Book Review - The Elegance of the Hedgehog

This is why I belong to a bookclub.

I've seen The Elegance of the Hedgehog on prominent display in bookstores.  I recognized the title as it showed up as "to read" or rated by someone on Goodreads.  It was even recommended to me by Amazon.com as something I might enjoy based on what I've recently looked at online (which is helpful but kind of creepy if you think about it).

Even with all those nudges and advertising, I felt little desire to read this book.  I can't even claim to have any good reason.  Truthfully, I had no idea what it was about.  The little bit I had heard merely warned me that the vocabulary was advanced and I might want to have a dictionary close by while reading.  I may not be a master of language, but I wasn't worried that it would be over my head.  So, that wasn't it.

The cover was disenchanting.  The blue is melancholy and the superimposed girl in pink with boots didn't please me.  Yes, I suppose the weird cover may have been the problem.  Well, that and the bizarre title.

What is a hedgehog?  Is that the animal Jan Brett uses in all of her illustrations?  It sounds familiar and yet I'm totally unfamiliar with it.  I have no frame of reference.  Are they elegant?

Turns out - no.  That's just it.  Nothing is as it appears to be.  There are layers - with people, with relationships, with understanding.  Perspective puts everything, even hedgehogs, in a different light.

The description on the book jacket and from most reviews describe a book containing the philosophies and judgments of two cantankerous women:  a twelve year-old genius, Paloma, who has already decided life has no meaning and thus decides to commit suicide and set fire to her family's over-sized luxury four-thousand square foot apartment on her thirteenth birthday, and the building's fifty-four year-old concierge, Renee, who disguises her intelligence and understanding of art, literature and music because she is convinced there is no person willing to respect a member of her class with that amount of knowledge.   She knows her place, or at least acknowledges what she assumes others believe it should be.

Much of the book is unnecessary.   While I found the writing to be engaging and the luxurious placement of lesser known adjectives, verbs and nouns delightful, most chapters are filled with Paloma's and Renee's lectures (you could say rant except most are written too dispassionately to be attributed to emotion) about all that is wrong with the world.  The philosophies themselves are interesting to think about, though I disagreed with much of the protagonists' conclusions.   The author, Muriel Barbery, who is actually a professor of philosophy, must have found writing the theories and ideas that envelop her professional life into as the thoughts of two fictional characters in a novel tremendously satisfying.  Again, however, I don't think most of the narration is all that necessary to what eventually emerges as the central conflict:  Renee's and Paloma's deep rooted unhappiness.  It certainly develops their characters, as we readers are privy to their points-of view towards the world that surrounds them, but most of it is probably a bit of showing off by the author.  

Eventually, their stories merge and the plot becomes extremely satisfying as both are touched by the power of love and friendship.  I found this theme of redemption through genuine feeling to be a powerful teacher.  Both Renee and Paloma have seemingly plenty of tools to find their own happiness - knowledge, privilege, security, access to beauty - and yet none of these things are able to permeate either of their hardened outer shells until Kakuro Ozo comes along.  Because of him and his interest, sincerity and kindness, two lonely people finally get a glimpse into the world of what can be.  

And to think I wasn't going to read this!  This book with the ugly cover and the abstract title was going to exist in the same world as me and yet, like Renee and Paloma, I was willing, even determined, to be untouched and unaffected.  Thank heavens for the powers of bookclub - spurring readers everywhere to read things they might normally ignore.

If you have the slightest inclination to intellectualize things - read this.  If you have the tendency to judge - read this.  If you want to read a testament that true beauty, real knowledge and what matters most is love - read this!   I found it so pleasantly surprising.

Super Silly Sam Turns Seven

To my Super Silly Sam (love your superhero name, by the way.  It fits you.),

I hope you had a great birthday.  I had a great day seeing your crooked tooth grin in place for most of the day.  From your scrambled eggs with cheese and ham request for breakfast (it's my favorite too.  When you're a grown-up, you may prefer it my way with onions and peppers, but I'm happy to wait for you to enjoy their deliciousness) to your "I'm going to wear sweats to school because they are the most comortable" attitude, you seem to already understand the delicate balance between having it your way on your birthday, an idea I wholeheartedly espouse, and not being a diva about it, ruining the fun for everyone else.  We all had a great day because you let us celebrate with you!

You looked smashing in your favorite tiger shirt.  Orange is one of my favorite colors too, I think because it looks good with our brown eyes.  Secretly, I was glad you chose to go to school, although I certainly think that if it's your birthday, you shouldn't have to, because it gave me the time I needed to get some things done. But, I wouldn't have minded having you around.  You are such an easy boy to be with.  Still, I understand the pull of celebrating at school.  We summer birthday people never got the school treats or the balloons that attract kids like moths to a flame.  You were certainly a star today and even your teacher said it was fun to see you relaxed and even hyper for a change (although I appreciated her telling me it was "a change" and you don't always dance around the classroom like that).

A stroke of luck made your brand new glasses arrive on your birthday so going to pick them up and have them adjusted to your face seemed like a present instead of the tedious chore it usually is.  I love the black X-Games frames you chose.  You look so handsome.  And the sports goggles?   You look just like your Uncle Clark, your buddy.  You asked if kids would make fun of you, but your older brother promptly squashed those fears with his, "You look like a rock star!" statement as soon as we picked him up from chess club.  I have such great kids and I'm so glad you are friends with your brothers.

It goes without saying that you didn't have to do homework today.  While I would have let you skip it (heck...I would have encouraged you to skip it!) it made me smile to see you work hard yesterday to finish your entire week's worth of homework so that you wouldn't have anything hanging over your head today.  We'll probably pay for skipping piano practice today, since I'm not sure you really understand the rhythm of your new piece, but it's only your birthday once a year.  We'll practice extra hard this next week.  I hope you had fun playing those video games.  What am I saying?  I know you had fun.  I don't understand how, because it looks so boring to me, but am still happy if you are happy.

Rrec center basketball is the new thorn in my side, but you absolutely love it!  Dad graciously took you to spare me from watching another agonizing hour of 1st and 2nd graders scrimmaging, but think it's hilarious that you were on the "skins" team.  Especially your reasoning when you got home as to why you pulled your shorts up so high.  I don't want people seeing my underwear either.

Pizza and spice cake were your two requests, so that's what we had.  Your newly acquired focus to be gluten-free has been more of a challenge than I thought it would be, considering I've had three years to practice on dad, but it's different for you.  Dad doesn't request pizza, for one thing.  I'm sorry the crust wasn't very good, but you didn't complain.  But, since I had it too, I know it wasn't very good.  You must really feel better to accept eating cardboard like that.

The spice cake was an excellent choice.  How funny to have a little boy who chooses spice cake with cream cheese frosting!  It's really one of my favorites though, so, thanks for having good taste in desserts.  It totally made up for the lame pizza.

You really are special, Sam.  You have a warm, loving spirit that lifts me up.  Even if I weren't your mother, I'd want to know you - spend time with you.  You are funny and have interesting thoughts.  You are both a flexible younger brother and a patient older brother.  I know we'd have a lot more obvious bumps in our road if it wasn't for you  out there, constantly smoothing things over for everyone.

You are super.  You are sometimes very silly.  You are spectacular at seven.

You are Sam.

I love, love, love you, birthday boy.

Mom

Five (Or Six...Or Seven) For Friday

It's been a long time since I've purged some of the random daily thoughts and mundane happenings around here.  A good Five For Friday (plus a few extra) should clean house.

1.  It's been snowing around here.  S-N-O-W-I-N-G.   It's like feast or famine.  When it snows, it comes down so much that all plans seem to end up cancelled, all roads are better left undriven and the endless, endless, endless task of keeping the driveway plowed consumes me.  Seriously - I went to bed last night dreaming about shoveling.  It was a nightmare.

Here's some of the snow pics:

I sent Seth on top of some of the biggest piles (that are over eight feet tall) to see if he could stomp them down to make throwing more snow on top more feasible.  It's getting harder and harder to heave the snow.  There is simply no where for it to go.  If you don't catapult it - it just lands on the wrong side of the pile and comes sliding back down into the driveway.

We live off a roundabout and the trucks push all the round-a-bout snow into our front yard too.  The kids can totally hide in gulley between snow piles and I can't see them.

This is the back deck.  We should have stayed on top of shoveling it off, but it's a good illustration of how much snow has fallen.  Not quite four feet - but close.  The snow is as tall as the railing.

Seth - back to stomping on the other side.  It's pretty futile when you only weigh 70 pounds.

2.  Seth has enjoyed reading for the last couple of years (I attribute it to The Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.  They convinced him that reading was more than just homework) but has recently crossed over into the realm of read-a-holic.  I'd be concerned except I'm too busy being oh so proud!  Last night, he picked up this book at 9:00 pm and I told him he could read until he was tired (because school had already been cancelled today - Snow day!).   Well, after Jay's and my final shovel of the evening, I walked past his room at 11:24 and his light was still on!  I opened the door and told him that I was glad he liked his book but it was time for bed.  He shut off his light and when he came out all groggy this morning, I asked him if he was tired from staying up too late.  He replied, "I stayed up even later than that.  I held up my clock to the page and used it as a flashlight and finished the book."  Yup.  He finished that whole book in one night.   I love that he loves to read, even if the books he devours have muscled vikings on the front cover.

I always thought I'd read everything my kids read to make sure they were appropriate, but I just can't get myself to pick up this series.  Thankfully, some other reputable people vouch for them.  O.K...O.K..I'll read them.

3.  We looked at a house this week that I really, really, really liked.  And it happens to be practically across the street from where we are now living.  Like any house, it isn't perfect, and there were things I would design differently had it been in my power to do so, but, all things considered, my complaints are pretty minor and the pluses outweigh them anyways.  Jay liked it too.  I don't know what that means, since he hasn't brought it up since (he may still be in the window shopping phase) but I'm still excited that I saw something I liked.  Of course, it's more than we want to spend on a house, but maybe they'll come down.  Or maybe someone else will buy it this week.  I don't know.  At least I don't have to be a stalker like I normally am when I am considering something.  No drive bys.  All I have to do is look out my front window.

My text is too small to read, but it says, "This is the house."

4.  Does anyone else ever go to the Pinching Your Pennies website?  I get a daily (sometimes more than once a day) email notifying me of some good deals across the web.  I love when other people do the groundwork for me, and if something intrigues me, I click on the link.

Well, a few baby showers for women I know are approaching in the next weeks and months, and when I saw a store advertising receiving blankets and coveralls for like 80% off, I was interested.  The online store really only carried girly things, but I found a few items I thought a new mother would like and purchased them.

It wasn't until the box arrived on my doorstep that I realized that the whole premise of the store was that nothing matched - and that was the way it was supposed to be.  The catalog they sent along with my shipment was filled with catchy phrases like, "Matching is over-rated."  And,  "Nothing Matches But Anything Goes!"

Well, they underestimated the tendencies of a fairly conservative-doesn't-think-outside-the-fashion-box woman.  I managed to maneuver my way around their odds and ends sale items (which I assumed were the left over odds and ends) and find things that matched!



Do you think the owners of the company would be disappointed in me?

5.  Last Christmas (so...over a year ago) Jay gave me Photoshop Elements 7 as a gift.  I had even asked for it, but never put the software on my computer because I had heard from more than once person that Photoshop is inaccessible and really hard to learn.  I contented myself with Picassa and never thought about it until about two weeks ago when I decided to give it a try.

I am not an intuitive learner and really don't know what I'm doing, but have found a couple of features that I love.  I made Sam's birthday party invitations with it and uploaded the picture to Walgreens One-Hour photo and picked them up that day.  It was so easy!  I even edited it to keep my personal information off the web.  Can I be considered savvy yet?



6.  I got my fingers stuck in the folds of the garage door this week.  The red rope safety mechanism was triggered when it got snagged by a pair of skis that were loaded on top of the van and so I had to manually open and close the door until Jay got home and could fix it (why bother figuring it out when Jay is so much better at those types of things?  See?  I'm not intuitive AND I like others doing the groundwork for me.  See how this is all tied together????)  Anyways, when I was manually closing the door, I stupidly pulled on one of the panels near the top that bends to open.  Of course, when it comes down, the panels close together - tightly.  I fainted due to pain and my right hand is still numb.  I'm hoping the feeling comes back soon and that it's only my finger nails that are significantly bruised.  I'm sure that's all that's wrong (mangled fingers crossed).

7.  I've had this sign front and center in my living room for years now.  I always concluded from it's rhyming message that I shouldn't be obsessed with house cleaning while my children are young because having a really clean home is futile.

This week, however, with all of the constantly falling snow, I've had a change of heart.  There is a lady who frequently walks her dog.   She either walks the dog on the hour, every hour, or we just happen to choose the exact times to walk dogs and shovel snow.  She asked me yesterday if I shovel every couple of hours and I replied, "Yeah.  If I don't it is so much harder to do because it's heavier.  This way, if I stay on top if it, it only takes about a half hour."  So what if I'm shoveling for a half hour every two hours.  My back and weird muscles on the back of my arms (not triceps - can't think of the name.  Will ask Jay, who once again has better skills in this area) thank me.

So...did anyone else get the ding, ding, ding?  That has not been my philosophy on house cleaning.  I am a contradiction.



The sign

The mess in Henry's room that needs some attention.  But, instead, I blog.


8.  O.K.  I am over my limit.  But - who can resist a cute boy with a bare bum?  Here's what my shadow was doing while I snapped some pictures this morning for this post.

Like mother, like son.

Except I wore pants.

I promise.

Book Review - The Outlander

For a book that is all about suspense and finding out what happens on the next page, I sure have forgotten a lot of details about the plot.

Basically, a woman kills her husband and is on the run from his two brothers who have an uncanny ability to find her in spite of  the river she crossed, the home she found shelter in, the horse she stole, the mountains she climbs, the rain, the escaped convict she eventually hooks up with, the Indian who brings her down the mountain or the landslide that buries the town where she eventually resides.  This all happens amid present tense descriptions of her starvation (although food always manages to arrive in some kind of edible form just in the nick of time) and flashbacks about what lead to the murder of her husband.

It's all very interesting, if not very likely, and I enjoyed the story.  It's just not the kind of book that...sticks...with you.  The motive and resolution are lackluster and the ending,  while clever, is disappointing because I'm not sure it's the ending she deserved.

For me, it was the perfect break from some heavier reading.  So, if you're looking for a kind of mystery/love story/historical fiction about the wild, wild west - you might give The Outlander a try.

Sunday Thoughts - I Love To Laugh

My sister, Sarah, came to spend her Christmas vacation with us.  With a closet full of four different kinds of scented body wash I had recently purchased at a Bath and Body Works sale, I sent her to our guest suite ( I prefer the term over a family-room-with-a-bed-in-the-middle-of-it) with a towel and a bottle of Warm Vanilla Sugar for her shower.

The next morning, she told me I had given her lotion instead of soap, to which I firmly replied, "No.  It's just a creamy body wash."  Because I have older sister authority, she simply shrugged and said, "Oh."

Her accusation struck a nerve, however, because while I was using my own Midnight Pomegranate body wash the next morning, I re-read the directions on the back of the bottle.

"Massage into skin, especially dry spots and indulge in the luxury of..."  yada, yada, yada.

I read it again, looking for the verbs I thought should be there, like, "Lather.  Cleanse.   Rinse."

They weren't there.

Suddenly, my mystifying acne outbreak and overall less squeaky clean feeling the past two weeks had an explanation.

I was washing myself, including my face, with...lotion.

Sarah had a great laugh from my greasy mistake and after a day, I was finished feeling embarrassed and thought it was funny too.

It was perplexing to have lather-less soap.

I meant to blog about it but never found the time, which felt disappointing because I love having a good laugh at myself.

Actually, I just love to laugh.  I have three funny children who keep my laughter gauge pointing towards full.  I have a funny husband who frequently performs my favorite dance moves of his because he loves to hear me laugh.  And, blessedly, I have friends and family who supply me with the kinds of stories, shared memories and knowing glances that get me my necessary daily dose of guffaw.

Like I explained with the above story involving lotion disguised as soap (O.K.  They are perfectly labeled and just misused by someone who never bothered to look at the fine print), I am totally comfortable using myself as the butt of the joke.  It's safe.  I know I can't hurt my own feelings and it's like using a triple coupon if I can get others to join in the mirth.

Today in Relief Society, because it seemed to fit and, more likely, because I can't help myself, I made fun of my recent attempts to learn the art of knitting.  There were several women in the room who have been attending the weekly class alongside me who could appreciate my joke as they've seen me struggle week after week to grasp the motions of knit and purl.   I made the comment as I referenced a past message given by President Uchtdorf about our divine desire to create.  It was my way of acknowledging that, while I struggle with some of the more characteristically feminine talents (knitting, sewing, quilting, decorating, baking, canning, recognizing lotion as lotion right away), I also recognize my own spark of divinity when I write, or sing or enjoy the three boys I helped develop in utero and continue to help develop in the high altitude Colorado air.

My comment produced the chuckle I was hoping it would, but, later during the meeting, another sister followed with a comment about how we shouldn't tear ourselves down and while, perhaps I wasn't a natural knitter, what was more important than actually knitting was that I was persevering in trying to learn to knit.  That that act was the quality that mattered to God and to my own spirit, instead of the actual skill or craft.

I appreciated her rah-rah Lucy speech, but felt a little bad that she might think that I felt a little bad about not being a good knitter.  O.K...I admit that it would be awesome to have the long, flowy orange mohair scarf produced by my own hands I originally intended to make instead of the not-even-halfway-finished brown potholder that my teacher suggested I try instead, because I had an untapped natural knitting talent that this class had unleashed.  But, that didn't happen.  The next best thing, for me, is to find the humor in my extremely unsightly but hopefully useful potholder.

This woman made me wonder, however.  When are we tearing ourselves and others down, and when are we finding joy in the journey?  Are my poking-fun-of-myself comments harmful to my soul?  I felt self-conscious afterwards wondering if she might think I was fishing for compliments, like the, "I'm so fat" declaration made by the perfectly proportioned girl.    Was I?

I don't think so.   I will admit that there is some wisdom in the saying to "laugh at yourself first, before anyone else can", but I also believe, unless I am completely deluding myself, that to be comfortable laughing at myself also means that I am comfortable with who I am.  I have confidence.  I like myself.  Those aren't bad things, right?

I ask because, while I love to laugh, maybe what I'm laughing at isn't very funny to anyone else.  Maybe I'm like that clueless uncle or guest that thinks he's funny/interesting/entertaining and all anyone else really wants is for him to stop talking.   Although, even wondering aloud makes me worry about appearing to fish for compliments again.

I can't imagine I'll stop laughing at myself.  The pool of available subjects to safely poke fun of is just too sparsely populated.   But, maybe if it makes people uncomfortable, I might stop airing my goofs and bloopers.

You'll just have to wonder how my skin magically cleared up.

Now...for the uplifting part.  Watch this!

Book Review - Classic #7 - The Prince of Tides

I had several people ask me after choosing this novel, why I considered Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides a classic.

First of all, it was written in 1986. That is twenty-four years ago. When I was in high school, Harold and Maude was considered a classic (is it still? Creepy.) and it was only twenty years old. So, I think The Prince of Tides safely falls into the Modern Classic genre.

Secondly, they made a movie out of the book. I know that movie adaptations from books aren't required to stem from great books (I may be referring to the last book I reviewed - Julie & Julia) but a book has to have some kind of staying power to attract the powers that be in Hollywood.

Lastly, the title was familiar. Given, I like to read as a hobby and have thus spent a fair amount of time perusing titles in libraries, bookstores, and online sites, but I had read, seen and heard the title The Prince of Tides long before choosing to read it. I was curious. I wanted to be "in the know."

That's not to say I had any idea what it was about. For some reason, I think I had mistaken the movie adaptation (which I have never seen) with Cape Fear thanks to some unexplained ability of my brain to remember Nick Nolte was in both movies, and thought it was a kind of psychological thriller. Tides....Capes...hey - I'm from Montana. Those nouns aren't exactly part of our everyday vernacular. I was pleasantly surprised to realize that it was more of a family drama, the kind that makes you appreciate your own, non-psychotic family.

The Prince of Tides follows Tom Wingo, a disgraced high school English teacher and football coach, spending a summer in New York visiting with his sister, who is hospitalized following another suicide attempt, and her psychiatrist who convinces Tom to help his sister by meeting with her and revealing their mutually troubled childhood. Tom's sister, Savannah, is a famous poet and during her breakdown, shouts out a string of incoherent words and phrases, which her psychiatrist, Susan Lowenstein, writes down. Convinced these exposed words are really memories at the root of Savannah's psychological troubles, Dr. Lowenstein asks Tom about each of them, triggering a series of narrative flashbacks that unlock the secrets of Tom and Savannah's childhood in South Carolina, along with their older brother, Luke, and their mismatched parents who, like many a parents, had no business raising children.

What I loved about this book was the outstanding narrative. Tom is smart, and Conroy allows his thoughts and memories to be beautifully worded and vividly described. Tom also has a biting, sarcastic wit that keeps the dialogue and conversation interesting and enjoyable. Unlike a lot of characters, I believed that Tom could be. He is your basic good guy, whose life is falling apart and isn't sure there is a whole lot he can do to fix it. The reverence he has for his beloved South, flaws and all, is felt in his descriptions of its pungent smells, rich soil and overly-polite manners. Susan, on the other hand, is a perfect contrast with her New York point-of-view and high brow lifestyle. Their disdain for each other's choice of where to live allows Conroy to not only narrate the South's beauty, but to defend it against the perceived superiority of its Yankee neighbors.

I also loved the depth that came from having multiple conflicts. There's Tom's marriage that is imploding, his stalled career and lack of plans to do anything different, there's Savannah's illness, the forbidden attraction between Tom and Susan, Susan's troubled marriage to a world famous violinist, her angry and aloof son who wants to play football instead of the violin, the anger between Tom and his mother as well as the constantly building tension that is a result of the controlled disclosure of a painful past.

What keeps me from loving this book is its raw violence. I simply cannot adore a book that makes me cringe. The scene that is eventually described at the climax as the source of most of their dysfunction is so brutal, so horrible, that I actually wish I hadn't read it. It's like pornography - it imprints on your brain whether you want it to or not. Unfortunately, whenever I now think of The Prince of Tides, in spite of it having multiple scenes that are much, much more pleasant, I think of this horrible day in their lives. Perhaps that was the author's intention. Perhaps the fallout from it - failed marriages, death, fear, repression and an escalating mental illness - and the limited ability of those involved to put back the pieces - is what this book is about. I like that they try. I appreciate that the human spirit always strives to repair itself. But, in this case, the horror overshadows the recovery. I can't love that.

I am glad I read this book. I am even more glad that I was able to read without Nick Nolte or Barbara Steisand in my head while I did so. Neither seems to be appropriately cast as the characters of Tom and Susan, and I'm glad I only had the book cover to suggest to my brain that these actors were actually the characters, instead of a whole movie to cement their faces to the names. I enjoyed it a lot more imagining Susan to be the attractive, tall, leggy dark-haired psychiatrist the book described and Tom not having that sun-beaten look that Nolte has.


The Prince of Tides proved to me that it deserves its modern classic status. With an epic story and unforgettable characters, Conroy surprised me with his beautiful language and powerful testament about what the human spirit can endure.

Save The Music

Tonight, after talking to my sister, Maureen, who teaches choir at a Utah high school, I was even more grateful than I originally felt that my children have the kinds of resources and opportunities that they do at their elementary school.  She reminded me that few elementary schools in her district have any kind of music program at the elementary level and I remembered Seth's second grade year, when we lived in Utah, when his poor classroom teacher was also his P.E. teacher.  They didn't have art or music, or maybe Seth's teacher simply didn't feel comfortable teaching it.


The school my boys currently attend reminds me of my own elementary school growing up.  They have a gym teacher and a music teacher and an art teacher and a school counselor and a speech/language pathologist and a gifted and talented teacher.  They have access to aides and field trips and talent shows and science fairs and all sorts of "extra" things that some argue are unnecessary.  Amazingly, fourth and fifth grade students can, if they choose, join the school choir and/or orchestra.  They practice during school hours, once a week on Friday, so anyone can join, not just those who can commit to being there before or after school.  As a result, there were 117 absolutely adorable and unknowingly fortunate boys and girls singing and playing at tonight's concert.  One-hundred and seventeen children electing to participate in a musical event!  And twice that many parents coming to watch and support - never mind the screechy violins and forgotten words.

I know Reading, Writing and Arithmetic are the important fundamentals, but I do believe that exposure to music, art, science, various cultures and diversity when they are young and curious, not to mention much less jaded by what's cool or not, is preferable to no exposure.  And I hope that those in charge, however inefficient they may perform their jobs, try their best to keep music in our schools.

Listening to the orchestra portion of the program.

Isn't that a sight to behold?  This isn't a school program.  All of these kids balance missing some of class and making-up the class-time by either getting their work done early or taking it home to be involved in choir or orchestra.

He did so great, even if he had a hard time staying focused on the conductor.

He went for the low, low bow.

Book Review - Julie and Julia

For a few months there, it seemed like everyone was reading this book.  Then, just as suddenly, everyone was going to the movie.  And liking it!

I wasn't tempted to do either, and felt a bit out-of-sorts being so out of vogue.  Still, I knew I didn't care to read about  a woman who had tried all of Julia Child's recipes found in "Mastering the Art of French Cooking."  Frankly, french cooking turns me off and besides watching Dan Aykroyd satire Julia Child on Saturday Night Live, I didn't really know much about the famous chef either.

When this book showed up in my mailbox as part of a long-distance book club I joined, destiny laughed in my face at my attempt to snub a popular book.  So I read it.

Turns out, my first instinct was the right one.

Julie & I (did you see what I did there?  Huh?  Clever, eh?), the woman who fundamentally hates republicans, seems to have little respect for a husband who amazingly seems to respect her, and who can't seem to formulate a sentence without flaunting her I-will-throw-in-the-F-bomb-anytime-I-feel-like-it mentality, would not get along.  While we both like to blog, and probably both imagine ourselves to be a lot more important than we actually are, we have very little common ground.

For some very undeveloped reason, she begins an obsessive journey to cook all of the hundreds of recipes found in Child's recipe book within the time frame of one year.  Never mind that it means she will have to eat things she finds disgusting, feed meals to her friends, family and husband that they find disgusting, and spend money she doesn't have on ingredients she can't find - she apparently just has to do it!

Lucky for her, her meaningless obsession turned into a lucrative book deal and even more lucrative movie deal.  We should all be so rewarded for focusing the majority of our time and energy on something that benefits so few, if any.  I think, however, that because her story got made into a book, and, crazily, a movie with huge movie stars, her experience was validated as meaning something.  It changed her.  I guess.  Gave her something to proudly say she accomplished.  I guess.  Gave her free range to cuss and cuss at anyone who minded that she cussed.  Definitely.

O.K.  I'll admit it - her tacky swearing in print annoyed me.  Why in the world would someone writing a memoir, with time and a thesaurus and editors on hand, choose to use such a trashy and limited vocabulary in something that will last well beyond their own short life?  I get it in novels.  Some characters think and speak like that.  I even get it in non-fiction.  Hey, much of life is R-rated.  But, in a memoir?  In a I'm-a-pretty-funny-lady memoir?  That's the word you want to use when you have time and plenty of alternatives available?

In the end, I just wanted it to end.  I wanted to know how and if all the eggs and cream and butter and bone marrow mattered.   They don't.   I was tired of reading about her messy and absolutely nauseating kitchen (maggots, people.  Maggots.)  I was really, really tired of Julie.   Not Julia, because she's hardly in the book, but Julie.  That last page, which took awhile to get to after a couple of cruel false endings, couldn't come quick enough.

I still haven't seen the movie.  I've heard it is better than the book.  But, I'm weary and untrusting now.  Meryl and Amy might manage to salvage this story, but I'll never know because I'm not going to succumb a second time.

Once was enough.

Book Review - Certain Girls

Once upon a time, I liked a book titled Good In Bed, by Jennifer Weiner.  I had just been invited to my very first book group, had just given birth to my second son, and had spent the three previous years learning to deal with my new "big girl" status.  The book, though admittedly racy in several places, made me laugh out loud.  I declared myself a fan and lived to regret recommending Good In Bed to too many people who could never appreciate its I'm-embarrassed-that-I'm-bigger-than-my-man perspective.

Fast forward a half dozen years and several more Jennifer Weiner novels and I'm much less enthused about the author's latest offering, Certain Girls.

Even though Certain Girls progresses the story of Cannie Shapiro, the heroine of Good In Bed, Cannie's character had become much less amusing, much more annoying and just as neurotic as ever.  This time, however, Cannie is not the main character.  Her daughter, Joy, who is about to be bat-mitzvahed, is.   Although Weiner uses the multiple point of view narration technique by having Cannie and Joy alternate narrating by chapter, even when Cannie is speaking, it is about Joy - so it feels very much like Joy's story.  And, guess what?  Joy has some issues.

Some of her issues I really appreciated and wish had been better explored.  For instance, Joy really struggles with the knowledge that she was the result of an unplanned and an unwanted pregnancy.  In this day and age when more and more people have babies without any commitment as a couple, Joy's inner dialogue opened my eyes to what is probably a hidden hurt in a lot of children of broken or never formed families.  Joy's confusion is especially keen as her mother is in the process of actively trying for another baby with a husband she adores.

Some of the other issues seemed too inaccessible to be of much concern to me.  The book's plot heavily centered on the coming-of-age Jewish tradition of Bar and Bat Mitzvahs.  Of course I've heard and seen these types of celebrations in a lot of pop culture, but I have never felt so...left out as I did while reading Certain Girls.  It is very...er....Jewish.  I have no problem with Jewish things.  Love the Jews.  But the book is billed, marketed and packaged as a much more mainstream novel.  It could be except for all the heavy emphasis about Joy's, and all her friends, Bat Mitzvahs.  I had no background to understand the cultural significance, or why in the world this formerly loving mother and daughter team were at such odds with each other over what I considered a fancy birthday party.    Obviously, it is more than that, but I think it's more than a little presumptuous to assume that the lay reader should and would understand that.  All of the exclusive Jewish references were a turn off to me.

Lastly, and she seems to do this in all of her stories, the ending was just...too....much.  Weiner is a funny girl.  Humor is her strength.  However, she can't seem to help hyper inflating the drama! It is never your every-day-run-of-the-mill-I've-been-there-too kind of upheaval. Instead, it's the "Seriously? Who does this?" kind of thing.  While I warned myself to expect an unnecessary dramatic climax, even I couldn't have foreseen the "huh?  Why'd she do that?" ending.  Dumb.

With everything added together, the result is a mediocre book.  I didn't hate it but there was little to love either.  I think I may have outgrown Jennifer Weiner as a storyteller.  There are too many other books out there to read to give Weiner, or Cannie, for that matter, any more chances.

Some Things Never Change

Remember this post?

Look who found the chocolate cake again for breakfast.

Celebrate

Today is Henry's birthday. Big H, Noo-nah, King Henry, and, sometimes, unfortunately, just plain ol' Hen (but never Hank), turned four today. This morning, while in the shower, I had a great idea for a poem. I know. Apparently, I only feel moved to rhyme or write in stanzas during the month of January.

Oh, it was going to be fun. Four (his new age) was going to rhyme with more, or galore, or Jersey Shore (kidding. I've never even watched the show. I only know about it because it seems to be mentioned everywhere. They only thing I know about it is that one guy has spiky hair). I had more rhymes than that but none are coming to mind right this minute. But, believe me, it was going to be a cute poem.

Two days ago, however, a monkey wrench got thrown into the entire day. On Monday, a man in my ward passed away and I was asked to bring food as well as sing in a trio at the funeral. Because I didn't know the deceased very well, and because the funeral happened to fall right in the middle of some planned birthday festivities, not to mention there being a plethora of more fun ways I wanted to spend the day, I really wanted to say, "No. Sorry."

But I didn't.

Because I can't.

Turns out, my inability to say, "No" was a good thing today.

I never imagined attending a funeral, while simultaneously celebrating a four year-old's birthday, could be so poignant. While my mind was busy creating rhymes throughout our morning of looking at a house for-sale (liked it), taking Henry to speech therapy, and even throughout his chaotic and unorganized party at McDonald's, sitting in the chapel for an hour, and feeling the spirit as the man's children bore powerful testimony about the Atonement, and eternal life, and the Plan of Salvation, helped me realized that this funeral was a celebration too.

Of Life.

We are born. We turn four. We turn thirty-four. Some may even turn seventy....eighty....ninety-four.

And, then, we die.

That is really only sad when what happens after death is a mystery.  Today, I celebrate Henry's existence - his life - his adorable little body - his mischievous grin.  I love him.

I don't know what tomorrow brings, but I do know, because the spirit witnessed to me again today, that death is not the end.  We are eternal and because of Christ, our broken bodies will be reunited with our spirits and what we celebrate here on Earth will be our everlasting existence.

Happy Birth-day, Henry.

Happy Life, Henry.

Happy You!!!

P.S. I am aware that Henry's cake might possibly be the ugliest cake ever made. Jay was kind and said it was merely in the top three. It was a very, very bad gluten-free food day. Thankfully, my kids don't care and it tasted just fine.

Book Review - Classic #6 - Wuthering Heights

It would seem that Wuthering Heights would be a perfect match for me. Emily Bronte created a novel of love and marriage only hers included tempestuous, and some might add incestuous, relationships, abuse, despair and a very non-happily-ever-after ending (though, some might debate that. The really unhappy people were all finally dead, which, I suppose, is a step up from their miserable and often times, sickly, existence).

I guess I'm not sure what makes this well known title such a beloved classic, other than it is beautifully written and perhaps a break from the mold of what was being written and published at the time. Her sister, Charlotte, had success with Jane Eyre, which is also excluded from the happy-happy-joy-joy plot club, but even that story, with its insanity, scratching, fires and blindness had some characters to root for. Perhaps Emily and Charlotte had a friendly wager on who could write a more tragic love story?

What am I talking about? Wuthering Heights is NOT a love story. If any of these characters felt true love, which is often accompanied by a sincere desire to sacrifice one's happiness for that of another, then I missed it. Instead, Wuthering Heights might just be the model for modern day soap operas where everyone says they love someone, when they aren't too busy plotting their demise and stealing their recently back-from-the-dead sister's baby. Wuthering Heights reminded me of Melrose Place - everyone is flawed and everyone is out to get everyone else. While I am a huge fan of the flawed character, Bronte's seemed overly flawed. What were Heathcliff's redeeming qualities? What in the world did Catherine seem in him? Did he make her laugh? Was it lust? Shared history? I'm assuming the attraction was due to having so much in common as Catherine, at one point, exclaimed, "I am Heathcliff!" Even with their many, many, many available flaws to choose from (selfish, violent, cruel, vengeful), none of the main characters demanded my loyalty. Am I supposed to root for Catherine and Heathcliff or feel sorry for them? I will say I enjoyed the nanny's point-of-view and narration. Now, there's an honestly flawed character! I loved how she passed off any responsibility, even as she was present to witness, and most of the time, allow, all of the bad behavior.

What Bronte did in Wuthering Heights was masterfully describe obsession. Heathcliff's inability to move beyond his first experience with love, with his adoptive sister, Catherine, is what drives this plot and all of its madness. It's not a healthy look, but certainly well crafted. From the description of Wuthering Heights and its proximity to rocky moors and miserable weather, to the dark and cold setting of the house itself, at no point does this story rise above its intentional bleakness. At least, I never felt any rays of sunshine.

This will not find a home on my shelf of favorite fiction, but I hope by reading this classic, I can benefit from understanding the frequent literary and pop culture references to Heathcliff and Catherine.