with some old movies and my cross stitch.

I feel bad that I don't know most of my neighbors, but I don't feel highly motivated to become friends with them. Besides Pamela, the only other neighbor I really talk to is Steve, who lives next door and is our gardener; he's a very sweet guy. I am on nod-and-wave terms with Mary Jones, the old lady who lives across the street and has lived there since 1945, and Roz, who lives a couple of doors down from Pamela but who has snubbed me almost since we moved in because I didn't go to her barbecue because I'd had a fight with a friend and was upset, and another neighbor who I think is also named Steve and who has had some trouble with the police. I can't stand our next-door neighbors on the other side, who seem to think the world wakes up at 5 a.m. and thus it's okay to start using power tools at that hour; I think they also hate nature and are systematically turning their property into a giant concrete slab not only by chopping down nearly all the greenery in their own yard, but also by abusing our poor eucalyptus trees that grow along the property line. I also don't like the old couple who walk slooooowly around the neighborhood every day with mean expressions on their faces; every time I have come in contact with them, they have complained about something -- either us or other neighbors -- and they really wear me down. And finally, I loathe the unknown neighbor who reported us to the city a few years ago because he or she thought our yard was "too overgrown." The inspector from the city was pleasant and said he didn't think our yard was that bad and we weren't in any trouble, but I hate the anonymous coward who bitched about us. I don't know who you are, coward, but I have it in for you.

Hmmmm. Guess who's turning into the cranky old lady in the house on the corner?

Tip of the day

This morning I walked to work. As I set out on my two-mile journey, I untangled the various cords of my MP3 player, stuck the earbuds in my ears, and hit play.

Nothing. Dead battery. Or was it?

I recalled a so-so book I read earlier in the year, Smile When You're Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer by Chuck Thompson. He wrote that a "dead" battery can often be revived by rubbing it on your clothing -- the static electricity generated will be enough to kick it back to life and keep it running (on borrowed time, of course). I gave it a try, and voila: more than an hour later, my MP3 player is still going strong. I'm not yet ready to revise my opinion of the book, but now I'm glad I read it.

Quote of the day

"... I've come to believe that having your life fall apart at least once is a good experience. You figure out what you're made of. And when everything seems to be gone, you're able to see what left more clearly. There's always something left, you just have to look for it."

~ Feral Mom

Picture this

I like Google's image search engine; it comes in handy when I'm making signs and flyers at work. Mostly, though, I love the seeming randomness of some of the pictures that appear when you enter your search. Here are three winners I came across this week:

I was searching for "jebus" -- don't ask me why.

"Skin book."

Best of all: "cousin."

Bad holiday gifts, part deux

What kind of lousy pocket knife counts a perfume bottle among its features?

A stupid girl's pocket knife, that's what.

Writer for the masses

Overrated

Years ago I promised Curtis that I wouldn't see Lawrence of Arabia until I had the opportunity to watch it on the big screen. That chance came yesterday afternoon, when Norman and I caught Lawrence in all its 70mm glory at the Egyptian in Hollywood. It's a grand setting for such an epic, with its vast expanses of scenery and its booming, heroic score.

And you know what? It was pretty good. But that's all: I thought it was all right. T.E. Lawrence seems like an interesting fella and I'd like to learn a little more about him. But the movie itself? Yeah, I liked it. But I don't see adding it to my list of Top Ten films. Sorry, Curtis.

Seeing it turned out to be a handy thing, actually, because it was the only top ten film on the AFI's list of "100 Movies... 100 Years" that I hadn't seen. It felt good to check that baby off. I have now seen 73 movies on the AFI's list, which seems like a collection of titles designed to appeal to the masses rather than a genuine assessment of great films throughout history. I mean, I like The Fellowship of the Ring, but is it really better than, say, The African Queen? Or The Apartment? Should The Sixth Sense be on that list at all? And why oh why is Schindler's List in the top ten? That is the most egregiously overrated movie of all time -- a fascinating, moving true story, to be sure, but a lightweight piece of filmmaking that goes for sentimentality and easy explanations every chance it gets.

Since it's getting towards the end of the year and I need to start thinking about resolutions, maybe I'll resolve in 2008 to see the 27 movies on the AFI list that I haven't yet watched. It's an arbitrary list, pretty much, but watching all those movies should at least ensure that I'll be well-viewed (is that the filmic equivalent of "well-read"?) by the end of next year.

What are the great films you have not yet seen?

Bad holiday gifts

Haggis.

Gummy haggis.

What you can do this holiday season

I guess the pressures of the holiday season are hitting me early this year, as I'm preoccupied with thoughts of how to consume less and enjoy the holidays more. Here are a couple of ideas I've come up with; if you have others you'd like to share in the comments, please do so!

You can reject consumerism today, which is International Buy Nothing Day. (A second chance for those of us who missed or failed at National Buy Nothing Day yesterday.)

You can pledge to buy handmade gifts, as well as encourage others to do the same for you.

You can avoid chain stores and support local independent businesses.

You can donate to a worthy cause.

You can create an alternative gift registry.

The road to hell...

For the past five years or so, instead of observing Black Friday, I have instead observed Buy Nothing Day. I decided a while back that I just can't go along with that whole up-at-four-in-the-morning to shop at the local discount superstore. If I'm going to be up at four in the morning (and I often am), I want to be sitting in my comfy armchair with a cup of coffee at my elbow, a cross stitch project in my lap, and the TV remote lying on the coffee table in front of me. No bargain can drag me out of bed and into a shopping center the day after Thanksgiving. Around the same time I abandoned recreational shopping, I discovered Buy Nothing Day and it fits in perfectly with my mall avoidance mentality. I decided the only things I would allow myself to purchase on the day after Thanksgiving were food and/or movie tickets. That's it.

This year, however, I am a failure. I bought something.

Right now, I'm trying to console myself with the thought that 1) it's something I've thought about purchasing for over a year, 2) I bought it at an independently-owned business, and 3) I was the only customer in the joint, so the shop presumably needed my business rather than merely craved it in order to set some sort of sales record. Speaking of records, I'll go on it by stating that I spent $16 on a Christmas CD at little Canterbury Records in Pasadena. I might have spent even more, but they didn't have the other Christmas CD I was looking for.

I don't have too many principles, and I feel bad about violating this one. Perhaps listening to Sarah McLachlan warble "In the Bleak Midwinter" every Christmas from now on will guilt me into never disobeying my own laws again.

I get by with a little help from my friends

Hello, vast readership. I hope you have all enjoyed a lovely Thanksgiving repast. If your household is like mine, you're now sitting (or lying) around in a food coma, your brain and body barely functional. I haven't got the wherewithal to write a proper blog post this evening, so I have asked the few remaining folks at The Shambles -- husband Sean, best pal Norman, and dear out-of-town friend Jennifer -- to help me out by answering a random question apiece.

ME: Norman, you were a little late arriving this afternoon and I think it had something to do with a toilet plunger. Care to elaborate?

NORMAN: No, but I don't want to be accused of being evasive or a bad sport. I woke up this a.m. with a pretty steep agenda by my standards (meaning it involved more than one objective). I hadn't slept well, woke up early (again, by my standards) and couldn't get back to sleep. After some time lying in bed staring at the ceiling and listening to an Xmas music mix I made for the hostess of my remarks here, I decided to commit to the day and begin working through my morning tasks. At some point -- details are foggy -- I realized my toilet wouldn't , er, flush properly. I couldn't believe it. While I do worry inordinately about related household disasters (e.g., the toilet backing up, flooding my apartment and destroying my all my worldly invaluables), and even if manifestations of my bad luck provide further confirmation of my world view, I thought my w.c. issue represented a new low or at least semi-fresh hell. I'm a bit of a germophobe, too, so this particular problem implicated a tangle of personal issues.
So, what to do? I had recently thrown out my plunger; the idea of keeping a previously used plunger, however clean, just began to disgust me (see above). I'm not at all handy, but believe it or not, I had one of those "snake" devices and reluctantly began to work on the toilet. (Some years ago, when a plumber said he was going to "snake" my toilet, I had no idea what he meant. I told him to do whatever he had to do but that I would have to leave the room. At the time I had no interest in plumbing demystification.) Anyway, the snake is this long wiry thing with a crank on the end, by means of which one works the snake through the sinuous, if I may use a highly technical term here, toilet pipe. I felt like I was cranking the engine of some early-model motor vehicle, and after quite some time, began to notice dramatic progress: the snake was sliding down, down, down in impressive fashion. Or so I thought. In fact, the grip of this crank was sliding down the other end of the snake, which itself coiled and thrashed, probably splashing water on my bath towel, without really going anywhere. Fed up, and used to being outsmarted by inanimate objects, I tossed the snake aside (after wrapping it securely in a plastic garbage bag), got dressed, grabbed my keys and took off for the grocery store. I honestly didn't know whether any of them would be open and, having just been to the store the previous night, Thanksgiving eve, that is (a living nightmare unto itself), hated the prospect of returning. But I assumed the hardware stores were a non-starter on Thanksgiving proper. (I am probably as out of place in a hardware store as anywhere else and for roughly four years didn't realize there is a Home Depot within about a mile of my humble domicile. And last time I was there, I got a suspicious look from one of the store's "associates" while I was attempting to tie a noose in the aisle that featured rope and twine and the like.) I actually tried the CVS first, thinking I would avoid some of the last-minute shoppers for turkey and whatnot, but its plunger selection was abysmal. The ones they did have were tiny, like baby plungers or something, and I couldn't wrap my mind (and sensibilities) around the notion of plungers procreating. I then traversed the parking lot to the Ralph's, located the section of an aisle dedicated to household items and gazed down at a marginally better choice -- a conventional-sized plunger! Still, it wasn't one of those -- I hesitate to to say cool -- effective plungers, the business end of which has an accordion-like shape. I'm sure I could have procured one of these miracles of modern design and innovation at one of the presumably closed hardware stores. I had to settle for a simple, normal-sized plunger, which I promptly purchased -- I think the manager felt sorry for me standing there with a plunger and hangdog expression (or perhaps felt I would unnerve the other holiday shoppers) and opened up a new register for me -- and took home. Without much ado, and probably no more than two or three "plunges," my toilet was operational again. Although, with the right equipment, it didn't take long to fix this problem, I did have a moment to wonder, as I was jamming that highly coveted plunger into the base of my toilet and again probably splashing my bath towel, what the fuck, on this of all days, do I have to be thankful for?

The upshot: That was (one of) the reason(s) I was late.

ME: Wow. That was more explanation than I'd expected! Thank you, Norman, for all those details. Onto my next guest.

Jennifer, you recently became the proud owner of a U.S. passport. What are your immediate and future plans for this piece of identification?

JENNIFER: Yes, I am a new proud owner of a U.S. passport. Let me just start by saying that I have found a new freedom knowing that I can now venture to any part of the world as an officially identified U.S. citizen. Although I find it interesting that I had to pay $113.00 for some one to offically tell me that I am an official citizen. Being a citizen of the United States is a title that I feel many of us take lightly. As a fourth grade teacher I often express to my students that they will inherit the important job of being good citizens of this amazing country. Obtaining my new passport truely re-enforced the pride I have in my country. The government did a great job choosing several iconic American symbols that represent this amazing country. The fine makers of my beautiful new passport also quoted famous Americans such as MLK, Eisnhower, JFK etc on each of the pages that await a stamp from my future destinations.

It will be my pleasure to present this passport to the person assisting me as I embark on my New Years Eve cruise to Mexico! Our country has decided that going to Mexico and Canada by air, car or BOAT now requires a passport. Of course this does not go into full effect until Jan. 8th. However, this rule was a great reason to request a passport. Now that I have one I won't have to pass up travel excusions like a trip to GERMANY!!!!

Yes! This trip to Germany could be my first trip off North America. The possibility of traveling abroad is overwhelmingly exciting. I have traveled to 46 of our 50 United States. I've ventured to Canada and Mexico, but to actually leave North America would be SUPER!!

Presently, I have a beautiful new passport that holds several pages awaiting stamps from all over the world! Who knows what adventures will come with each stamp of a page.

ME: What fun! I'm excited for you. And that reminds me, I need to renew my own passport before next year's possible trip to Croatia. Speaking of Croatia reminds me that it's now time to ask my sweetheart Sean a question.

Sean, today is the anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination. What do you think really transpired on that fateful day in Dallas 44 years ago?

SEAN: I think that the president was shot and killed.

I suspect that Lee Harvey Oswald pulled the trigger, but I've never been given any credible or satisfactory reason why he may have done it. Based on what I've heard about it from a variety of sources, the whole thing smells fishy from every angle. The conspiracy theories seem to push an agenda every bit as much as the Warren Report. I'm not convinced we'll ever know the whole story, but it seems that petty jurisdictional territorialism and beaureaucracy may be mostly to blame for the suspicion, the incomplete information, and the mystery as any possible complex conspiratorial plot. I suspect that the reason the papers are sealed have as much to do with keeping secret some information irrelevant to the the assassination, or spurious investigative methods as with any possible shocking revelations. I believe that there were (and are) people in our government that were self-centered or agency-centered, and wanted mostly to cover their own asses.

In other words, it seems possible that there was some kind of conspiracy to assassinate Kennedy, but much more likely that were several conspiracies after the fact to take credit, avoid blame, cast political opponents in an unfavorable light, enjoy fifteen minutes of fame, or to grasp for something meaningful in a horrible, shocking moment of national tragedy.

And, on that sober note, happy Thanksgiving.

Dream assignment

Lucy has tagged me with just about the best assignment EVER: to talk about the books that were my early childhood favorites. I started reading at age three and immediately began to consume books at an alarming rate, which is my way of saying that this is going to be a loooong list.

The Great Escape, or, The Sewer Story by Peter Lippman is the charming tale of Cyrus, a young pet alligator who grows too big for his owners' tastes and is flushed down the toilet. He ends up in the NYC sewer system, where he meets a lot of other similarly-fated alligators, and together they plan a mass exodus back to Florida. My sister Mary still has our childhood copy of this picture book.

The Big Tidy-Up by Norah Smaridge. Lucy's got this one on her list, too. My copy disappeared years ago, and Mary convinced a pal of hers to give up her childhood copy so that Mary could give it to me for my 40th birthday. Wow! A great gift, especially considering used copies are selling for upwards of $200.

Walter the Lazy Mouse by Marjorie Flack. Walter spends so much time sleeping that his family forgets about him and moves away. When he sets out to find them, he becomes sidetracked by a group of frogs in need of an education, and Walter becomes their not-terribly-effective teacher.

The Monster at the End of This Book is also on Lucy's list. I used to love reading this one out loud to my younger sisters in Grover's voice.

The Lonely Doll by Dare Wright is not a book I owned, though I read it many times. My brother's allergist had a copy of it in his waiting room and I read it every time I had to go there. I thought it was a strange book, and after I read The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll, a biography of the book's author & illustrator, I thought it was tragic, too.

The Hungry Thing by Jan Slepian & Ann Seidler. I have always liked stories that feature a lot of food, and this book was one of the first I encountered that does so.

The Giant Jam Sandwich by John Vernon Lord & Janet Burroway. See above. I reread this one not too long ago, and it looked much more psychedelic than I recalled.

Kids' Kitchen Takeover by Sara Stein was a wonderful kids' cookbook that was also full of science projects and fun activities all centered around the kitchen. Another childhood favorite that Mary found a used copy of for me a couple of years ago.

Anything by Roald Dahl. I'm talking old Roald Dahl: the two Charlie books, Fantastic Mr. Fox, James & the Giant Peach, Danny the Champion of the World, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar. His later books are just plain mean, and the current Quentin Blake illustrations are wretched.

The Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I loved the Ingalls' family's can-do spirit, though of course now I realize that they had no choice but to do it themselves. I read all of these out of order but loved them anyway. When I first started working in the bookstore many, many years ago, one of the first things I treated myself to was a hardback set of these books. Incidentally, I do not like the new covers that HarperCollins recently slapped on these books. Goddammit, why mess with perfection?

The All About... series. This was a series of history and science books that were first published back in the fifties. My parents bought a bunch of them at a garage sale and gave them to my brother, but I made off with most of them and read them over and over. My favorite volumes were All About Archaeology, All About Snakes, and -- best of all -- All About Strange Beasts of the Past, which was about Ice Age animals; I developed quite a crush on mastadons, the runty, uglier cousins of woolly mammoths.

Great Stories for Young Readers from Reader's Digest was a thick volume chock-full of excellent stories. My dad used to read to me from it occasionally, which was a treat. My favorite stories were "The Paradise of Children" by Nathaniel Hawthorne, "The Plain Princess," and "The Devil's Hide," a really nasty tale about a cunning Finnish boy.

Young Years was a big, fat book filled with fairy tales, fables, and poetry. I particularly liked the selection of fables by Aesop and some of the fairy tales. "Puss in Boots" was good, as was the utterly bizarre "Tinder Box" by Hans Christian Andersen.

A Child's Book of Poems illustrated by Gyo Fujikawa. When I was looking up the links for this post, I was stunned to find that this book just came back into print a couple of months ago! I ran out to the kids' department to see if it was true, and there it was. It's a good anthology with wonderful pictures by Gyo Fujikawa; she drew things "multiculturally" before it was PC to do so, and her sweet pictures seem perfectly natural and right.

A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett is probably my all-time favorite kids' book. I loved and admired Sara Crewe, who remained hopeful and kind (but never sappy) even in the face of terrible adversity. This novel's melodrama was incredibly appealing to me.

Mandy by Julie Edwards is kind of a modern-day combination of The Secret Garden and A Little Princess. I discovered this in the school library in fourth grade and was thrilled to receive my own copy (which I still have) for Christmas that year. Julie Edwards, in case you don't know, is Julie Andrews.

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I read this many times as a kid and regarded Jo March as a hero. I reread it a few years ago and was struck by how funny it was. And just so you don't think I'm hopelessly mired in the past, I love the cover on the new Penguin Deluxe Classics edition.

Jane-Emily by Patricia Clapp scared the crap out of me and really kicked into high gear my love of horror.

Witch's Sister by Jean Lowery Nixon was the first in a trilogy of books about a girl whose next door neighbor is a witch -- or is she? You won't know for sure until the end of the third book, The Witch Herself; I admire the author's respect for her audience's intelligence and patience. Plus these books (especially #2, Witch Water) were damn scary.

Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by Robert C. O'Brien was the first thing I read that suggested to me that books could be both thrilling and intellectually challenging. Michael Crichton should go back and read this book and try to figure out where he lost his way.

Among the Dolls by William Sleator. Well, whaddaya know -- also back in print! More scary stuff about a girl who gets sucked into a dollhouse populated with cruel, conniving dolls. I loved any book that dealt with dolls coming to life or in which dollhouses figured. If they were horror or suspense stories, so much the better.

Anything by Judy Blume. She was great. Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret got me through puberty. Blubber upset me terribly. Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great made me laugh but also made me uncomfortable. By the time Forever was published, my mom was so used to seeing Judy Blume's books around the house that she didn't bat an eye when I asked her to buy me a copy; unlike me, she hadn't read all the dirty parts in drama class so she didn't know what she was purchasing.

Pardon Me, You're Stepping on My Eyeball! by Paul Zindel was the first real YA book I read. I bought it because of the funny title and the cover artwork, and I read it during a trip to Mexico in the sixth grade. I thought it was funny and strange. Later, I read a number of other Paul Zindel books; My Darling, My Hamburger and The Pigman are probably the best-known of these, but my favorite was The Undertaker's Gone Bananas. Somewhere there exists a really dorky photograph of me, dressed in a Lanz nightgown and braces glinting in the light of a flashbulb, grinning with joy when I unwrapped a copy of The Pigman's Legacy on Christmas morning.

Something caught my eye... and dragged it 15 feet

I was folding some laundry earlier, including some of Sean's undergarments. He has always worn briefs, but he recently bought some soft cotton boxers, and that's what I was folding. I have always been of the mind that what a person wears underneath his or her clothes is an entirely personal choice, and comfort should trump any other consideration. I have never given Sean's underwear much thought.

I hope his new boxers are comfortable, because they are damn sexy.

Kinda sad book-of-the-week

I guess Lars and the Real Girl was just an interim step...

From the book:

I believe that one of the most widespread reasons humans will develop strong emotional attachments to robots is the natural desire to have more close friends, to experience more affection, more love... It is of course reasonable to question why someone would have time for a robot friend but insufficient time for a human one. I believe that among the principal reasons will be the certainty that one's robot friend will behave in ways that one finds empathetic, always being loyal and having a combination of social, emotional, and intellectual skills that far exceeds the characteristics to be found in a human friend.

Dragging

I got nothing tonight. Sure, I could talk about my newfound admiration for the talented-after-all Affleck brothers or about the mace- and Mace-free spice cake I baked Sean last night. But really, I'm too tired and the previous sentence has covered most of what I would have to say, anyway. (Do check out Gone Baby Gone, though, if you get the chance.) Instead, please enjoy this photo of Phoebe, the current title holder of World's Cutest 9-Month-Old, with whom I was privileged to dine this evening:

Shakespeare got to get paid, son

A How's Annie?! A How's Annie?! My kingdom for a How's Annie?!

Which work of Shakespeare was the original quote from?

Get your own quotes:

Ears in the gutter

Curtis asked Norman if he was going to go visit his family in Arizona for Thanksgiving. Norman said no; he didn't know exactly what his family had planned for Thanksgiving day since most of his male relatives were going to spend at least part of the holiday weekend elk hunting.

Curtis started to laugh. I looked at him and said, "Did you hear what I heard?" He nodded. I turned to Norman and said, "It sounded like you said el cunting."

"I thought maybe it was some bizarre rite of machismo," said Curtis.

Norman looked offended and said that, if what we heard was what he'd intended to say, he would of course have referred to it as la cunting.

Make it right

My new hero is Mike Holmes, the Canadian master builder who hosts Holmes on Homes, my current favorite HGTV production. Holmes and his crew visit homeowners who have been screwed over by contractors -- often the job has been left unfinished, it's rarely up to code, and sometimes the work that was done amounts to criminal negligence. Holmes doesn't do glamorous stuff like redecorating or relandscaping. You mostly get to see him and his crew ripping out drywall, replacing wiring, fixing faulty plumbing, regrouting, and the like. On one (truly!) thrilling episode, Mike and another guy used a backhoe to dig an enormous hole by a house's foundation to see if the basement wall would have to be replaced; fortunately, it was sound and the earth was filled back in. Mike's slogan is "Make it right," and you can see how much gratitude homeowners have for the guy who lives by such a motto. Often they have spent their life savings to make their homes comfortable and safe, only to get reamed by the people they hired to do the job (and often sued in the process because they refuse to make that final payment for the crappy work). Mike comes in and fixes everything, all the while shaking his head and saying stuff like, "Can you believe it? This is terrible. That so-called 'contractor' should lose his license," etc.

Mike Holmes himself is kind of scary to look at. With that crew cut, wife-beater and overalls, he looks like an enormous, threatening manchild. But he's smart and he hires good people to work with him. He has integrity.

Sometimes I fantasize about winning the lottery and flying Mike down from Canada to do some work on our house. We're not plagued by a terrible renovation or faulty wiring or anything like that. It's just that he inspires so much confidence that, were I in the market to upgrade the nonglamorous parts of my home (insulation, HVAC, and plumbing all come to mind), he's the guy I would want to do the job.

Cookbook-of-the-week

This book really adheres to the whole "ski house" conceit, with constant references to roaring fires, ski lifts, the lodge, moguls, etc. I have zero interest in skiing, but the thought of holing up in a snowbound log cabin with yummy food is infinitely appealing. Contained herein are the makings of a wonderful, frosty afternoon feast: Classic French Onion Soup, Blue Cheese-Stuffed Bacon Burgers, Roasted Sweet Potato Fries, and Chocolate Fondue.

Randomized

Feral Mom has tagged me to reveal 8 random things about myself. I thought it would be an easy assignment, since practically everything about my life seems random; the catch, though, seems to be to come up with 8 moderately interesting random things about myself, and that's a lot harder. Here goes:

1. When I was 11 years old I took a ride in the GoodYear blimp. My mom had gotten two tickets for my dad for Christmas, and since the reserved date fell the week between our birthdays, he took me as his guest. The cabin only held seven people, including the driver (pilot?), and we shared the space with a family of four. I don't recall anything about the parents, but the kids I remember. The older boy, who was about my age, kept asking things like, "What's the maximum speed attainable?" and "Is this cabin pressurized?" (The answers, as I recall, were "about 45 mph" and "no.") The younger boy, who was maybe six years old, was in possession of what looked to me like a very expensive, very professional camera and kept leaping up to snap photos, occasionally obscuring my view out the window. I didn't ask or do anything because I was pretty much scared shitless -- when you're bobbing along at 40 miles an hour hundreds of feet up in the air, it's hard not to notice every little gust, and it was a cold, blustery day. We floated around for an hour or so; then, because we were the last flight of the day, we got to see the blimp being "docked." You may have noticed that there are a couple of ropes hanging off the front of the blimp -- well, when the workday is over, a couple of guys come running out of the GoodYear office and grab those ropes, then tie them to a big flagpole so the blimp doesn't float away at night. It's all terribly professional.

2. My brother and sisters and I all have dimples, but our parents didn't. Wait -- secret sister Karen doesn't have them, either! Perhaps she is a fake!

3. The first thing I can remember wanting to be when I grew up was an artist. The second thing I can remember wanting to be when I grew up was a writer. The third thing I can remember wanting to be when I grew up was... an interior decorator? Where did that come from?

4. I discovered a latent talent a few years ago when Norman gave me the first two seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD: I have the ability to watch enormous amounts of TV in one sitting. Not movies, mind you, but TV. Since watching all seven seasons of Buffy, I have consumed a couple of seasons of Northern Exposure, all of Grey's Anatomy, Veronica Mars, Deadwood, and House. I've just started Dexter, and I've got Weeds and the first season of Friday Night Lights a-waiting. I'm not proud of this skill, but I make the best of it.

5. I was named after Anne of Green Gables and this blog was named after Twin Peaks (newly out on DVD -- I predict a marathon in my near future!).

6. My first celebrity crush was on Alfalfa of The Little Rascals. Man, could that kid sing!

7. I bite my fingernails. I have stopped biting them many times over the years but have always started again, partly out of habit but mostly because I can't stand the feel of my nails when they get long. That tiny bit of extra weight at the end of each finger is unbearable and feels unnatural. I don't like the look of long fingernails, either, especially on men. I started biting my nails when I was a wee bairn, shortly after I stopped sucking my thumb, and I suppose I'll still be doing it when I'm an old lady.


8. I am allergic to almost anything that's natural: cats, dogs (that's a mild one, fortunately), bunnies, goose down, dust, most kinds of wool, and a lot of native trees and grasses. Apparently the thing I'm most allergic to in all the world is hamsters -- when I was tested for allergies a number of years ago, I was injected with some sort of essence of hamster ("hamster venom," Sean called it), and my arm swelled up, turned bright red, and itched like crazy. Fortunately, I don't come in contact with the little buggers all that often.

Thanks for the tag, Feral! I'd like to learn 8 random things about Lucy, Norman, and Trooperdog.

A little something for the fellas...

Part of my job is hanging posters around the store, posters that are blow-ups of book covers. They usually start out in our event space, promoting upcoming signings, then get rotated through a variety of spots, including the restrooms.

A few weeks ago, someone requested the poster hanging in the men's room and I promised he could have it as soon as I found a suitable replacement. Yesterday I found that replacement:

Happy birthd-- GAAAAHH!!

In the break room this morning, I mentioned that I will be making a spice cake for Sean for his birthday.

"What's a spice cake?" asked Natalie.

"It's just a cake with a lot of spices in it so it's highly seasoned. It usually has cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, mace --"

"Mace?" said Natalie. "Like pepper spray?"

Yes, Natalie. I find that pepper spray always improves the taste of cake and makes for a memorable birthday, too.

And awaaaaaay we go!

I came across this unhappy story the other day, and it got me to thinking about my own inevitable demise, something I do occasionally during pleasant, idle moments. I asked myself -- and I ask you, readers:

1. Ideally, how will you go?
Given my druthers, I'd like to die in my sleep after a big dinner party the night before, where I get to spend time with lots of friends and family, eat an enormous, delicious meal, and laugh till my face hurts from smiling so much. If I have to die tragically, I hope it's via something like a nuclear explosion, which will at least have the benefit of being quick.

2. What will your funeral or memorial service be like?
I hope some people cry, because while I hate to upset folks, it would upset me to think that no one would miss me enough to shed a tear. The best and most obvious way to honor my memory will be to serve copious amounts of fatty foods; my friend Sherri has already promised to make these stuffed mushrooms in my honor. When the storytelling starts, I will be glad I'm gone, because things will quickly become embarrassing: "Hey, do you remember the time she _____? How lame was that?"

3. What will become of your earthly remains?
I want to be cremated. Beyond that, I don't care what happens to me. I used to think it would be funny to sprinkle my ashes around town in public ashtrays, but those things are becoming scarce as the anti-smoking laws get tougher. I guess someone could throw me in the compost bin. If someone wanted to keep a little box of my ashes forever in the back of their closet or something, I would be touched. Sean told me he wants me to throw his ashes into the faces of his enemies while shouting, "Here! That's from Sean! In fact, that is Sean!"

*** UPDATE 12:49 P.M. ***
Here's an option I'd never considered! (Scroll down to "A Pirate's (After) Life for Me.")

Books-of-the-week

Last night at work I took part in a customer service presentation for most of the bookstore's employees. I talked a bit about handselling and presented a bunch of books I liked. Below are the three I think are most fun.

This book answers such earth-shaking questions as, "Why must some fatty substance be used in sauces bound with flour?" and "Why won't the egg white closest to the yolk cook?" Actually, if you're at all interested in how cooking works, this little volume is a fascinating read. No recipes, just lots of easy-to-understand science.

For any gal who grew up loving the Little House books or TV show. Projects include curing meat, spinning yarn, making bread-and-butter pickles, darning a sock, and milking a cow. I could see using this book as a sort of "life list" of things to accomplish.

This weird little paperback is a list of unusual books published over the years. Among the oddities: The Supernatural History of Worms, Lesbia's Little Blunder, Psoriasis at Your Fingertips, Masturbation in the American Catholic Church, and Do-it-yourself Coffins: For Pets & People. I actually own a copy of that last book.

Decisions, decisions

Today I bought these beautiful fabrics at Piecemakers. I think they might be the beginnings of a quilt top; the one at the bottom right would also make for some purty pillowcases.

The older I get, the more I like orange.

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A blog I think you'll enjoy: Cake and Icing

Secret sister

I got nuthin' today, so I am going to tell you how I met my sister Karen.

Once upon a time, a little over 50 years ago, my parents met. It was at Highland Park Hospital in Detroit. My mom was a ward nurse and my dad was the new orthopedic intern from Texas. My mom told me that, for some reason, she pictured a cowboy in a lab coat and Stetson, with a big Western drawl; she was disappointed to discover that the new doctor was a soft-spoken, bespectacled fellow who had merely studied medicine in Texas; he'd grown up in North Dakota and sounded as if he was from Canada. Nevertheless, the two of them hit it off and started dating.

They were engaged to be married when they split up in 1955. There were two versions of why they parted ways: Dad said he didn't want to get married in the Catholic church because he was an agnostic, and Mom said they just weren't ready to get married and used the church thing as an excuse. I think they were both telling versions of the same truth. Anyway, they broke up, and soon thereafter, Mom and her best friend Donnie (also a nurse) moved out to Santa Monica, California and began work at the UCLA Medical Center.

A few months later, Dad moved to Los Angeles himself and started his new job at Orthopedic Hospital in downtown. He was a resident and wasn't making good money, so he did a lot of moonlighting at places like ski resorts, waiting for unlucky skiers to fall and break a leg so he could help and earn a few extra bucks. He contacted my mom and tried to get together, but she didn't want to see him. After about a year she and Donnie moved back to Detroit while Dad stayed in Los Angeles, eventually getting hired full-time at St. Luke Hospital in Pasadena and joining an orthopedic specialty group. Mom and Dad had nothing to do with each other for about seven years. A mutual friend of theirs who traveled on business between L.A. and Detroit kind of kept each of them apprised of the other's doings.

Finally, after one of these trips, this friend said to Mom, "You know, Janet, Bob is still single. You really should call him." I don't know the exact date he told her this, but I do know that on July 4, 1962, my mom was at a party, got a little drunk, told some friends about this other friend's suggestion, and decided to call Dad in L.A. Dad was delighted to hear from her and a couple of weeks later, he flew back to Detroit to see her. He arrived on a Friday, and they got re-engaged the next day. Two months later they got married, had me and my brother and sisters (and another baby boy who died), and were married for nearly 35 years until Mom died. Dad died a few years later, as much as from loneliness and a broken heart as anything else. I think -- no, I know they were very happily married, and they gave me and my siblings an imperfect but definitely happy, solid, loving home to grow up in. I miss both of them every day.

So.

I guess it was nearly four years ago that my sister Susan received a large envelope in the mail. She didn't recognize the return address, which was in Orange County, just south of L.A. When she opened the envelope, the papers that fell out were copies of some adoption forms. Susan didn't look at them too closely because she thought they might relate to the baby she had put up for adoption when she was 17; instead, she snatched up the personal letter that accompanied the forms. It was from a woman named Karen, who said she was our sister. Not a half sister, but a full-blooded sister born in 1956.

Seems my mom was pregnant when she and my dad broke up, and she moved out to California to have her baby in secrecy. Karen was adopted by an Irish Catholic family and grew up in the Valley, always knowing she was adopted; when she turned 21, her parents gave her copies of her adoption papers and told her if she wanted to search for her birth parents, that was her choice. The adoption papers revealed that Mom alone had been responsible for putting Karen up for adoption; they also revealed both my dad's name and my mom's maiden name, and the fact that Dad was a surgeon. Karen later worked in medical billing and kept tabs on my dad a little bit that way; she knew where he worked, anyway. She didn't want to intrude on his life, figuring he was married and probably had a family of his own. She didn't know how to track down her birth mother, figuring Mom had married someone else and had changed her name.

Shortly before Susan received the letter with Karen's story, Karen had looked Dad up online to see if there was any information on him, and she found his obituary (probably the one I wrote for his local newspaper -- writing that was one of the hardest things I've ever done). She saw that he had been predeceased by his wife Janet and thought how unusual it was that he had married someone with the same first name as her birth mother. She kept reading and saw all the names of his children, her half-siblings, she thought. Then she read that he was also survived by his mother-in-law, Florence F___, and she couldn't believe it. Her birth mother's name was Janet F___! Her birth parents had married and those four half-siblings were actually full siblings! She tracked down Susan's and my brother John's addresses and sent the same letter to each of them. Fortunately, Susan received hers first, because if my weirdo brother John had, who knows what might have happened. Susan's response, however, was "Welcome to the family! Let's meet and get to know one another!" Susan, unbeknownst to Karen, was the perfect family member to contact.

Susan, Mary and I all met Karen in a coffee shop in Monrovia in February of 2004; John, who lives in San Diego, either couldn't or wouldn't make the trip up for the meeting. We hadn't exchanged pictures, but the three of us knew the moment we saw her that she was our sister -- she looks so much like Susan, who looks a lot like our mom. We all hit it off and we've become great friends. Karen has become even better friends with our favorite cousin Alice, who's her same age and, fortunately for Karen, is into genealogy in a big way; she has all kinds of family history and stories, at least on my dad's side.

There are so many questions that can never be answered because Mom and Dad are both gone; Donnie, Mom's best friend and the one person besides Mom who probably knew the whole story, died a year or so before Karen contacted us, so we can't ask her anything, either. Gram, our mom's mother, and Mom's sister-in-law Fran knew nothing of the secret pregnancy and birth; neither did Dad's brother and his wife. One of the big questions we have is if our father knew about Karen's birth. We tend to think not for two reasons. One, we think he absolutely would have married Mom if he'd known she was pregnant -- at the very least, he would not have left her to go it alone on the other side of the country. And two, if he had left her in the lurch, we seriously doubt Mom would have been so quick to marry him when he proposed again seven years later. We think this was Mom's secret alone and that it accounted for her lifelong depression.

We don't see Karen all the time, but we've become quite close. Tomorrow, in fact, Mary and I are meeting her for lunch and an afternoon of visiting quilting stores. If you can't do that sort of thing with a sister, who can you do it with?

Guest programmer

This month, Turner Classics' evening schedule is being determined by a daily celebrity guest programmer. Some of the guests -- such as Alton Brown, Thelma Schoonmaker, and James Ellroy -- are particularly interesting choices; only one, Kermit the Frog, seems gimmicky. (Though in all honesty, Kermit has selected a fine night of movies, including the wonderful Singin' in the Rain.) Over on She-Blogger, Lucy decided to play guest programmer herself and came up with three nights of intriguing prgramming -- intriguing because all of her choices are either movies I already love or ones I know nothing about and now must check out for myself. She tagged me to give it a try, and I'm delighted to oblige. I, however, cannot limit myself to one or even three evenings of suggested viewing; since my entire raison d'etre revolves around telling people which books, movies and music will make their lives better, I've come up with a whole five nights' worth of must-see TV. Ladies and gentlemen, start your microwave popcorn poppers.

MONDAY: Musicals

• Meet Me in St. Louis - Even as a bewigged blonde, Judy Garland has never been more beautiful or in better singing form.
• My Fair Lady - What can you say about a musical whose big show-stopping number consists of three people (two of them old men) cavorting around a library? Only that it's just about perfect.
• Fiddler on the Roof - When I was a little kid, "Topol" was an anti-stain toothpaste aimed at smokers. After I saw this movie, Topol was Tevye the Dairyman. A great performance at the center of a wonderfully melancholy musical.

TUESDAY: Melodrama
I only picked two, since a) they're both so long, and b) you'll want to off yourself if you have to watch another movie in the same vein. Coincidentally, they both star the lovely Lana Turner.

• Peyton Place - Secrets and lies in a small New England town. Illegitimate children, affairs, rape, murder, and -- horrors! -- a sissy boy, this movie is to drool over.
• Imitation of Life (1959) - You are made of stone if you fail to shed a tear or two at the end of this soaper.

WEDNESDAY: Comedies

• His Girl Friday - This movie is all about snappy dialogue, and I'm here to tell you, the movies never got it snappier.
• Unfaithfully Yours (1948) - Rex Harrison is perfectly cast as the supercilious, jealous conductor who comes to suspect that his wife is having an affair. The occasional weird sound effects add to the hilarity.
• What's Up, Doc? - Perhaps the last real screwball comedy. I fell in love with Austin Pendleton when I first saw this as a little kid.

THURSDAY: Noir

• The Maltese Falcon (1941) - What many consider the first true noir. Humphrey Bogart is pitch-perfect as PI Sam Spade, and Peter Lorre is twitchy fun as Sam Cairo.
• Gun Crazy (1950) - Delirious, on-the-cheap noir with gun- and sex-obsessed leads Peggy Cummins and John Dall on a crime spree. A.K.A. Deadly Is the Female.
• Mildred Pierce - Joan Crawford won her only Oscar for her turn as the martyr title character who will do anything for her ungrateful daughter. She and Ann Blyth are great as Mildred and the conniving Veda, but supporting actors Eve Arden and Jack Carson almost steal the show.
• The Night of the Hunter (1955) - Eerie, haunting, as much a fairy tale as a noir.
• Touch of Evil - We'll wind up this long evening with what many consider the last true noir. The whole production is fantastic, but special props must go to the casting director -- it's an amazing group of talent in this movie.

FRIDAY: Love Stories

• The African Queen (1951) - Middle-aged romance has rarely been so exciting and unexpected.
• The Apartment (1960) - It's the perfect blend of sweet and tart, funny and tragic. And Shirley MacLaine is just so cute!
• Moonstruck (1987) - You think your life is headed in a particular direction, and then it veers off in another... Funny, romantic, a little sad, and above all, a big valentine to familial love.

I'll try tagging Norman; this sort of exercise seems right up his alley.

Medium black dress

Yesterday, while looking for something in my closet, I found a dress I'd forgotten I owned. It had fallen off its hanger and was bunched on the floor in a corner behind a box of quilting supplies. Actually, I hadn't forgotten that I owned it -- I just hadn't seen it in such a long time that I figured I'd jettisoned it during one of my periodic wardrobe sweeps.

I bought it from a catalog (see below) a few years ago. When it arrived, I tried it on and was disappointed to find it was a little too small for me. I decided to keep it and lose enough weight to fit into it. Well, not only did that not happen, but when I tried it on again yesterday it was even tighter than I'd remembered. Still, it's a pretty dress and stylistically not yet dated, so I've decided to hang onto it for another year and make it my goal dress.

My weight loss goal is now not a specific number of pounds, but the ability to fit into that dress and look good; once I achieve that, I'll have to set a new goal, because the dress is still a size larger than I'd ultimately like to be. But still! It will feel great to slip into a fancy, form-fitting dress and hit the town. I'm going to give myself a whole year to see if I can do it. Check back in 12 months to see how my medium-sized black dress fits.

It's exciting to have a goal in life, no matter how small or inane.

Page turners

Not one, but three people -- Sean, my sister Susan, and Lucy -- all sent me this via email during the past week. Only someone who truly understands me would get why looking at those nauseating pictures would bring me so much pleasure. If you are under 35, you probably don't understand the joys of the JC Penney and Sears catalogs that used to arrive in the mail every fall and again at Christmas. In fact, the Sears Holiday Wish Book was my main reason for living when I was in elementary school.

Every November, my sisters and I would take turns with the Wish Book, poring through its every page (though, of course, focusing on the toy section) and making lists of what we wanted for Christmas. One year, my sister Susan's list ran to over 300 items; whereas I, ever restrained, never filled more than both sides of a single piece of paper. The one item I remember asking for a couple years in a row but not receiving was a Barbie babysitting set, which included a Barbie-scaled infant and what appeared to be an entire miniature layette. I liked my Barbie, but I loved dollhouse-sized things even more, and I think it was the tininess of that toy baby's accoutrements that appealed to me. I'm guessing my mom knew I was on the verge of abandoning doll play and wisely selected something more appropriate for me. (Was it one of those years that I received the 3-record boxed set A Festival of Light Classical Music? Hmmm.)

But it wasn't just the toys that appealed to me. I don't think I knew the word "trousseau" when I was young, but I did have the urge to start accumulating goods for my adult home at quite a tender age. Thus, even though I didn't have the money to purchase anything, I began saving catalog and magazine photos I liked of dishes, silverware, window treatments, furniture, and, above all else, bedding -- if I had actually purchased all the sheets and comforters and throw pillows that appealed to me during my childhood and teen years, I would now need an entire room in my house to store it all. I would need twice as many kitchen cupboards to store my various sets of dinnerware and a walk-in linen closet for all my towels. I also saved pictures of clothing that I thought would look swell on me when I got a little older. I came across a file folder filled with those clipped pictures just a few years ago, and egad. Let's just say that my tastes have changed.

I'm still a fan of catalogs. Shopping online is handy, but I find it very soothing to page through a mail-order catalog. Sometimes, when the catalog is lame, I'll play a little game with myself: If I had to purchase one item from this two-page spread, which would it be? The thought of spending my hard-earned money on the least awful item pictured can be sobering. I haven't looked at a Sears or JC Penney catalog in years, but I do enjoy getting mail from The King Arthur Flour Company, Sur la Table, Hobby Builders Supply, Nova Natural Toys & Crafts, and Crown City Hardware. I must be on every mailing list in the country -- recently I received a mailer from some strangely enthusiastic gourmet mushroom company.

If you're getting nostalgic for the Wish Books of your youth, take a look at this. I know it's a bit early, but Merry Christmas.

Later that same bad day...

I was right! That missing planchette is screwing with my universe.

First, I got stuck setting up a display of neckties and boxer shorts. I am the merchandising manager and I know it is my job to feature in as delightful a manner possible anything the buyers bring in, but COME ON. This is a bookstore, fer cryin' out loud, and while we have always carried a wide variety of merchandise, I draw the line at men's underwear.

Second, while I was placing some new books on the recent releases table, I said to a coworker, "I can't believe it -- this is the second biography of Ethel Merman published in the last couple of weeks!" She said, "Who's Ethel Merman?" which necessitated my singing "Everything's Coming Up Roses" in my best Ethel Merman warble. It was humiliating.

Third, this arrived today and I was forced to cede the best display space in the store to it:

It's going to be a terrible week, I'm telling you.

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This blogger seems very sad, but she's a good writer and I feel for her: Beyond My Slab

Bad juju

Despite a hard, busy day yesterday, the return of my beloved tape dispenser kept me in a good mood all afternoon. I left work around 3:45 and went home to the momentous task of putting away all my Halloween decorations, a job that in the end took two-and-a-half hours. It makes me a little sad to pack everything away for another year, but I wasn't actually upset until I realized that the planchette that goes with my ouija board was missing.

I bought my ouija board a few years ago and I love the look of it: It features a pirate ship lit by moonlight, and instead of YES and NO, it says AYE and NAY. The accompanying planchette is handpainted with an old map motif. I looked everywhere -- under the coffee table, under the couch and chair, behind the pillows on the window seat -- and I can't find it. More than annoyed, I'm creeped out. Do I believe in ghosts? No. Am I afraid of my ouija board and never touch it unless necessary? You betcha. Where in the world (or otherworld) has my planchette gone?

The loss of the planchette completely negates the return of the tape dispenser. Now I'm afraid it's going to be a bad week.

Lost and found

When I got to work Friday morning, I noticed that my tape dispenser was missing from my desk, and it upset me. I'm like that guy in Office Space who's obsessed with his red Swingline stapler -- I love my Scotch C-60-2 double-barreled tape dispenser, loaded with 3/4-inch glossy tape and 1/2-inch double-stick. Before I left, I stuck a forlorn note (with tape from an office mate's desk) to my computer monitor that read, "Where is my beloved tape dispenser?"

This morning, it was back on my desk. I hope it is a sign of how my week will go.

Reading roundup

The year's not yet over, but I thought I'd share my list of what I've read in 2007; things have gotten so busy that I probably won't be able to add too many more titles to it before year's end. The books I especially liked are marked with an *.

1. The Fugitive Wife by Peter C. Brown (finished 1/1/07)
A novel about a Midwestern farmer's wife joining the stampede for gold in Alaska in 1900. Sounded promising -- not so great.

*2. The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl by Timothy Egan (1/8)
Absolutely fascinating account of a not-too-distant but almost entirely unknown part of American history. It won the National Book Award for nonfiction, and deservedly so.

3. Working Stiff: The Misadventures of an Accidental Sexpert by Grant Stoddard (2/8)
Could've been a lot more fun, but it tried way too hard. Heh heh, I said "hard."

4. Zodiac by Robert Graysmith (2/28)
Here's something I rarely say: the movie was better.

5. 40 Days and 40 Nights: Darwin, Intelligent Design, God, OxyContin & Other Oddities on Trial in Pennsylvania by Matthew Chapman (3/6)
Written by a direct descendant of Charles Darwin... well, that's about all it had going for it. Formless and uninspiring.

*6. The Book of Air and Shadows by Michael Gruber (3/18)
Fun, exciting novel about the search for a heretofore unknown Shakespeare manuscript. Really entertaining passages about book preservation. Honestly!

*7. The Spellman Files by Lisa Lutz (3/21)
Funny, fast-paced mystery about a family of private investigators. Strangely enough, what I liked best about it is that the author seemed to have no idea how to shape a traditional novel, so she veered all over the place in creative ways.

*8. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life by Barbara Kingsolver (5/3)
It took me bloody forever to finish this one, but it's a subject near to my heart and so well-written.

9. Skulduggery Pleasant by Derek Landy (5/27)
I don't get excited about too many kids' books, but this novel, first in a new series, made me laugh out loud.

10. Mary Modern by Camille DeAngelis (6/25)
A scientist clones her own grandmother. Another promising premise, but not that well-written.

11. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling (7/13)
A reread in preparation for Book #7.

*12. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling (7/18)
See above. My favorite book in the series.

13. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling (7/22)
The mostly satisfying conclusion to the series. Too much camping, though.

*14. Away by Amy Bloom (8/3)
Best novel I read all year. Lyrical, funny, full of twists that are not at all contrived. And the heroine ends up in Alaska! So, so satisfying.

*15. The World Without Us by Alan Weisman (8/7)
What would happen to the planet if all human life suddenly vanished today? A fascinating premise, rendered elegantly.

16. Service Included: Four-Star Secrets of an Eavesdropping Waiter by Phoebe Damrosch (8/20)
Eh.

17. Smile When You're Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer by Chuck Thompson (8/25)
Amusing collection of tales you'll never come across in "real" travel guides.

18. House Lust: America's Obsession with Our Homes by Daniel McGinn (9/6)
Nothing special, but it satisfied my inner desire to "flip this house."

19. Backyard Giants: The Passionate, Heartbreaking & Glorious Quest to Grow the Biggest Pumpkin Ever by Susan Warren (9/16)
Another great premise that didn't meet my expectations. In fact, this book actively disappointed me.

20. (Not That You Asked): Rants, Exploits, & Obsessions by Steve Almond (9/28)
Uneven collection of short pieces by the author of the delightful Candyfreak. The best item by far was the long essay on Kurt Vonnegut.

21. The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold (10/1)
Eh.

*22. People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks (10/19)
A terrific novel that travels back in time, exploring the physical history of a single book. Really entertaining passages about book preservation. Honestly!

23. A Crooked Kind of Perfect by Linda Urban (10/24)
A funny, charming kids' book by my dear friend Linda. She brought tears to my eyes, as well as made me laugh out loud.

24. The Witch's Trinity by Erika Mailman (11/1)
An absorbing novel of a witch hunt set in 16th century Germany. The narrator, an old woman who is losing both her memory and her grip on reality, makes for a fascinating storyteller. It's not so much that we can't trust her -- she can't trust herself.

That's it so far. I just started The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig over the weekend; I read only the first chapter, but it was so brilliantly written that I think I should start over and really slow down so I can absorb the language. And what can you conclude about me from my reading list? I think it's obvious I have a bit of a thing for both Alaska and book preservation. And, if a book's premise excites me, I'll soldier through to the end, hoping against hope it will be good, despite ample evidence to the contrary.

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An appropriately-themed blog you should check out: Judge a Book by Its Cover

To grandmother's house we go

Sean and I drove up to Santa Barbara to visit his grandmother yesterday. Grandma has led an interesting life. She was born in Germany in 1917 and lived there until her family escaped East Germany and came to the U.S. in the late 1950s. When she was in her 60s she opened a toy store that sold all sorts of unusual things from Europe, like painted wooden toys and the full line of Steiff stuffed animals. She was married to her husband Rolf (whom Sean and the other grandkids called "Opi") for over 50 years until he died just a few years ago. Opi was a merchant marine for many years and collected things from all over the world. Their house is filled with a wide array of items that I find fascinating.

This is Linda, a Steiff giraffe who stands about 5 feet tall. She lives in Opi's old room.

This is a collection of German smokermen. You light incense cones and put them in the smokermen's bases, and smoke comes out of their mouths. About as un-PC a product as you can imagine, but they're all handmade and handpainted, and I think they're sweet.

This is a handpainted canteen hanging on a wall.

This is a marionette hanging in the hallway. Grandma calls it the birdman because he's holding a little birdcage in his right hand and has feathers all over him. You have to pass him to get to the bathroom, and Sean's 7-year-old nephew is scared of him and is always asking Grandma to take him down.

He is a little frightening.

Here's an odd grouping on Grandma's hearth. There's a smaller version of Linda, a fawn, and a creepy clown, all made by Steiff. I can't remember what that grey animal is on the floor. And then there's a handcarved and very detailed fisherman statue from one of Opi's Asian voyages.

A handmade chess set on top of a handmade fold-out liquor cabinet. Grandma's house is filled with handmade furniture from Asia, much of it intricately carved.

I never noticed this collection until yesterday. It's a whole line of carved, painted wooden sailors lined up in an upstairs window, looking out onto the driveway. That white, fluffy thing on the left is a piece of coral.

This is Opi. He was about 18 when this photo was taken.

This charming thermometer is hanging downstairs in the laundry room. It's only four or five inches across -- the details are astonishing.

Another odd grouping. All of Sean's mom's side of the family is really interested in Eastern religions, and Grandma has many Buddhas around her house. The fellow seated on the left looks rather sinister in this photo, but he's a Buddha, too. I guess the CD player doesn't seem so out of place when you learn that Grandma listens to her Alan Watts CDs on it.

And then there are some things that are just inexplicable.

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A blog I must recommend: Anonymous Coworker