Showing posts with label book lust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book lust. Show all posts

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Book 3 of 100

Apathy and Other Small Victories by Paul Neilan

Whenever I force The Mister to stop in the middle of reading whatever 19th Century seafaring novel he has in his hands so that I can read aloud a passage from my book, it usually means that my aforementioned book is pretty darn humorous. The more often I stop him is directly proportional to the book’s overall hilarity. Now when I can’t get through the passage I’m trying to read because I keep cracking up so bad the words coming out of my mouth sound something like “Ebid sheee. Iah. Ebid. Bwaw!”, well you get the picture.

Apathy and Other Small Victories
did inspire a hysterical laughing fit at one particular scene, but not at every page’s turn. Still, it was otherwise amusing in a very above average sort of way.

Wanna know more? Slide on over to Pajiba.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Book 2 of 100

Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith by Rob Bell

The story of how I came upon this book is somewhat convoluted. Normally, I don't read a lot of religious books because to be honest I find a lot of them overly sentimental and treacly and frankly, not my thang. Another resident of LeukemiaTown told me about these spiritual shorts out on the 'net, called NOOMA. This guy swears by them and encouraged me to watch them. I cannot attest to the quality or power of these films because I am ashamed to admit I haven't seen a single one. Yeah, slackah.

The next day after our conversation I was in the bookstore looking for a gift to bring him. I thought, being that he is a churchin' dude, I'd see about finding him something with a more spiritual , devotional slant. As I glanced through the titles, this book caught my eye. Go check out the "Christian" shelves of your local book purveyor's religious section to see why a book with the words VELVET ELVIS in light mint against black is a standout. Intrigued, I pulled it out and flipped it over to read all the blurbies. Sure enough, there's the author, Rob Bell, who also happens to one of the individuals behind NOOMA. I bought a copy for my fellow LTown citizen and one for myself. It was too weird not to pass up.

Rob Bell is the founding pastor of Mars Hill Church, a megachurch in Michigan that meets in a coverted shoping mall. Rob also plays in a punk band. And he wears black framed nerd glassed. Awesome, I thought, A hipster Joel Osteen. Gak. Immediately, I was prepared to be annoyed by Bell just as I am annoyed by all those churches and their veneered, shuck-and-jive preachers.

Yeah, so totally wrong.

You know you want to read more; the rest of my review is up on Pajiba. Check it, one two, one two.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Book 1 of 100: The Haunted Looking Glass ed. by Edward Gorey

While it may appear to the casual viewer that Prisco (Mr. Five books. Shah.) is owning my ass in this race, it simply isn't true. I've just been a febrile mess lately and couldn't be bothered to write anything about my reads. If anyone is currently keeping count, I am tearing through book four.

So there.

Prisco chose a sci-fi writer's self-help tome to be his first read. I pick a collection of old fashioned ghost stories edited by Edward Gorey. I'm sure this has deeper meaning.

Edward Gorey was one of those artists/famous people that I dreamed of one day meeting. I love his ability to take the macabre and twisted (The Curious Sofa, anyone?) and make them elegant and just a wee bit quaint. However, I am glad I never got the chance to share a drink with the man, as I am sure he would have thought me a ninny, and I would have learned some horrible truth about him, like his bad dental hygiene or that he was a raging misogynist (Neither of which I know to be true. I'm just speculating here, people.).

The Haunted Looking Glass does much maintain his place of adoration my heart. Gorey selected twelve (Oh, why not thirteen!) old-fashioned ghost stories such masters of the craft as Robert Louis Stevenson, Bram Stoker, Charles Dickens, and the godfather of the Gothic novel, Wilkie Collins. All of the stories are traditional chillers with haunted houses, premonitory visions, and vengeful spirits. There's no blood or gore. No vampires or evil clowns. Just a tidy collection of things that go bump in the night and leave you with a chill up your spine. And not only did Gorey have a hand in selecting the stories, but he also provides illustrations for the title page of each.

While some of the stories play out as slightly dated, there were definitely a few standouts with a strong creep factor. "The Empty House" by Algernon Blackwood is a tightly wound telling of a man and his elderly aunt's visit to a supposed haunted house. Their journey through the vacant house and what they encounter was far more effective at illiciting the eebie-jeebies from me than any of those "supernatural"television shows where people wander around old buildings using night vision cameras and exclaiming, "What was that?".

The most effectively creepy story came from none other than Bram Stoker. "The Judge's House" has to be the first time I've read a story and wanted to shout at the main character, like people do in bad horror films. A student rents an old house as a retreat to complete his studies, and very quickly encounters the infestation of rats in the wainscoting. Yeah, my ass would have been at the Days Inn five seconds after the first pair of beady little eyes peered out of the woodwork, but the unfortunately stubborn student continues to stay in the house. Stoker makes the skin crawl with this tale of haunting by rodents.

Gorey wisely chose to include the ever-frightening "The Monkey's Paw" by W.W. Jacobs. If you've never read this classic, you absolutely need to. Right now. All I can say is that it's the best illustration of how readers' imaginations sometimes can do all necessary work; a writer just has to give them the right tasty little morsel to set that machine in motion.

M.R. James' "Casting The Runes" rounds out the lot as the one story that felt the most "modern". It is a well-paced tale of a man attempting to crawl out from underneath a hex from a bitter, self-described alchemist whose badly written paper the hexed man made the mistake of giving a negative review. Be careful what you write in those Amazon customer reviews.

The Haunted Looking Glass certainly didn't terrify me to the point of needing to sleep with the light on. There's only been one book with that kind of power over me, Ghost Story by Peter Straub. But it was darn good for a little shiver before bedtime.

Monday, September 01, 2008

In case you wanted to know

I'm home. I wish I could say that I am thrilled to be home and feeling so well after five days of being pumped full of chemotherapy. But alas, I cannot.

I feel like poo. Actually, intermittently like poo. There are periods where I feel sort of okay. Then I feel like poo. Tired, woozy mostly. There are times when simply sitting taxes me. I've got lingering indigestion. My sinuses are flaring up and causing post-nasal drip. My muscles ache, to the touch even, making it hard to sleep well. Then there's my lingering menstrual issues that could become cataclysmic again once my blood counts drop.

My intention after this round of poison was to stay rested and hydrated and do my best to take care of myself and possibly avoid any other hospitalizations between now and my bone marrow transplant days.

Were I so lucky.

I've got a sick, snotty cat whose dried snot is all over the sofa. Plus a snotty toddler who threw up twice during dinner tonight. Yum. And here I am with a weakened immune system. Infections, even ones as small as upper respiratory, have the potential to create huge issues with my treatment.

Tomorrow, I get to spend the morning in Cancerville Clinic.

So excuse me if I'm a little crabby.

I had really hoped to do as good a job as Prisco did, hyping up our little wager, but I need my sleep. Especially if I am going to kick his ass with this book race thing we've got going on.

It's totally on. I have many things to live for in this world, namely my wonderful and beautiful family. Beating Prisco's bald, fat butt by reading 100 books first is just going to add a big old thermonuclear jump start to my getting through this cancer mess.

So I start with a few ghost stories.

Any other recommendations?

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Where the Deer and the Antelope Play

Yes, indeed, I am home.

And home has worn me out. My house feels a little like a foreign land. The formerly natural daily routine has become awkward, like I've been thrust into a square dancing competition. My legs are sore from, I kid you not, walking up the stairs in my house. It's the most walking I've done in weeks. But I can tell you that it's a whole heck of a lot better than the heart palpitations that plagued me months ago whenever I went up the stairs.

Last night, I found it difficult to sleep in my own bed. I struggled for ages to get settled in what used to be a comfortable bed. I spend a month sleeping on a plastic encased mattress and pillows, with bed rails on either side, and no matter how much I lowered the dang thing, always on a slight incline. I was woke several times during the night by nurses to poke and prod me. Finally, I get home to my own quiet, darkened, comfy bedroom, and I turn into a freakin' insomniac. Then I woke at 4:30 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. Awesome.

So, this whole transition to life on furlough is going to take some time. Reestablishing my relationship with Little A seems to be turning into a process as well. There was a bit of a meltdown at breakfast this morning that depressed me, but by the end of the day we were frolicking in an empty box and imitating Dancing With the Stars. But I have to admit that it's mighty depressing when your toddler with whom you spent most waking hours is suddenly intrepid around you.

I go for my follow-up visit tomorrow morning. Before I left yesterday, the lab results were still inconclusive on my final neutrophil count. As a result, I am still on neutropenic precautions: no fresh fruits, flowers, plants, or veggies; strict hand washing; avoid public places where exposure to germs could be high. This is mildly frustrating since returning home and seeing all the blooming life in my yard and subsequently dying to get my hands in the earth and do some gardening. Plus, there's this little movie called Iron Man I'd like to catch. Here's to hoping that tomorrow's blood draw reveals a decent count that would allow me to get back more of my normal life and allow me to eat a freakin' apple.

Geez people. Give a girl a break.

In my last few days of incarceration, I added yet another book to my list, the hardcover Marvel Zombies, bringing my total tomes consumed to 15. Need some recommended summer reading?
For the next few days I'll be trying to ease back into my old routine and life around the house, unpacking my stuff (I swear it's like moving home from your college dorm room. I've practically got a whole new library which only contributes to my existing, ahem, problem with books.), and getting a small posse of sellables together for my church's yard sale Saturday. All this while I'm still trying to heal and my marrow attempts to get with the program of making my blood.

Overly ambitious? Or just me?

Glad to be back, folks. Stick with me; I guarantee this won't be my last medical adventure.

Friday, May 09, 2008

Quiet Days

Now that I am off the antibiotics, I get less attention from the nursing staff here.  But that's not to say that they don't like coming and hanging out with me.  A large percentage of the nursing staff is close to my age or younger, and I guess that's why they like taking a little break from their daily patient workload to come chat and chill in the nutty bald gal's room.

Yesterday, my nurse told me I was the healthiest leukemia patient they had on the floor.  If only my bone marrow would get that message and start doing it's dang job.  Dang it.

My days have been pretty quiet as of late.  This morning I organized my library of books, CDs, and DVDs.  Because of the great generosity of friends and readers, I still have quite a stack of unread books.  I thought I'd catalog the various titles I've read since my incarceration in the Big House.  Here they are, in no particular order, what I've read in the past month (And don't be insulted if the book you gifted/lent me hasn't made the list.  I go with what my mood and brain are itching to read at that moment, but trust me, every book will be consumed in good time.):

Hell House by Richard Matheson
20th Century Ghosts by Joe Hill
How Sassy Changed My Life by Kara Jesella and Marisa Meltzer
Suite Francaise by  Irene Nemirovsky
A Cook's Tour by Anthony Bourdain
Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman
Blackgas by Warren Ellis (disturbed the bejeebers out of me)
Heroes, Vol. 1 graphic novel
Duma Key by Stephen King
Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories
Soul Kitchen by Poppy Z. Brite
The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde

Twelve books.  Considering I've been here a month, that works out to about three books a week.  Not too shabby.  This isn't counting the fact that I've read my body weight in magazines, nor the daily little nibbles I take from various devotional books. I'm in the process of reading More Jesus, Less Religion by Stephen Arterburn.  And I've watched a fair share of movies and I'm almost through the first season of Arrested Development (then on to tackle season one of Veronica Mars).

My next book was sent to me from my great Yankee girlfriend, Maureen, who also sent me Bunny Suicides.  I'll next be cracking open G. K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday.  Whatever comes out of my stay here in the Big House, at least I can say I'm well-read.

What the heck was up with Lost last night?  Could they cram more stuff into one episode?  It was like one of those food brick burritos from Chipotle.  The back story and plot twists were just oozing out all over the place like sour cream and guacamole. 

And just in time for Mother's Day, there's this insanity.  Holy junk, lady.  Give your poor uterus a rest.

Finally, an experience that one would only have in the Big House: I woke this morning to find a blood-filled syringe lying next to my thigh.  Not a cause for alarm but weird nonetheless.  Man, I love it here.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Day Twelve: Yesterday Was My Birthday

I'm pretty sure my 33rd birthday trumps my 12th birthday (I got the chicken pox.) in out right suckitude.  Ah well, what are you going to do?

Everyone made a great effort to ensure my day was a fun as it could be considering I'm stuck in the hospital recovering from chemotherapy treatments for my frakkin' leukemia.  (Can I just say here that, until recently, I always associated leukemia with lil bald-headed children on their Make-A-Wish trip to DisneyWorld?  What about adults?  Can't I get a sympathy trip to the South of France?)  My mom came down and decorated my room with banners and such.  Little A sang his version of "Happy Birthday" to me twice, once with extra dancing on the side.  Adrian organized a small posse of local friends to descend on my room, filling to capacity, to join me for the resplendent, sugary goodness of Ukrop's birthday cake.  I got lots of phone calls and well wishes from friends near and far.  I felt loved.

And I ran a fever almost the whole stinking day.  Nuts.  I did blame the cake for a particularly nasty spike up to 102 in the late afternoon.

And Adrian felt unwell the whole day also, making our hope for a little date night dashed.  He spent my entire mini-party with a mask on so as to not infect me, which I know was disappointing to him.

So far, I've been fever-free today (touch wood), and hope to continue to be so.  I got some platelets this morning and am getting a transfusion of blood as a I type.  Hopefully the platelets will help with my bloody snot issue, which continues to be a problem.  Other than that, it's business as usual here in LeukemiaTown; a slow meandering process of wait-and-see prognosis while I make every effort not to dwell on the fact that this disease could haunt me for a long, bloody time and eventually kick my ass.  Fun time, let me tell you.

There's a mystery afoot in either the room above or next me.  All hours of the day and night (and early morning)  furniture is moved around at thunderous levels of scraping and screeching.  Because I cannot determine the exact source of the noise, it's debatable if banging on my neighbor's door and shouting, "Dude, what the HELL?" would be a worthwhile venture.

Food and Nutrition continues their campaign to beat my leukemia via margarine.

Word of advice:  Never read an Anthony Bourdain book while in the hospital confined to anemic, overcooked hospital food.  It's monumentally depressing.  The man is such a great food writer his description of haggis makes it sound like a divine delicacy worthy of the finest four star restaurant.

Before I go I want to share this story about Good Morning America co-host Robin Roberts who lost her hair to chemo treatments and recently decided to doff her wig permanently when appearing on television.   The clip hit home for me; Roberts' decision is commendable and goes along way to normalizing women who are undergoing chemo. While my hair's not gone yet, when it goes I don't think I'll go the route of naturalistic wigs.  Shoot, who will I be trying to fool with fake hair?  I don't care enough what people think of me normally, why should I now? Besides, it's going to be summer soon in the RVA, and the last thing I want suffocating my sweaty head is a tight, itchy wig.

One of my favorite quotes from the clip in the story is that the wig is "for everyone else's comfort."  And ya'll know how much I give a rip about how comfortable the general population is.  Kiss my soon-to-be bald, pink skull, jackasses.


Sunday, February 17, 2008

Six for Sunday: Cool Stuff in Toddlertainment

1. Steve Martin wrote a children's book! How awesome is that? This begs the question, at what age would it be appropriate to introduce Little A to the comic genius that is The Jerk, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, or Bowfinger?

2. I like to peruse the Easy Reader section of the Children's Library while Little A does some post-story time socializing. I discovered amongst the more generic books about animals, counting, and ABC's are some books with fairly specialized subject matter ranging from deaf siblings, trailer living, divorce, as well indentured servants, mom losing her job, and George Washington's farm animals. If you're ever looking for some amusement and a dash of enlightenment, browse children's literature. There's so much more out there than just Curious George and Carl the babysitting Rottweiler.

3. More proof of the awesomeness that is Pixar: One of Pixar's main character designers is William "Bud" Luckey , the creator of Woody from Toy Story and the short film Boundin'. Back in the day, Bud wrote and animated a ton of shorts for Sesame Street including The Alligator King, a personal favorite. Remember the Alligator King and his seven sons? Here's a refresher:


4. And speaking of Pixar, my mom and I have decided that this summer Little A will be old enough to have and hopefully enjoy his first real cinematic experience. Considering his love of all things Cars and mechanical, I think Pixar's latest offering will be perfect.


5. Yesterday, Clan Amos visited a new furniture consignment store on Lakeside Ave. where we stumbled up a wooden train set and big train table for $150. It's sturdy and in near pristine condition. Considering that some tables alone are $150 and this particular set retails for over $200, I think we got a sweet bargain. While mom and dad have been building elaborate train track configurations, Little A enjoys finding new and exciting ways to inflict disasters about our miniature town and bring the whole set up crashing down.

6. This has absolutely nothing to do with Toddlertainment, but fellow blogger Girl With the Curious Hair, sent me a link to this article. Looks like those nutty Virtue folks have got some stiff competition in the Holy Body Products market.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

A critical eye

My reading preferences are varied, but I tend to favor either humorous meditations on parenting or horror fiction (Especially those that aid in my surviving the undead apocalypse). So naturally, I was a little skeptical about my appropriateness when a fellow blogger reached out to me for a review of her book, Steve the Penguin. However, I accepted the challenge having never in my life written a review of a book, especially not one written by someone I was familiar with.

I have the utmost respect for anyone who publishes their writings for all the world to read. Aside from a few plays and the bibble-babblings I do on this blog, I'm a horrible coward and don't let anyone read the crap I write. Hats off to Mahlena for having the chutzpah to publish a book.

Of course, being me, I've procrastinated on the project, and it's not for a lack of desire to write the review. I just worry about putting out a poor product, so I stall. Finally I got off my duff and churned out a blurb for Amazon:
Ever since Bridget Jones cracked open a diary and put pen to paper, there have been no dearth of literary singleton females searching for One True Love, a great career, and a wicked pair of shoes. In her debut novel Steve the Penguin, Mahlena-Rae Johnson doesn't reinvent the formula but rather creates an original heroine within the Single Gal genre. Her Bianca is opinionated, smart, and compassionate but also faces realistic obstacles: a floundering love life, self-doubt, body issues, a nagging family, and drama-prone friends. She's certainly more relatable, a Betty Suarez rather than a Carrie Bradshaw.
Wander on over to the Amazon listing for the rest of my musings on the book, but if you want your hands on my copy, back off! Order one for yourself, ya cheap bahstahrd.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Curious Indeed

As an adult, returning to the beloved books or movies or television shows of our youth with grown-up sensibilities is always entertaining. We no longer find them as mind-blowing, awesome, or frightening as we did when we were children. Such were my adult viewings of Tron, The Dark Crystal, and The Secret of N.I.M.H. among others. However, I still can't watch Watership Down without having a good hardy crying fit.

Similarly, as a parent, it has been interesting to revisit classics from my own childhood. Glimpses of a long vanished world.

On my DVD collection of classic Sesame Street episodes there is one particularly interesting segment intended to teach children the concepts of "up", "down", "over", and "under". It features a group of children running and frolicking through a junkyard and a construction site. In a world where it seems children can't leave their damn house without a helmet, this seems practically medieval.

Last week, Little A and I picked up a copy of Curious George. Originally published in 1941, the book is an origins story of sorts recounting how George came to know and be cared for by The Man in the Big Yellow Hat.

I'm sure it's been a while for most of you since you picked up a Curious George book, so I'd like to take you on a little journey back in time. A time when things in the children's literature world were a wee bit different than they are now:

Our story opens with George, a good and happy little monkey living in Africa.

First, let me be a complete ass and state for the record that George is no monkey. Monkeys have tails, and George does not. George is more likely a chimpanzee. But this was 1941 and what the hell did they know 66 years ago anyway? Probably let kids chew on lead paint back then. And they certainly let them ride bikes without helmets.

One day George catches the eye of The Man in the Big Yellow Hat who decides that our curious little simian would make a great souvenir and sets off to catch him.

So The Man in the Big Yellow Hat is an effing POACHER. Sweet. Now I see the Stockholm Syndrome element inherent in the relationship that will develop between TMinBYH and George.


TMitBYH lures George with his yellow chapeau, and then stuffs him into a massive drawstring bag.

Because transporting wild animals in laundry bags is so safe and humane.


Once on board the ship home, TMitBYH explains to George that he's taking him to live in a Zoo in a big city. 'You will like it there,' he tells George.


Ah, nothing like the sweet aroma of colonialism with slight undernotes of imperialism...

George engages in his usual antics on the ship, resulting in his needing to be rescued from nearly drowning. In the illustration of the sailors pulling George back onto the ship, George is regurgitating a rather large quantity of water along with a few whole fish.

Clearly, I did not read this book as a child. Seeing as I had a paralyzing fear of vomit, an image like that would have haunted me for years.

At TMitBYH's apartment, George gets settled in by eating a nice meal, smoking a pipe, and heading to bed.

Yes, folks, bet you didn't remember old George enjoying a little terbacky! Smoking a pipe may not be the same as puffing away on a Lucky Strike, but I was nonetheless taken aback to see a reference to smoking in children's literature. With the way our current societal views on smoking are slanting, I wouldn't be shocked if in a few years I am no longer allowed to BUY cigarettes in front of my child. Rather, I'll be forced to make my purchase in a small back room, closed off from the rest of the store by a thick curtain. The clerk will put my pack of smokes in a discreet brown paper bag.

I am so prepared for some eager Tipper Gore-wannabe to come across this little gem and campaign fiercely to have it banned from library shelves.

After George watches TMitBYH make a phone call (to the zoo of all places, effing POACHER), he wants to use the telephone as well. He ends up calling the fire department who show up to the apartment and find no fire, only a naughty little monkey.

There is no mention, of course, of the fire department nor any of TMitBYH's neighbors taking issue with an illegally obtained exotic animal living in the building.

George is thrown in prison for his false 911 call.

The illustrations of the prison in which George is incarcerated looks like the Man in the Iron Mask would be in the cell next to George's.

George is a wily little one and escapes from prison. The remainder of the book deals with the George's shenanigans involving a huge bunch of balloons. Setting up a precedent which will run through all future Curious George volumes, TMitBYH saves George's ass. The book ends with George living happily ever after in a Utopian zoo where all the animals reside in harmony.

My son loves this book. He thinks monkeys are grand and is entranced by the picture of the fire engines roaring down the street in response to George's fake emergency call. He's also not yet two years old.

All this subtext I unearth as an adult, he probably won't notice until he is grown with a munchkin of his own. Until then, I will continue to be amused at how much the world has changed, but keep that amusement to myself because I want my kid to have a good time. And if that good time includes such antiquated classics as Curious George and glorious cheeseball fare like Tron or Gremlins, then what an awesome childhood he'll have.

Friday, August 31, 2007

Five For Friday

I am so effin' tired it is not funny. Single parents, bless 'em, have got a lot more going for them than I do. And people jokingly prod me about having other children. Are they out to get me? One kid is enough; any more and you'll be seeing me being admitted to the hospital for exhaustion.

In the months leading up to and those following Little A's birth, I devoured books and magazines about the proper care and feeding of babies. Honestly, I got a wee bit overwhelmed with knowledge to the point that I almost froze when it came to making parenting decisions. I was terrified of not doing the right thing.

After the completion of Year One of Project Alastair, I had mostly abandoned my parenting tome addiction, save for one magazine subscription and occasional illness or nutritional question that needing answering. The longer I spent with my son, the more I grew to understand his own individual traits and quirks and needs and didn't need to rely so much on someone else's opinion to help me parent. Plus, the more his vocabulary and comprehension grew, the better we were able to understand each other. Alastair has also learned to recognize Shark Eyes and come to respect the power of Shark Eyes.

There have been a few books I'd like to share that helped or enlightened or simply amused me in this quest to raise a decent human being:

1. Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons by Shirley Jackson- I positively adore Shirley Jackson. She's one of the boom of great American female writers from the early half of the 20th century that included Carson McCullers, Eudora Welty, and Flannery O'Connor. These two books (read as one volume) are Jackson's memoirs about being a wife and mother to four kids in a small Vermont town. Besides Jackson's dry humor and lack of sentimentality, what I really enjoyed about these books is seeing how much parenting and our attitudes towards parenting have changed. For instances, during the birth of her fourth child, someone joked that Jackson only got pregnant so that she could have a two-week vacation in the hospital from her other children. Two weeks.

2. The Surprising Power of Family Meals by Miriam Weinstein- My family made a valiant attempt to always eat dinner together. Now, by the time I was in high school, we all sat at the table reading something, but reading mostly served to lessen the possibility that my father and I would have an argument about some misguided opinion he decided to share. But I do appreciate the effort my parents made to bring us together as a family on a regular basis. Weinstein does a fine job in her book of analyzing the social, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual benefits of regular family suppers. She also addresses the harm inflicted on the family unit when parents try to cram their children's schedules so full of extra-curricular activities that the only "family time" they have is driving from one event to the next.

3. It Takes a Parent by Betsy Hart: I consider my parenting style retro-modern. No, that doesn't mean I make my kid cut his own switch or sit in the corner wearing a dunce cap. I try to be sensibly strict and provide appropriate boundaries without being a tyrant. Reading Betsy Hart's book was pretty much preaching to the choir. She posits that the popular self-esteem centered, overly permissive style of parenting does nothing but damage a child in the long run, possibly enabling them to grow up narcissistic jerks who make crappy employees and even worse spouses. Hear, hear. Don't get me started on that whole "Everyone gets a trophy" thing.; I hope I am tough enough to help shepherd Alastair through his life's disappointments and not completely shelter him from them.

4. The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls- Here's your go-to book on how not to parent, plus an added pick-me-up when you feel like the World's Worst Parent. While there is no doubt Walls' parents loved their children dearly, they just couldn't get their shit together enough to do the basic things necessary to care for their family like hold down a job, pay the bills, keep food in the house; you know, the basics. Reading her memoir, I was constantly amazed at how Walls came out on the other side of her truly bizarre childhood as anything but a complete wreck.

5. The Three Martini Playdate by Christie Mellor- I cannot say enough great things about this hysterical book. It totally brings the hotness. Christie Mellor is totally my girlfriend. Seriously, everyone with kids needs to read it. She takes issue with those parents and how not to become those parents. The foundation of her parenting philosophy: I was here first. Brilliant.

Speaking of martinis, I could totally go for three tonight. Or four. Or a pitcher.

Good weekend, y'all.

Friday, June 29, 2007

Five For Friday

The Five Scariest Books I've Ever Read

To give you chills on hot summer nights...

1. World War Z by Max Brooks: Mr. Brooks' fictional account of the zombie apocalypse is told though the interviews of various survivors around the world. While some of the stories veer a little to the far-fetched/hookey side, the book gave me some serious willies with its realistic portrayal of the panic and chaos that would naturally engulf the world in the zombie epidemic. A couple of times, I had to put the book down for fear of bringing on a panic attack.

2 and 3. Skeleton Crew and Night Shift by Stephen King: I have been a King fan since the fourth grade when I started reading my parent's collection of paperbacks. (See? Now you understand why I am so twisted.) His work within the last 10 years seems to be mellowed with his age and that near-tragic accident from a few years back. But these two early short story collections (IMO, the short story being his best medium) are King at his balls-out edgiest. Giant rats, hungry goo floating on a lake, the bogeyman masquerading as SIDS, Lovecraftian beasties slumbering in a New England ghost town, deadly mist, alien viruses, a demonic laundry machine. It's pure King awesomeness. Anaïs Nin once wrote that she created her best work when she was poor, starving, and paid a dollar per page. The same could be said of Stephen King who, in his pre-fame days, sold many of these stories to "men's magazines", and to me, they are his scariest.

4. We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver: Not a horror book per se, but still some of the creepiest stuff I've ever read. Without giving too much of the story away (and Shriver really relies on building suspense in the narrative), it's the fictional story of a high school-age mass killer as told by his mother. She is recounts story of his life, beginning with conception. Once I finished reading this book, I had almost completely made up my mind to never have children.

5. Ghost Story by Peter Straub: Hands-down, the scariest book I ever read. When I first read this book in high school, it scared the bejeebus out of me. It didn't help that I read it one night while home alone. Once I finished the book, I turned on all the lights in the house and refused to go to bed until my parents got home. Don't rent the movie adaptation from the early 80's; it's wretched.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Life handed us a paycheck..

...and we said, "We worked harder than this!"

I am going to have a good day today. The morning clouds were blushing pink and my commute was painless (except for the twat in the truck who couldn't fathom the concept of accelerating onto the highway).

Despite the fact that my annoying, fingernail-clipping (again on Monday),bobbled-headed co-worker's very presence turns me into a ball of tense, my day will be okay. I will not allow the fact that I spent the better part of an hour sorting out Outlook issues to ruin my day. So what if my calendar is crammed with useless meetings? Who cares that I am carrying four excess pounds somewhere on my midsection?

I will have a good day.

I'm looking forward to a three-and-a-half day weekend (albeit busy with social shit). Manicure on Friday. A trip to Williamsburg with the beloved is on President's Day. I've got Ice Bat on my desktop. My feet are clad in shoe happiness. Rectifying the lack of promised vampire action on last week's Alias, I found a new Sonja Blue book at Borders. I'm planning a great anniversary trip. While months away, April's shaping up to be a pretty damn fine month. My birthday aside, Tori is playing D.C. on 4/6, and the Blade Trinity DVD is released on 4/26. Boyfriend goodness! Yum.

I've consumed 4 pieces of gum already this morning. But today will be a good day. I will make it so. French Market coffee will help me get there.

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