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Smug Parenting

There’s a new race in the Mother Superior game of I Can Parent Better Than You: sunscreen.

When I was a kid, we either went without or we wore SPF 4, usually Coppertone or that really yummy orange smelling Bain de Soleil brand (Bain de Soleil for that San Tropez tan . . .). These days no self-respecting Mother Superior would let her child out of the house in anything less than SPF 30. And that’s only if you’re a bad mommy.

“Little Austin wears SPF 150,” a Mother Superior will sniff.*

“Well, my little Morgan only leaves the house wearing a toe-to-neck surf suit that completely blocks out all of the sun’s rays,” another M.S. says smugly (neglecting to mention that little Morgan ended up in the hospital with heat stroke, because E.R. trips seriously cut down on your M.S. rating).

“. . . well, I wrap Parker in tinfoil . . .”

“. . . I only let Ashley out of the house at night . . .”

It’s not that I don’t slap some sunscreen on Sam before we had out to the park; I do. I just don’t get the part where it’s something to feel smug about.

* Yes, this is mostly fictional, but even so, you just know that somewhere, out there, the Mother Superiors are having this exact conversation.

Link | 31 May 2006 at 01:34 PM |

The Reading Project: Book 14

The Reader by Bernhard Schlink

I deliberated on whether or not to even include The Reader in the Reading Project.

It has all the makings of a literary book – tragedy, victimization, a sad ending. And, even as a translation, the simple, lyrical prose shines through, frequently trumping the story.

But then again, The Reader was written only a little over a decade ago, making it the most modern entry in the Reading Project. Plus the author, Bernhard Schlink is still alive, which means that I can’t rename the Reading Project READING DEAD WHITE MEN at a later date, should I have wanted to.

But it was out of my hands. The book club I recently joined had already picked The Reader as the selection for our May meeting. And since I’ve been behind schedule ever since it took me two weeks to slog through Madame Bovary, I’m taking what I can get.

The Reader, set in Germany, begins when Michael Berg is fifteen, and becomes ill with a nasty bout of hepatitis. Hanna Schmitz, thirty-six, briefly cares for the boy when she finds him vomiting on the sidewalk. Later, when Michael has recovered from his illness, he visits Hanna to thank her for her kindness. Shortly thereafter, they become lovers.

I know. Ick.

The affair lasts for some months, until the day when Hanna disappears without leaving any forwarding information. And Michael goes on, attending college, becoming a lawyer, marrying, divorcing. You know, all the good stuff. But while he’s a law student, he goes to observe a trial, and finds that Hanna is one of the defendants. It turns out that sleeping with underage boys isn’t her only crime . . . dum dum dum . . .

Despite some confusing – and unnecessary – jumping around in the time line of the story, The Reader is a crisply written story about crime and punishment, penance and redemption. I give it an A.

More on The Reading Project here.

Link | 30 May 2006 at 02:08 PM |

The Reading Project: Book 13

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Confession time: I heart Sherlock Holmes.

George and I have been watching the old Sherlock Holmes series starring Jeremy Bratt on DVD. It’s remarkable good, even considering the dated production and the inadvisable amount of blush worn by the actors.

So I jumped at the chance to add The Hound of the Baskervilles to my Reading Project reading list. And I know what you’re thinking: it’s commercial, not literary fiction. But to that, I say pfft. If Sherlock Holmes doesn’t qualify as a classic, than what does? The Heart of the Matter? West With the Night? No. I refuse to live in a world where that bilge is given higher props than the great Sherlock Holmes.

In The Hound of the Baskervilles, our favorite sleuth is set on a most vexing case, one that involves a phantom dog that’s been hunting generations of Baskervilles upon the moors of Devonshire. The hound is reported to be a great beast with wild red eyes, and whose cries carry on the wind, terrifying the simple-minded villagers. Of course, a supernatural dog is no match for the masterful Holmes, whose intellectual prowess is exceeded only by his egotism.

Holmes quickly makes swift work of the case, exposing the villain and, well, scaring the shit out of his client. But so what if the client if forced to take a year’s vacation to convalesce? In the end, Holmes was victorious! And that’s all that matters.

The Hound of the Baskervilles is a solid A.

More on The Reading Project here.

Link | 28 May 2006 at 06:11 PM |

Overheard

I recently had a conversation with another mom of a toddler, that went something like this:

Me: Your son's name is Samuel? That’s my little boy’s name, too.

Her: Really? Wow, that name is getting popular, huh?

Me: Do you call him Sam or Samuel?

Her: Samuel. Thank God no one’s tried to shorten it to Sam yet. What do you call your son?

Me: Sam.

Her: [pause] Oh.

Link | 27 May 2006 at 08:45 PM |

Literary Chicks

My latest blog is up at the L.C.

This week: Saying YES to NO.

Link | 27 May 2006 at 08:12 PM |

The Pug in Repose

lulu.jpg


Lulu

Link | 23 May 2006 at 09:33 PM |

Most Embarrassing Moment of the Day

So I’m sitting at an intersection, rocking out to a little Gloria Estefan. (Shut up, I love her.) I’m singing along, and – even more embarrassing – I'm so into the groove, I'm car dancing . . . when I look over and see an acquaintance has pulled up beside me, and is totally watching my performance. Gah!

Oh, well. At least she had the grace to look studiously away, and pretend that she hadn’t seen me.

Link | 23 May 2006 at 12:12 PM |

The Reading Project: Book 12

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Emma Bovary: what a bitch.

If the anti-heroine of Flaubert’s masterpiece had lived today, and taken out a personal ad, it might have read:

MWF seeks wealthy man to indulge her every whim. Likes: spending money, romance novels, Manolo Blahniks. Dislikes: self-denial, limits on credit cards, mothers-in-law. Personal hero: Paris Hilton. Favorite saying: Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

Emma enters into marriage with the weak-willed Charles, who blindly worships his new wife. Emma despises Charles, and spends her time spending money they don’t have on luxury items, lying about the house, reading novels and screwing the neighbors. The cuckolded Charles fusses over Emma, denying her nothing – even granting her demand to assume power of attorney over his property – to the point that you really can’t feel all that sorry for him when it all blows up in his face. I mean, really. What did he expect?

After a slow, awkward first chapter in which we meet Charles as a boy at school, the novel quickly picks up, especially when Emma enters the story, and becomes surprisingly readable. Madame Bovary gets a B+.

More on The Reading Project here.

Link | 23 May 2006 at 09:04 AM |

Public Service Announcement

When you see your toddler playing with your alarm clock, you might want to check to make sure that the alarm time is still set properly before switching it on. It could save you a nasty, middle-of-the-night surprise.

Learn from my mistakes.

Link | 16 May 2006 at 07:47 AM |

And Speaking of Wallpaper . . .

George came out today wearing what I can only describe as the world's ugliest tie. Imagine the sort of wallpaper that a little old lady -- the fussy sort who has lots of cats and doilies everywhere -- would hang in her powder room. That's what this tie looks like.

He claims he "found" it while he was cleaning out the garage yesterday. I don't even know what that means. I begged him to take it off -- I don't want his co-workers judging me, and thinking I condone such awfulness -- but he refused.

I’d post a picture of it, but I don’t want my readers to start shrieking and covering their eyes with horror. So just take my word for it: it’s one fugly tie. And tomorrow it will be available for sale at our local Goodwill . . . 'cause I'm all about supporting the charities.

Link | 15 May 2006 at 01:35 PM |

I Hate Wallpaper

Oscar Wilde’s final words were, “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.”

Man, do I sympathize.

I hate wallpaper. Actually, I should say, I hate wallpaper in my house. I keep seeing adorable patterns in magazines, but I don’t know where the hell people buy it, because I’ve never seen any up close and personal that I can abide. And with each house we’ve bought, we’ve inherited a collection of garish wallpaper. Apparently there are a lot of people with truly awful taste walking around out there.

Our new house was - thankfully - almost wallpaper free. The previous owners had only hung it in the alcove where our toilet is (what George and I like to call The Closet of Shame, because there's a door separating it from the rest of the bathroom). But still, every time I went in there, all I could think as I sat and looked up around me was, “Jesus, I hate this wallpaper.”

So finally, last week, I tore it down. It took hours – it was apparently pasted up with Superglue – and when I was done, my hands were sliced up and bleeding. But we are now – finally – wallpaper free. Hooray!

Link | 15 May 2006 at 01:33 PM |

Literary Chicks

To celebrate the release of Lani Diane Rich's newest book, The Comeback Kiss -- which you should immediately go buy, because not only is Lani insanely talented, she's also one of the nicest people I know -- it's Comeback Week over at the Literary Chicks.

My blog this week: How karma has come back to bite me in the ass.

Link | 13 May 2006 at 03:44 PM |

Gah!

Overhead there is a cacophony of noise going on. Our roof was damaged during last year’s hurricane, and so the roofers are up there replacing it (just in time for this year’s hurricane season).

This is my day so far:

(1) One of the ten workers up there walks across the roof;

(2) Lulu, our pug, upon hearing the intruder, lets out a blood-curdling scream – sounding like a C-list actress from one of those awful slasher movies – from somewhere just behind me;

(3) I jump out of my skin, and then, eyes twitching, bellow, “Lulu! Shut up!”

(4) Lulu slinks off, tail between her legs, and shits on the bathroom floor.

(5) Immediately go back to number one, and repeat.

Occasionally, Lulu likes to mix things up by peeing on the bathroom floor, rather than shitting. I suppose I should just be thankful that she’s choosing to express her displeasure on the tiled floor, rather than on the carpets.

Link | 10 May 2006 at 12:28 PM |

Literary Chicks

My weekly blog at the L.C. is up!

This week: what I did for love.

Link | 06 May 2006 at 10:59 AM |

Maybe I Should Have Been An Advice Columnist

This morning, over a bowl of raisin bran, I was browsing through the paper, when I came across this Dear Abby column.

A woman calling herself Dazed In Denver had written in to Abby, concerned because her boyfriend had told her that his wife had died, and she later found out that the woman had instead divorced him (for reasons that were immediately apparent to me). Dazed was concerned about his lies, as was Abby, who wisely advised Dazed to end the relationship.

Me, I would have been a bit less circumspect, especially considering this bit of Dazed's letter:

He told me when we first met that his wife had died seven years ago from diabetes. He seemed upset at the memory of her loss, and I never pressed him for more details. He wears a lock of her hair braided to his, and I never really thought much about it.

This man was wearing a lock of someone else's hair braided in his, and that didn't tip this Dazed chick off that he was a freak? I don't care if it was his dead wife's or his dead dog's . . . that's majorly weird. Like, move-immediately-and-don't-leave-a-forwarding-address weird. Like, take-out-a-restraining-order-now weird.

And, as Dazed herself points out, "Now he says it isn't her hair; it's hair he bought and he likes the way it looks." Ick! Gross! Although, Dazed seems to be missing the most important point when she goes on, "Then why did he tell me it was his wife's hair? I want more than anything to get past this because we really are good together. Please help me."

You really want help, Dazed? Here's my advice, and it's a pretty simple rule: DO NOT DATE MEN WHO HAVE FOREIGN BITS OF MATTER BRAIDED INTO THEIR HAIR.

Link | 05 May 2006 at 08:36 AM |

The Reading Project: Book 11

The Pearl by John Steinbeck

The moral of The Pearl is this: poor people are too stupid to be trusted with a windfall.

Actually, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the moral Steinbeck intended to teach. He was probably going for something more along the lines of “money doesn’t bring happiness,” or “be careful what you wish for.” But it all pretty much leads to the same place.

It’s like those people who win the lottery, and become multi-millionaires overnight, only to end up blowing through the money in, like, a year, and then go on Dr. Phil to whine about how their riches didn’t bring them happiness.

I’ve always hated those people. Now me, I’d be a fabulous lottery winner. I’d salt all of the money away and live off the interest, and life would be just ducky. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: money can buy you happiness. And anyone who tells you differently doesn’t know what the hell they’re talking about.

Which brings me back to The Pearl. The story is a simple one. Kino and his wife, Juana, are poor Mexican peasants. Their baby, Coyotito, is bitten by a scorpion. The greedy town doctor won’t treat the baby, because he’s too busy lying about in bed, dreaming of getting drunk and laid in Paris. Desperate to save Coyotito, Kino – a diver – goes looking for a pearl to pay the doctor with. And he finds not just any pearl, but The Pearl, a beautiful and rare specimen that will make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. Kino’s life promptly turns to shit – people start attacking him to steal The Pearl, he beats the crap out of his wife, the doctor poisons his baby. Things go from bad to worse, and there’s the requisite unhappy ending.

The story moves along at a brisk pace, the writing is clear and evocative, the characters are defined. And yet, it’s certainly not the sort of book you lose yourself in. Instead, you remain at a distance, too aware of all of the symbolism (especially music; music is a big theme . . . we know this because Steinbeck is not subtle about bringing it up on nearly every freaking page) and that something Bad is going to happen to Kino and his family now that they have the Pearl.

So I’m giving the book a B. There’s nothing wrong with it, per se, but the meh factor brings it down a few notches.

More on The Reading Project here.

Link | 02 May 2006 at 08:36 AM |

The Reading Project: Book 10

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton

Ethan Frome tells the story of a young farmer from New England who is trapped in a grim, loveless marriage to the difficult Zeena. Life is bleak until Mattie Silver, Zeena’s destitute cousin, arrives on the farm. Ethan and Mattie fall desperately in love, even though they know there’s no way they’ll ever be able to be together.

But enough of all that. The really striking thing about Ethan Frome is that Zeena – who is made out to be a dried-up old crone wearing false teeth - was actually only thirty-four years old. Thirty-four! As in, my age! Maybe I’m not in the first flush of youth, but – RoC retinal eye-cream willing – I’m still quite a ways off from having a “puckered throat” or a face full of “hollows and prominences.”

(Which reminds me of being in CVS a few months ago. The older woman standing behind me in line was fretting over finding a good anti-wrinkle cream.

“RoC makes a great eye cream,” I told her.

“You don’t look old enough to need wrinkle cream,” she said, studying my face.

“Well, the eye cream is effective. I’m really fifty,” I joked.

“Really?” she asked. Believing me.

“No! I was joking!” I said, horrified.)

I enjoyed Ethan Frome, even though it did make me a wee bit paranoid that maybe I was turning into an old crone and just in denial about it, and even though it has a depressing ending.

I’ve started to notice that all literary fiction has depressing endings. In fact, maybe that's how you tell the difference between commercial and literary fiction. Happy ending = commercial. Misery, death and despair = literary.

Ethan Frome gets a B+.

More on The Reading Project here.

Link | 01 May 2006 at 08:11 AM |