In(Parent)thesis

Thoughts on a Complicated Kindness and the Bone Cage

2012-01-28T09:23:00.000-05:00

I managed to polish two more books off this week in my quest for just the right book to present to my school reads committee. The first one I'd been meaning to read for a while, the second I thought would be a good fit due to its subject matter.

A Complicated Kindness by Miriam Toews

The cracking of my heart seems to be happening all too frequently when I read these days. I would make an effort to avoid the damage (my heart is beginning to look like a crumpled piece of paper left out in the rain) but the unlikeliest books keep scrunching it up in their cardboard fists.

A Complicated Kindness did this for me. If you haven't already read it (I think I might be the only one my age who hadn't) it is told through the witty/despairing/smart voice of sixteen year old Nomi Nickels. She lives with her father in the Mennonite community of East Village, Manitoba after Nomi's mom and her sister skipped town. Nomi tries to deal with the loss, as well as her own crumbling religious faith and her emotionally distant and distracted father in the months that follow.

I don't know why exactly this book spoke to me- perhaps it was the strong-willed, yet hopelessly lost voice of Nomi. Perhaps it was because she listened to Keith Jarret (the Koln concert of course) on her record player just like I did when I was a teenager and she loved how he made noises when he played, just like I did. Mostly I think I loved Nomi because she is one of the undisputed heirs of Holden Caulfield: just as perceptive and smart with observations about the world that break your heart to make it bigger. And she is just as screwed up by the hyprocrisy of the world she lives in and the loss of everything she holds dear. Just like Mr. Caulfield.

Yeah. That was what got me.

As for the Community Reads, as much as I would love to put that call into Miriam Toews' agent, begging her to come visit us in Montreal (hey! we have bagels and smoked meat! Offer still stands) I worry that the language is a little to sophisticated for the younger of our girls- that they would read this book before they are fully equipped emotionally and intellectually to appreciate its nuances.

So no. Can't use this book. Perhaps the Flying Troutmans? I doubt I will be able to get to that this weekend as I have a whole list of books on my plate that I need to read but maybe next year? I'm not giving up on you Miriam...

The Bone Cage by Angie Abdou

I put this one on my list last year when it was nominated for Canada Reads as I thought it might be fun to read a sports book this year- we have never done one and it might catch the attention of a certain population of students.

The Bone Cage follows Sadie, a swimmer and Digger a wrestler. They have just qualified for the 2000 Olympics. The book takes place between the time they qualify up until the actual Olympics.

This book is educational in many ways. For instance, I learned how hard athletes work for very little hope of any kind of reward. They are usually poor. If not living with their parents, they reside in crappy apartments, trying to make it on the small income of a carded athlete.

I also learned that they train for about six hours a day. That there are a lot of consequences to your body when you work it that hard and a lot of consequence to your mind when you are one of the majority who do not make it.

I learned that relationships are messy and best avoided. That wrestling is kind of gross (there is a lot of trying to hold on to sweat-slick limbs). That if you spend four hours a day in a swimming pool your sweat starts to smell chlorinated (I actually knew that last one).

But can I recommend a book just because of its subject matter? I'm not sure. There were some potentially heart-rending moments that fell a little flat for me (for instance, when Digger makes it to the Olympics but his friend doesn't and has a nervous breakdown). My heart did not break on this one.

As for a community reads, I don't think I can recommend it and I hesitate to say why (though I will because I like to put myself in the stocks and have people throw tomatoes at my blog). There is a small part of the book where Sadie hooks up with one of the athletes and it is treated by both parties as unabashed, no commitment, casual sex. Now, as an adult reading this book, I have no problem with that. In fact, I like the honesty. Athletes have needs just like everybody else.

BUT. And yes, it is a big BUT (no, I'm not calling you fat) I am not sure I want twelve year olds to read a book about people our society puts on the role model pedestal (yes, pun intended) and think that this is a perfectly acceptable way for them to think about sex. And here is where my librarian hat merges seamlessly with my parent hat. I have no problem talking to my kids about sex. Watching movies or TV with teenagers having sex (see the Buffy post for more information). But I definitely have a MESSAGE to impart to them.

I know, I know. So terribly didactic of me.

If they listen to anything I say at all (which is debatable), I hope they are listening to this: as they creep toward the age of their first sexual encounter (and yes, that thought shoots large icicles of horror along my spine), sex is something people do out of love. That it is a natural thing, but also a very intimate thing. In fact, I would just play them that scene in Glee where Kurt's dad gives him the talk.

I can't find a youtube clip of this talk (Ok. I didn't look that hard), but I did find a transcript of it from the NYTimes blogger Tara Parker-Pope:

But the moving father-son talk should be required watching for any parent. The father, Burt Hummel (played by Mike O’Malley), talks to his gay son, Kurt (Chris Colfer), about the emotional side of sex.
After offering his son some pamphlets on the “mechanics” of sex, he launches into The Talk.

For most guys, sex is just this thing we always want to do. It’s fun. It feels great. But we’re not really thinking too much about how it makes us feel on the inside or how the other person feels about it.
He goes on to caution his son not to think that “sex is just sex.”

You’ve got to know that it means something. It’s doing something to you, to your heart, to your self-esteem, even though it feels like you’re just having fun…. When you’re ready, I want you to be able to do everything, but when you’re ready, I want you to use it as a way to connect to another person. Don’t throw yourself around like you don’t matter. Because you matter, Kurt.

What he said.

So two more books off my own personal long list. Next we have True Confessions of aHeartless Girl by Martha Brooks, If I stay by Gayle Foreman and Something Fierce: Memoirs of a Revolutionary Daughter by Carmen Aguirre and a graphic novel, Stitches by David Small. Will I finish even one of them before the weekend? Probably not, but I always like a challenge.

How I loved How I Live Now by Meg Rosoff

2012-01-20T11:37:00.000-05:00

I am in the middle of a massive Young Adult fiction marathon. The selection process of our 2012 school community reads is in full swing and this time I am obsessed with pushing the best possible books to my committee. Not that I wasn't before. It is just that the winners for the last couple of years was more clear cut.

So. I am trying to read as many books as I can that I think would be good, relevant reads for a grade 7 to 11 readership, that won't offend the sensibilities of the adults in their life but that will still be relevant to the students. Under 350 pages. No movie version. Preferable Canadian (an edict I have completely ignored in the last couple of years).

You see my dilemma?

Someone nominated How I live Now by Meg Rosoff and since I've been meaning to read some of her work anyway, I thought I would pick it up and see what it is all about.

And I didn't put it down until I had swallowed it whole. In fact, if this book was dinner, you would see me licking my plate, tongue out in a very undignified dog-like imitation, trying to savour every morsel.

I am seriously considering writing to her and ordering her to be my friend. Now.

But that would be creepy so I won't.

What can I say about this book? Under 350 Pages. Check. Movie version? Not until 2013 so check for this year. (Oh! and Saoirse Ronan to play Daisy!!!) Appropriate for grades 7 to 11? Well, let me ask you. What is appropriate for a group ranging from 12 to 17?

This is where I can get into trouble. My only measuring stick is to say that I know my daughter will be reading it this year and I feel totally comfortable with it. And I just read it as an adult and was very moved. So, as appropriate books go, I think it is. Yes, there is some underage sex, but really, when is there not?

So let me tell you about this book. How I live Now is told from the perspective of 15-year old Daisy, who has been sent away from her Manhattan life to live with her aunt and cousins in England because she does not get along with her pregnant stepmother. When the story begins, Daisy is a troubled, anorexic teen who feels unloved and abandoned. However, she finds a family in England as well as love. She slowly begins to heal when war breaks out and her life changes forever. Again.

I don't want to give too many plot points away as they are surprising and harsh but suffice it say that Rosoff deals with everything from Daisy's screwed up relationship to food, to a taboo but totally right love, to the horrors of war with lyricism, originality and brutal honesty.

The voice of Daisy is one that I will never forget. The way Rosoff uses run-on sentences and punctuation to get into the stream of consciousness of a teenage girl is awe-inspiring. In fact the way she flagrantly disregards all rules of grammar in a virtuoso F you to all writing how-to guides makes me want to fly to England and drive around the countryside screaming her name and asking if she will take tea (or preferably something stronger) with me.

So, yeah. This one is on my longlist.

And Meg, if you are ever in Montreal look me up. I think we would have a lot to talk about.

Are we corrupting our children? The debate about raunchy lyrics (yes there is one)

2012-01-13T13:39:00.000-05:00

When I was ten, my favourite tape (yes, I am that old. I was buying tapes well into late teens. I still regret the unfortunate advent of CDs- stupid technology) was the soundtrack of Grease. In fact, I remember going directly from the soundtrack of the movie Annie, full of funny and moving songs about the depression-era red-headed orphan and her Daddy Warbucks, to the raunchy musical based on the 50s high school schism between jocks and greasers. Many a sleepover I spent with my friend, re-enacting Grease Lightning.

For those of you who have forgotten the lyrics to this charming classic, here they are:

Lyrics:
Well this car is automatic, it's systematic, it's hydromatic
Why it's greased lightnin'!

We'll get some overhead lifters, and four barrel quads, oh yeah
Keep talkin', whoah keep talkin'
Fuel injection cut off, and chrome plated rods, oh yeah
I'll get the money, I'll see you get the money
With a four-speed on the floor, they'll be waitin' at the door
You know that ain't shit when we'll be gettin' lots of tit in greased lightnin'
Chorus:
Go, greased lightnin', you're burnin' up the quarter mile
Greased lightnin', go greased lightnin'
Go, greased lightnin', you're coastin' through the heat lap trials
Greased lightnin', go greased lightnin'
You are supreme, the chicks'll cream for greased lightnin'

We'll get some purple French tail lights and thirty-inch fins, oh yeah
A palomino dashboard and duel muffler twins, oh yeah
With new pistons, plugs, and shocks, I can get off my rocks
You know that I ain't braggin', she's a real pussy wagon - greased lightnin'

chorus repeats 2x

And here is the scene from the movie:

Now, did my ten year old self know what they meant by "gettin' lots of tit" or "the chicks'll cream for greased lightnin'" or "She's a real pussy wagon"?

Nope. In fact, it wasn't until I had the bright idea to watch the movie with my children, who at the time were in their single digits, did I realise just how raunchy it was.

Pause for a moment of parental shame and sheep-facedness.

It was too late, of course. They were entranced just as much as I was at their age with the Pink ladies, the floofy skirts and of course, that snappy hand jive. To make a fuss over the lyrics they repeated without knowing what they meant would mean, ahem, telling them what they meant. Better just let them have their fun. Enjoy the music for its own sake without making too much of a fuss and hope no ultra-conservative parental watchdog heard them repeat lines about pussy wagons. This dilemma also came up when my sister gave a CD of Lady Gaga to one of them for their birthday. "Wann take a ride on my disco stick?" Let's just take that one at face value, kay? Yes dear, it is like a pogo stick but with shiny mirrors like a disco ball.

Now, I guess my question is, was this wrong? Should I have been more alert? Screened this childhood classic of mine for inappropriate material before exposing the innocent, delicate minds of my children to it? Or, once exposed, should I have paused the song and explained exactly why a pussy wagon is not very feminist?

The reason I'm thinking about this is because a friend sent me a link to this article discussing the latest (or probably passé by now) youtube sensation, the two five-year olds who sing Nicki Minaj's hit "Super bass". The article gives you Minaj's video of Super Bass as well as the Youtube one of the little girls, thankfully releasing me from the burden of having to show it myself.

You might call this hypocritical as I am showing Greased Lightning, but it is really a matter of taste. I don't particularly like the Minaj song but have had it in my head since I watched it days ago (curse you friend who sent it to me. Curse you). I leave it up to my gentle readers whether they want to watch them or not.

Suffice it to say, the Nicki Minaj lyrics are inappropriate for five-year olds. (In fact, I understood only a third of them myself, but I think that is a polar opposite generational problem). Nicki herself knows it and in her defense, did not intend the song to be listened to by the toddler set. But the girls must have heard somewhere and got seduced by that, yes, I'll admit it, seductive super bass. And, as little girls do, decided to dressup in their pink leotards and tutus, tiaras and all and perform the song for their parents. Their parents, being of the proud, video recording sort, video taped it and immediately uploaded it to youtube.

The article is an opinion piece about the conflicted reaction of the writer to this. On the one hand, it is cute to watch the little five year old rap and sing competently (as well as her friend, who stands there making awesome faces and gyrating a little). On the one hand, it makes me deeply uncomfortable to see anyone, let alone a small child, make the appropriate hand gesture to "And yes you'll get slapped if you're lookin' ho".

My general feeling about this is that kids will understand about as much as they are ready to understand about the lyrics, so long as we don't go out of our way to make more of a deal of it than necessary. Because at age five, a line like "Then the panties comin' off" will probably be thought of as a going potty reference, if thought about at all.

Now what worries more is the lack of musical taste in the parents. Perhaps we could form a committee or something- Parents against Stupid Music. PASM. We need another S...How about Sententious Parents Against Stupid Music: SPASM?

Oh and, in my opinion, the poor judgment in putting their five year olds for the world to see on youtube is a tad alarming, though a very popular practice. But then again, the girls received major swag, including a trip to the states and a spot on Ellen as well as a surprise visit from Nicki herself, so who am I to say anything?

What do you think? Are we corrupting our children? I mean more than parents do anyway?

The Complicated Need for an Intellectual Father Figure: Thoughts on Reading Donna Tartt's The Secret History

2012-01-08T10:14:00.000-05:00

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

This books has been staring at me in the Ts of my Fiction section for quite a while now, so I thought I would delay all the other, newer books on my extensive reading list and pick it up for Christmas.

Like The Magician King, the book made me stop in my tracks, remember a time fifteen years ago when I was younger and my brain was being put through its paces by an irascible, fiery, extremely intelligent and deeple flawed Mexican philosopher.

But I get ahead of myself. The Secret History is told by Richard Papen, a twenty year old discontent from a less than loving family in suburban California. He gets his chance to get away when he is accepted to Hampden College in Vermont in the English Literature department. Once there, he manages to get accepted to the exclusive Classics department. It is run by an eccentric named Julian Morrow who only takes a certain number of students. To be accepted means that all Richard's classes will be taken with Morrow and with the same small group of peers.

Pause. Because here is where my heart broke a little. In fact, I did what I never do- I dog-eared the passage that reminded me of what I felt during those years of listening to my own mentor:

He was a marvelous talker, magical talker, and I wish I were able to give a better idea of what he said, but it is impossible for a mediocre intellect to render the speech of a superior one--especially after so many years--without losing a good deal in translation. The discussion that day was about loss of self, about Plato's four divine madnesses, about madness of all sorts; he began by talking about what he called the burden of the self, and why people want to lose the self in the first place.

Mentor might not be the right word. This is always been hard for me to understand because it sounds a lot like I was seeking a father figure, and given that my own father died when I was quite young, that would make sense. But I always felt like that was too simple an explanation.

But I need to go back and explain a little about my own experience. In the mid-90s, I re-met J (we had known each other in high school but were not close). At the time, he was part of circle of painters and sculptors (actually, he was the only sculptor) that met each Sunday to listen to a lecture by a friend of his father's, the above mentioned Mexican Philosopher and then they would have a critique period of the work they had produced that week. It included J's father, a few younger painters.
At the time I started going out with Jeremy, I was not invited to these meetings.

But I was interested. And appalled. Mr. philosopher had told J, when J mentioned my interest, that I was like those women who pretend to like motorcycles to endear them to their men. Eventually though, I was allowed in. And I like to think that Mr. Philosopher learned to regret his harsh assessment of my involvement. But I will never know. My contribution was in poetry.

What I found in this group was some serious scholarship and discipline and it just occurred to me when I was reading Tartt's book: I found not only an intellectual father figure, but an intellectual family. And it was so good. I hadn't realised how much that was missing in my life until I began attending these meetings and a world of ideas - not only nuance but layers of richness and complexity of meaning. Stretching my brain to its outer regions. Bringing a thought to its logical conclusion.

Although the philosopher died shortly after our group broke up, he is still my measuring stick for every choice I make in my life. What would ____ say?

It is also very sad to me to think that all the ideas that fill up my brain come from that era of my life. I have not studied anything with the intensity and discipline since that time. I have not had discussions that go on into the middle of the night about the concept of scarcity or the traditional dichotomy between the Appollonian and Dionysian and how that dichotomy must be looked at in a new light given the advent of quantum mechanics.

I miss those times.

Tartt's book is not ultimately about that relationship, though the exclusiveness of the group and the mentorship of the elusive Julian Morrow places a big part. In fact, it plays more on the theme of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment sans the redemption Raskalnikov finally finds. It is a messy and morally ambiguous tale of young people wanting to live solely in Art and Beauty. Of course they do not succeed.

There is one last quote that captured exactly how I felt about my own Julian Morrow:

It's funny. In retelling these events, I have fought against a tendency to sentimentalize Julian, to make him seem very saintly--basically to falsify him--in order to make our veneration of him seem more explicable; to make it seem something more, in short, than my own fatal tendency to try to make interesting people good. And I know I said earlier that he was perfect but he wasn't perfect, far from it; he could be silly and vain and remote and often cruel and we still loved him, in spite of, because.

So in a sense, I am also grieving with this book. I am grieving for my own loss. That I have fallen into the Socratic trap of the unexamined life. That even our mentors, our intellectual or otherwise father figures are as fallible and human as we are. And that as a mother, I will inevitably not be able to give my children all that they need- emotionally, maybe. Intellectually, perhaps. I grieve for my own and everybody else's tragic and beautiful imperfections.

Oh. And by the way, yes I do think you should read this book. Even if you never had the curse and blessing of a flawed intellectual father figure.

Post-Book Completion Grieving: A Review of Grossman's The Magician King

2011-12-30T10:38:00.000-05:00

Does this ever happen to you? You're reading a book and it is holding your interest, but nothing too mind shattering. Until you get deeper into it and you feel something in yourself slowly changing. Call it a metamorphosis. Or a door opening. Or a blooming in a hitherto unfruitful garden in the mind.

Imagine my surprise when I experienced this very thing yesterday when I finished Lev Grossman's second installment (I am desperately hoping there will be a third at this point, though I am not sure if I can take another emotional blow- but more about that anon. I love saying anon.) in the Magicians series? Or is it called the Fillory series? I can't find it easily on his blog (which I almost got stuck in right now).

Anyway.

I wrote about the first book in the series, The Magicians, in a previous post. I liked it well enough though no earth shattering, emotionally turbulent revelations. It was the perfect book to read on an absurdly long trek of our massive train ride last summer, but that's about it.

So. Thinking the sequel would be as suitable for Christmas vacation as its predecessor was for the summer one, I decided to kick off my vacation reading with it. And it was totally delivering. Quentin was back with Eliot and the irascible Janet (though she doesn't get much play in the second book). And Julia. Julia, of the left behind.

Julia. Even saying her name makes my heart ache.

But I don't want to spoil anything by going into too much plot details. Suffice it to say, when the book begins, the above quartet are the Kings and Queens of Fillory, just like Peter, Edmund, Lucy and Susan were in Narnia. However, Quentin is once again dissatisfied with his lot and seeks something else, bless him. Fortunately for him, or unfortunately for him, depending on how you look at it, he gets his wish.

Intertwined with their new quest, are chapters that tell Julia's back story and everything she went through and gave up for magic.

And that is where the big stone in my stomach began to form, the realisation that at the end of the day, that we can only judge ourselves by what our stories have left behind. Or let me be more clear. Quests, or what we like to call in the real world, life, strips us bare little by little. As we continue along our path it takes things away: people, things, perceptions of ourself, our grand illusions of possibility. What is left is the kind of hero we are (I mean this in the sense of hero of our own story). Are we still standing? Can we live with the loss? Are we bitter or grateful? Can we deal with our own mistakes and flaws with humility or is our dragon pride eating us up bit by bit?

The character of Quentin and his perennial dissatisfaction with his lot is predicated on the all too common feeling that reality will never live up to the adventure and fantasies of our childhood stories. Having grown up with my nose in a book, you would think I would relate. In fact, I know many of my adult friends who recognised themselves a little too much in Quentin.

However, I've never felt the need to go to Narnia nor have I ever grieved my Muggle status. It was never the adventures that I wanted to have. I wanted to be me, but better. I wanted to have the characteristics that make it possible for adventures to happen. Courage. Intelligence (the envy I feel for the ferocious intelligence of Julia and Quentin is palpable). And let's face it- a type of storybook beauty, though this wasn't as important as the intelligence thing. I wanted (and if I'm honest with myself) want to be better than I am.

So at the end of the book, when the heroes have to pay the price of being the hero and are left stripped bare, what is left? Is your infrastructure stronger? Or are you a shanty town made out of corrugated cardboard self-delusions?

This book is the most coming of age book I have ever read, although not the traditional kind that depicts that painful metamorphosis from childhood to adolescence. Grossman chooses to sketch another coming of age (and I believe there are many in our life), the one where we are indoctrinated into the world of adulthood with all of its loss, its flaying of childhood self-delusions and hopefully with the revelation of a stronger core.

And like any other metamorphosis, it is extremely painful but also beautiful.

So I grieve. I grieve for Grossman's characters because as the god of his world, he doesn't pull any punches. And because I am scared that at the end of the day, my infrastructure will be found wanting; that I am not living up to my adventure with the necessary grace and panache.

Hmm. Perhaps that should be my one and only new year's resolution...

A Trio of Books for Youth

2011-12-23T10:27:00.000-05:00

Due to the fact that it takes me a couple of weeks to put together the behemoth monthly book posts, I have decided to break it up a little. Since my last post, I've read three good books for youth which, conveniently enough, provide me with a modicum of a theme for my first assay. Alas, for those of you who receive this in their inbox and are only interested in my parental goings-on (though I would argue that my reading has a lot to do with my parenting) your inbox will sag a little more under the weight of more emails from me. However, lest you are feeling very self-pitying about this, let me remind you that we are living in the digital age and trashing this missive is as easy as clicking on the little delete icon.

So stop complaining.

First book:

Crossed by Ally Condie

This is the second book in a projected trilogy by Ally Condie. I reviewed the first one in my last book post and really enjoyed it. Condie's dystopian world building is excellent as well as her main character's , Cassia, slow realisation that all is not well in a world she had hitherto never questioned. The second tome follows Cassia into the outer provinces, in pursuit of Ky, who had been taken and shipped out as a decoy to populate the war torn villages. Cassia is in a labour camp and has to find a way to escape. As she is a citizen, she will not be chosen to go to the villages so she hides her papers and pretends she is an anomaly, sort of like a whitewashed, futuristic version of the untouchables. To be an anomaly however does not only depend on your parentage - you can condemn yourself to it by defying the Society.

Told in alternating chapters by both Cassia and Ky, Crossed falls prey to the pitfall of the second in a trilogy novel. It is rambling, a little disjointed with an extremely unsatisfactory ending. Much of it takes place with both Ky and Cassia on the run - at first separately and then finally together. But miscommunication and errors on both their parts erodes the trust between them. The love triangle is still there, though the third point, Xander, only makes one cameo in the whole book.

However, it is a fast-paced read, and Condie does a good job at making both Ky and Cassia as flawed and human as possible. Although the ending feels anti-climactic, Condie brings the reader back to the Society in a way where to not read the third volume in this trilogy is not really an option.

Second Book:

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate by Jaqueline Kelly

I just read Kelly's biography and discovered she lived on Vancouver island before moving to Texas. Hmmm. Curious.

But I digress. The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate is a lovely story for the 9 to 12 set, about an eleven year old girl discovering her grandfather, Darwin, her love of science and the crushing fact that the world is expecting different things from her.

Written from the perspective of Calpurnia, we meet her in the last six months of 1899, on the eve of the new century. She is the only girl, right, smack in the middle of six brothers. Although her home life is a happy one- there is love and understanding between the members of the family, Callie feels like she is a constant disappointment to her mother. For she would rather go off with her grandfather with a butterfly net and a notebook to observe the world around her. When she and her grandfather discover what they think is a new species of vetch ( a sort of hairy leafed plant) months are spent in agonising anticipation for a letter of confirmation from the National Geographic society.

In the meantime, her mother decides Callie must learn the domestic arts, to Callie's utter horror. Callie does not know how to tell her parents that she does not want to be a housefiw. She wants to be a scientist.

A lovely, slow read about a girl who is building up the courage to confront and oppose the world's expectations for her future, the evolution of Calpurnia Tate is at once an interesting historical novel for kids, a moving and funny coming of age story and a charming portrait of a large family.

I would recommend this book for girls who are avid readers and interested in science. Although I am sure everyone would enjoy it, it might be a hard sell for those kids who need more plot.

Third book:

Scribbling Women by Marthe Jocelyn

Reviewed from a Librarything copy

I loved this book. Unfortunately, like many of the review copies I receive, I tend to lump these books in a corner and give priority to my own personal reading wish list. Well, once again I am stuck eating humble pie.

Scribbling women is a unique compendium of women in history. None of them were writers, but all of them left behind journals, letter or in one case, childhood scribblings that have helped to illuminated certain aspects of their society. It begins a thousand years ago with a courtier in Japan. Jocelyn then moves to 18th century England and the plight of Margaret Catchpole who was sent to Australia for stealing a horse. Her letters home are an intriguing account off life in a penal colony. From women explorers to Nellie Bly, Jocelyn describes these women's lives in clear, easy to understand prose. It was a real delight to read and have recommended it to the grade 7 and 8 English teacher as perhaps a source for a project in her class.

Note: The Tundra site puts the book at 14+ but I think it would be an interesting read aloud for younger kids (9 to 12). In fact, I was thinking of reading it with my daughter, but we are going through the Percy Jackson's together and I am afraid it might take a while.

Happy Holidays!

Manage your Expectations Shmexpectations

2011-12-22T06:03:00.000-05:00

We have been avidly going through the TV series Breaking Bad these days, a show about an overqualified, and underpaid high school chem teacher who turns to making crystal meth in order to provide for his family when he is dead. One of the main characters gets shot and affects the nerves in his legs. Once it is clear that he is going to live, his wife asks the doctor when he will be able to walk. And the doctor says, "it is important to manage your expectations."

For some reason, this phrase has been sticking in my head like the refrain of a Lady Gaga song for weeks.

Manage your expectations.

I don't wanna.

It resonates in every walk of my life right now- at work, I must manage my expectations regarding the levels of maturity of the 12 to 17 set (very difficult actually. You want their actions to make sense and they so often don't.)

In my own life. Right now I am looking at the goals I wrote for 2011 and posted on the wall in front of my desk so I won't forget (yes, I am that sort of person. I like goals. So sue me). 2 out of 6 I managed, and one of them,"be able to run a marathon" I am including on a technicality. I got myself ready to run that stupid marathon. I just neglected to register for the thing. The other, submit twelve pieces this year, I finished in April and then stopped, which wasn't the plan either. The one I really wanted to accomplish-finish a manuscript is so far from being done, if possible it is in the negative done. I am minus on that goal.

I expected better of myself.

And, the big one, the motherload (pun intended): as a parent. Motivated by my daughter's new found academic motivation, and I suspect, by the baser need to keep up appearances at my work place as my daughter goes to the school where I work, I am resorting to my drill sergeant, fascist ways when it comes to studying and homework. Which is so completely unnecessary as my daughter does it, and indeed has always done her homework, without any prompting from me. Mostly she does quite well. Not at the top of the class but still grades that show she studied and understood the material. However, the mistakes she makes are mostly of the careless variety- in math she will forget to reduce her fractions. In geography she will neglect to answer one of the questions because she read it too fast.

I expect her to pay more attention. I expect her to do better.

Is that a bad thing?

I don't know. I really don't know. In one way, yes. I expect to get all of this stuff done and rarely do. However, without that expectation, the pressure I put on myself, I wouldn't get anything done. As for my daughters, they know we expect them to have their homework done, and done well. I expect them to do their best in school- ahh.

Their best. That is the crux of the thing, where this whole expectation thing can go down the garburator like a soapy wedding ring on a recently weight-lossed finger (I do like my similes). Who determines what their best is? Can I employ the scientific method in determining this elusive quality? Am I taking into account their personality, their stage of brain development, the breakfast they ate in the morning?

Or am I doing what parents have always done and setting my expectations by using myself as a model. When I was your age I....fill in the blanks.

Not a nice realisation, is it?

I don't know if it is possible to have no expectations as a parent. It is what allows us to do our job - which is to send them out in the world as competent, compassionate, critically-thinking citizens of the world (4 Cs!). What we can manage however, is where our expectations come from. I expect my children to do their best. I fervently hope that their best is better than mine.

November in Books

2011-12-03T09:19:00.001-05:00

Books read

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

I finished it! It only took me 8 months, but I completed this brick of a book. You must be wondering why it took me so long. Why did I not put it down when I couldn't get into it? Was it that horrible? And am I such a masochist to stick with a book that does not appeal to me?

Alas, no on all counts. The answer is infinitely more complex and simple at the same time. It was not the book itself, but the chemical reaction of the book and my brain that was the problem. I appreciated the writing of it, I really did. I love historical fiction and though I usually stick to Victorian stuff, I occasionally enjoy a trip back a few more hundred years to that old scamp Henry the 8th and his need for a heir that overrode all church and law and morality at the time.

Mantel offers us an even juicier perspective by telling the story of Henry through the eyes of one if his advisors, Thomas Cromwell, a peasant that has literally pulled himself out of the gutter to become one, if not the most powerful man in England. The vagaries of the court, and the political machinations are all seen through his detached and pragmatic eyes.

I think the problem for me was, first of all, I did not have enough time to devote to this book. In order to get right into the world, you have to have a a chunk of a few hours to acclimatize to Mantel's unique style. Her use of the pronoun "he" threw me for a loop. It took me an excessively long time to figure out the her "he" was her main character, Cromwell himself. And because I was only reading it for about five minutes beforeI went to sleep at night, I had to go through my mental rolodex and remember who all the characters were.

By the way, Cromwell was an actual historical figure, usually portrayed as the villain (with his traditional enemy Thomas More, as his saintly victim). Mantel gives us a different perspective, one that makes us question our historical assumptions. That is, if you know enough about the historical period to question it, which I didn't. It is only after reading the book and reading articles such as this.

A worthwhile read if you are a fan of Historical fiction and Tudor England. However, be warned: it is a dense read that requires mucho brain power. I just read that Mantel is writing the sequel to it (the book ends rather abruptly with Anne Boleyn as queen but miscarrying dreadfully. Wolf Hall is where Jane Grey lives, if I am not mistaken...)

Just Kids by Patti Smith

I don't get it. I just don't. I know that Patti Smith is supposed to be the godmother of punk rock, but I don't even get that. I have spent most of my adult life studiously avoiding anything remotely flaky (call it an allergic reaction to my west coast upbringing) so was appalled to see it in spades in Smith's new memoir, Just Kids.

But I should have known. I attended one of her concerts a couple of years and though I was ashamed to admit it to myself as she is such a revered icon in the circles I circulate in (ha!), her poetry gave me that uncomfortable prickly sensation I get when I have to listen to someone recite their own bad poetry: you know- embarassment at having to listen to it, shame for the person reciting it, a slight itch in my eyeballs that won't go away until the poem stops (and this is coming from someone who has subjected other people to her bad poetry so I am well aware that this is a double-edged sword I frequently impale myself on).

But first: the redeeming parts. The memoir is in fact a chronicle of her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe which is indeed worth a chronicle. They met when they were 20 in New York city- both poor, both needing a friend, both wanting to make it as an artist (more about that last one). They were lovers for years during which time Mapplethorpe discovered he was gay. The early years were marked with extreme poverty, STDs, drugs and on Mapplethorpe's part some hustling, but they remained each other's rock through it all. It is a testament to the organic, fluid and evolving power of love that their relationship could survive so many permutations and I found her account if maudlin at times, quite moving.

Second: it is an amazing glimpse of New York during the late sixties and early seventies. Mapplethorpe and Patti resided in the famous Chelsea Hotel, the hub of the arts scene in New York at the time. She would sit and have coffee with William S. Burroughs and Alla Ginsberg (though I'm not sure at the same time). Although in my righteous youth I dismissed the ramblings of the 60s as decadent and self-indulgent (as righteous youth are apt to throw not only the baby out with the bath water, but the soap, the shampoo and the plumbing) Smith's account gave a nice glimpse into that historical era.

My main objection to the book is that Patti Smith, with no trace of shame, embarassment or irony views being an Artist (yes, with a capital A) from the 19th century Rimbaud-esque perspective of tortured, self-destructive soul. I really, really hate that. The book is full of grandiose statements such as vowing in front of the statue of Joan of Arc that she will make something of herself. Her and Robert Mapplethorpe's commitment and hyper aware and meticulous putting together of a certain look. Her style is choppy and full of self-aggrandizement about her art.

It occurred to me that it is akin to someone speaking in flowery, romantic terms about their faith and what a saint they are. The lack of humility in itself belies the latter. And the former, though it may be true, should not be talked about in polite society. The relationship between the artist and their artist-ness is deeply personal and requiring, in my view, the same sort of humility that should accompany Faith. For it is a kind of Faith after all.

Matched by Ally Condie

But back to the wobulous world of Young Adult Dystopias! In The Society, every choice is made for you. It is a world regulated by statistics: how much and what is the optimum quantity and quality of the food you eat; what is the line of work that best suits your personality;the best age for dying. Your future partner is also determined by compatibility tests and measures and revealed to you in the Matched ceremony.

Usually, your match lives in an another city or district of town and you don't know them. So when Cassia finds out her match is her best friend Xander, she is over the moon. Until actual love gets in the way and unfortunatly, it is not Xander.

Oh, how the YA novels like their love triangles! I was talking to a student today who mentioned she was heartily sick of them. I myself find it funny that it is such an overused plot device as I don't hear much of the love triangle in real life.

But I digress.

Condie's book is less about the romantic aspect (though it is there in spades and will probably be why young teens pick it up) but about the idea of a true Huxleyan Dystopia. The Society has managed to eliminate sickness, disease, hunger but at the cost of personal agency. Everything is determined by the statistical best. But what happens when your heart goes in a different direction then the society dictates?

Bad things of course, or else we wouldn't have a novel.

Condie sets up her world with simplicity and elegance. Cassia's voice is believable as the young teen who fully believes everything The Society tells her until a mistake happens at her Matching banquet and the cracks in the veneer begin to reveal themselves. The transition is nicely done, with tension building whenever another crack pops out. Like many novels of this genre, the end is one that begs for a sequel, which exists and which I am now reading.

First Descent by Pam Withers

Reviewed from Librarything Advanced Reader's Copy

Once again, this is a book I would never have picked up if it were not for the fact that Librarything sent it to me.

Rex is a champion kayaker who is determined to nab a first descent, the name given to the feat of being the first crazy person to kayak a river. But his heart is set on not just any first descent- he wants to kayak the one river his famous kayaker grandfather tried and failed to complete: the furioso located in Colombia.

Myriam is an indigena living by the banks of the Furioso. Her great ambition is to go to University so she can become a journalist and expose the plight of her people. Stuck in between a bloody and ruthless guerrilla war between the rebels and the paramilitaries, her people and her way of life are slowly being exterminated.

When Rex hires her as a guide for his expedition Myriam believes she has finally found the way to make it to University. Together they embark on an adventure replete with white water, cliffs, jagged rocks, minefields and soldiers.

The strength in this novel are the Myriam sections when she is describing the horrors her people have to face as well as their acute poverty. She is a great foil to Rex who is self-centered and single-minded. He refuses to see the political dangers of the situation along the river and doesn't clue in to state of Myriam and her people for way too long. Although irritating, I suspect this might be true to the character of any red-blooded, indifferently educated young american.

A fast-paced gripping read that combines adventure, sports and a glimpse into an under-reported human rights atrocity.

Books Listened
The Lady Julia Grey Mysteries by Deanna Raybourn

I will do this all in one shot, mainly because they are part of a series of mysteries that follow the same formula and, to be honest, I am a little ashamed of myself at how much I ate them up. The first title in the series , Silent in the Grave won the Rita award for novel with storng romantic elements in it.

I had never heard of the Rita awards before.

And I had never read anything emerging from that great clichéd romance factory, Harlequin.

In my defense, they are mysteries. However there is a steamy love affair that begins slowly, climaxes (excuse the pun. Or don't. I don't care.) at about the third and then steam rolls ahead in the last couple books.

As you can see by the fashions so prominent on the cover, it takes place in mostly Victoria London although they do travel.

Here is a list of why I liked them so much:

Pretty decent mysteries with nice twists at the end. Sufficient red herrings to keep you off the scent, but a conclusion that makes sense once you think back on it. I hate it when the solution to the mystery feels like it cam out of the blue. This is not the case with Raybourn' conclusions, though she does like to trick the reader into assuming she is talking about one character when she is really talking about another. Smart and crafty Raybourn, smart and crafty!

19th century Victoria London. That is all I want to read right now for some reason. Why? I honestly have no idea. I suspect it is why I love Jane Austen's novels. There is a certain enviable simplicity in everyone knowing their place, even if their place in society is grossly unfair and based on random and uncontrollable events such as who your parents were. I realise that that kind of simplicity comes at too great a price and I would have hated living in that time, but still. Sometimes it is nice to read about the upper crusts fixation on the right hat.

Eccentric family: Lady Julia Grey has a beautiful lesbian sister and a brother who wants to be a doctor (which apparently was the height of bad taste for a gentleman). She comes from an illustrious line of eccentrics and was raised by a father who has given his children way more freedom than was thought cautious at the time. I also like it that the most eccentric and hardest for the family to accepts is her older brother who turned Torry. Ha.

The romance part involves a dark, handsome gypsy with muscular forearms (as Raybourn likes to tell us over and over).

The things I don't like:

She tends to use the same phrases over and over. I expect she does this on purpose as the phrases are so singular. Building castles in Spain. Gathering wool. They appear at least once in each book.
The romance bits, especially when they are quarrelling get to be a tad tedious and the reasons for quarreling never seem good enough.
Lady Julia Grey temporizes a lot.

Still. For what they are, the writing is not so noticeable. There are many humorous parts and the character of Lady Julia Grey is strong, eccentric but not totally out of sync with her era. I listened to them during the dread month of November when motivation for running was at its low and the ever low motivation to clean was even lower. They helped me escape and for that I am very appreciative.

But on a total other note- so far as purchasing them from audible which I did, they are quite short- about 12 hours each novel, which was a bit of a waste of a credit.

C'est tout mes amis! Bonne semaine et à la prochaine.

In Honour of Black Friday

2011-11-25T15:47:00.001-05:00

I present to you my first attempt at a detective short story:

Black Friday

The body is splayed like a wrinkled carpet between the pillars of the shoplifting detector, face to the ground. He’s huge, at least 6ft3 and must weigh well over 300 pounds. A trickle of blood seeping from his nose fissures the concrete floor.

“The guys are going to need some help moving this one.” I put on the rubber gloves Ed, the coroner, throws me and scan the scene.

Behind the police tape, only a handful of people stare back at us. We usually get a much bigger crowd for something like this, but I guess the sale was too good. Large cardboard signs featuring Rudolph the reindeer swing from the ceiling and announce Black Friday’s blow out sale in the red of his nose. “Everything with a red dot 80% off! One day only!” I stretch my neck to see behind the small crowd and sure enough, a mob of frantic shoppers are picking over the items on the racks like rats on a dog's carcass.

“Hey, Ed. Whaddya think?” I ask and turn back to the body. A leg is sticking out at an odd angle and I can see the print of a shoe on his hand. “Death by greed?”

Ed smirks and rubs his eyes. It’s early, around 7 in the morning, and I can tell Ed wants to be back in bed or at least nursing a large, cappuccino. He does like his cappuccino, the pretentious bastard.

I search for the inevitable square bulge in the back pocket of the man’s pants and carefully fish out the folded piece of leather. The face of the dead man glares back at me. “William Ballantyne, Jr . 360 Waterforth Lane.” I jot down his name and address in my notebook and slip the wallet into the plastic Ziploc bag Ed is keeping open for me.

“Who in their right mind would get up this early on a holiday just to go shopping?” Ed whines. He leans down and inspects the footprint on the guy’s hand. The footprint spills from the victim’s hand to the floor, like one of those melting clocks by Dali my second ex-wife had hanging in our bathroom.

“Right minds are in short supply these days, my friend. Hadn’t you noticed?” I squat beside Ed and get a closer look.

The guy’s in his mid-forties and by the looks of it just missed death by massive coronary. His legs are at an angle that if he were upright would suggest the jitterbug mid-jitter. His oversized windbreaker is a sidewalk of muddy prints.

“Crushed windpipe,” Ed says.

“Hmmph. Another sacrifice to the god of good deals?”

Ed nods and speaks into his iphone. “Cause of death: Crushed windpipe. Cause of crushed windpipe: Trampled.” He creaks his way back up, holding on to his back like an old man in a cartoon. “Oooph. Getting too old for this.”

I look out into the crowded store. The manager is hovering by the tape, tapping his shoe and looking at his watch. I guess they want this entrance back open. Must be a helluva inconvenience having a dead body blocking the door on the biggest sale day of the year.

Behind him I see a woman, mid- to late-thirties, pretty in a my-job-pays-at-least-three-times-more-than-yours kind of way. She’s staring at me. I stare back.

She’s wearing a tailored leather jacket and a silk scarf tied in a complicated knot around her neck. Her boots reach up almost to the hem of her soft, shape-fitting skirt. Made of fine soft leather and tapered down to lethal spiked heels, they hug her calves in a compromising way. Mmmm. I do love a woman in boots.

Still, I glance down and examine the body for any rivet-like perforations. Can’t see any from here, but that doesn’t mean well-dressed lady isn’t as sale crazy as the rest.

The manager tries to get my attention. “Excuse me, detective?”

I ignore him.

“So Ed. See anything else? “

“Nah. Need to do the autopsy to confirm. The boys can take him away now. What about you?”

I glance at the scene. The outline’s been chalked. The floor’s a mess of footprints and handprints. I could check them all out, try to have them matched, but what’s the use? It’s pretty clear: trampled to death at a blow out sale. Not exactly brain surgery.

“Nope. I’m done. Let’s move out.”

Ed starts shouting instructions at his boys to come and get the body and the uniforms start cleaning up. I glance back to the woman in the boots, just in case eye contact means a drink later on, but she’s deep in conversation with another man. As they talk she gestures toward us and glimpses me watching her. She locks eyes for a second and I swear I see fear skitter across her face. Hmm. Now that’s interesting.

“You gonna notify the family?” Ed asks, as his boys haul the corpse onto a gurney and wheel him out the door. I hear a visible sigh of relief from the manager. Outside the media’s going crazy. Flashes going off all over the place and questions being shot out like bullets from machine guns. This is definitely going to make YouTube’s top ten.

“Yeah, I guess.” I hate this part of the job.

He nods. “Well, see you at the office. I’ll call if anything else turns up. But let’s go on the assumption that the victim was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Makes you want to shop online doesn’t it?”

He lets out a guffaw and then goes out into the media mob. I’ll have to follow soon, but can’t stand that circus. Besides, I want to prolong the manager’s unease for as long as I can. Never could stand department stores.

I walk the perimeter of the crime scene, all the while stealing a glance at the crowd. Most of them are focused on the racks of brightly coloured items waiting to be re-gifted and don’t seem to notice the bright yellow police tape blocking off the south entrance.

There’s something not sitting right with me.

The good-looking woman is now talking on her cell, her back to the racks. I see a little smile dangle in the upper corners of her lips as she talks. She’s looking right at the spot where Bill Jr., the victim was just a second ago. I look around and notice that she’s not the only one looking my way.

That’s not unusual, I tell myself. It is a crime scene after all. Strike that. Accident scene. But then, there’s something odd about the way they’re acting. A teenage boy in the toddler section is flipping through clothes, but he’s not looking at the rack. His eyes ping pong between good-looking lady and me.

And I see a middle-aged man doing the same thing, except for he’s in the hosiery section. Now what would a teenage boy be doing in the toddler section? And the middle-aged man? Buying some tights? Hey, if that’s his deal, I’m not one to judge, but he doesn’t seem the type. More academic than transvestite, if you know what I mean, although you never can tell.

I shake the nagging feeling off like dandruff and button up my coat. A glance outside shows the weather isn’t improving. In the tepid glow of the streetlights flurries of snow attack the poor sods in the parking lot sideways. The media circus is disbanding quicker than high school kids at the last bell. Only a couple of the hardiest remain.

On second thought, I decide to give the manager one last heart attack. The guy’s going to be dedicating his bottle of whiskey to me tonight for sure.

“Okay. Almost done here,” I don’t even check to see if he’s listening. The man’s sweating so hard I can smell his attention. “I just need to get the names and addresses of all the people in the store.” An audible gasp from the man. I put up my finger to shush him while I call in the order. “Yep. Get everybody’s name and info before letting them out. Yes. You can start letting them out now.”

“Oh, we won’t keep anybody,” I turn back to the manager, ignoring his look of horror. “The men are already stationed at each entrance. They’ll take down people’s coordinates before they leave.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary officer? I mean, it was an accident, right? Why do we need to bother these poor people?” He’s looking more and more nervous. Sweat trickles down his forehead and drops off his nose. He wipes his face with his sleeve, leaving a stain.

“Oh you know. Precautions. We might need to speak to them. You know, get their accounts of what happened.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, officer, but isn’t it obvious? People got carried away. Somebody got hurt. It’s unfortunate but it happens. End of story.”

I don’t respond, just stare at him until he has to look away. His eyes dart back and forth until they finally settle for a second. I follow his gaze and see the good-looking woman again. Her coat’s zipped up. She returns the manager’s gaze, then looks away, a perfect poker face.

“Do you know that woman?” I ask.

“What?” He snaps back to attention. “Who?”

“The woman you were just looking at, the one over by the perfume counter,” I say.

His eyes find the place right away. He knows this woman. “No, no. Never seen her before in my life.”

Why would he lie?

“Just wondering. You were looking at her as if you knew her.”

His face glows red like Rudolph’s nose. “No, just looking I guess. She’s a good looking woman, that’s all,” he stammers.

“That she is.” I do up the last button of my coat. “Well, thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.”

The woman is walking toward the North entrance. I pretend to go in the other direction but follow her instead, hidden by racks of winter coats.

She walks with purpose, stopping at the queue to get out the door. I bet she never does anything without a plan. I see her look at her watch and tap her feet impatiently. Finally, she’s next.

“You need to see my what?” she demands. Her voice sounds like it’s traveling on a gravel road. Sexy. I could tell by the tone this was a woman used to getting what she wants.

“Your I.D., Ma’am. We gotta get everybody who was here this morning, just in case you’re needed for questioning.” He’s a young police officer, right out of the academy.

“But I didn’t see anything. I was way behind. By the time I was let in the store, the man was already on the ground.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. It’s procedure.”

She signs in exasperation, but reaches into her bag and pulls out her wallet. She hands her I.D. to the officer who takes down her name, driver’s license number and address.

“Here you go, Ma’am. Have a nice Thanksgiving now. “ He opens the door and lets her out.

As soon as she’s out of sight, I accost the young officer.

“Hey, officer Roundtree,” I say, reading his tag and flashing my badge all at the same time. He stands a little straighter. “Mind if I see that last address?”

“No sir, not at all sir.” The guy could have been military. He promptly hands me his notebook.

“Thanks.” It’s open to the last page so I don’t have any trouble finding it: Iris van Camp, 372 Waterforth Lane. I write the address down in my notebook right below the victim’s and that’s when I see the connection, the corner piece to help frame this little puzzle.

Bill Jr., the accidental floor mat. His house is on the same street as Ms. Van Camp.

The snow’s still blowing hard, making those unlucky enough to be outside look like escapees from a Siberian gulag. I turn up the collar of my coat, an ankle length black wool thing my first wife bought me in an attempt to gift me with a fashion sense. The fashion sense and the wife didn’t stick – the coat did.

Waterforth Lane is only about a ten-minute drive away, a tiny little cul-de-sac off Waterforth St.

The mailman must love that. I slow down as soon as I turn on the street and look for Iris’ address.

The numbers start at 350 and end at 374. Bill Jr.’s house is 360, five houses down from 372. If the little lane was a face, 360 would be the ear and 372 the right eye. Other than the fact the victim’s house is so heavy with Christmas decorations it looks like Santa’s yard sale, the houses are identical.

I park in front of Bill Jr.’s but keep an eye on 372. There’s a black Mercedes SUV, the kind that looks like an ice cream truck, parked in the driveway, along with a red Toyota Echo.

In the five minutes I sit there, I see a lady from 354 hurry across the snow-blown road and knock at Iris’ door. Then the neighbour from 370 does the same. All of them are wrapped like burritos in large coats and don’t give me a second glance until a shadow darkens my window and I see a woman, middle-aged and a little frumpy, stare at me through the window as she passes. She also knocks on 372 but hesitates before going in. I see her talking to someone in the doorway and pointing toward my car.

I sigh. Guess I’m going to have to get out. I hurry-shuffle to the door of 360 and brace myself before ringing the bell. No matter how hard you try and rehearse for this part of the job, it always ends in a whole bucket of bad dumped on your head.

Still. No point in delaying the inevitable. I ring the doorbell. While I wait, I hop around to keep warm. I steal glances at 372 but nobody else seems to be going in.

The Ballantynes take a while to answer the door. I don’t see a car in the driveway, but that doesn’t mean much. Bill Jr. had to get to the mall somehow. I ring again, this time listening for footsteps or any other telltale signs of life. Nobody.

Damn. I’m going to have to come back.

Time to visit the neighbours, I decide. Besides I’m freezing. I cross the street trying not to slip on the snow-covered ice and rap on the door.

The teenage boy I saw in Bullet opens the door. His eyes go wide and before I can introduce myself he lets out a blood curdling, “Mom!” and streaks back down the hallway, leaving the door wide open and me standing in the snow. I step inside and close the door for him. No sense heating the whole neighborhood.

It’s one of those roomy foyers that sit like a cherry in the middle of the house, it’s only purpose to impress people with its grandeur. A staircase snakes up along the rim, and embraces the entrance like a fur-lined collar. If I were a kid in this place, those banisters would be mine, I think.

There is already a Poinsettia and a Christmas cactus blooming on the side table and I see evidence of Christmas boxes ready to be unpacked.

On the walls are artsy photos in black and white, all snapshots of family scenes. Iris is in most of them, surrounded by the young boy I just saw and a younger girl, about ten. I recognize the academic from the mall in a couple shots as well, although not as many.

“May I help you?” Her voice rides the gravel train to the back of my neck sending shivers down my spine. Man, this woman is sexy.

I turn around and make a point of glimpsing at her left index finger. No ring. Hmmm. Interesting. What were they doing in the mall together then? Shopping for their children? Doubt it.

I run my hand through my hair, wishing I had used the photos to check my do.

“Ms. Van Camp?” I say, holding out my hand. She looks at it for a nanosecond, like she’s not sure if she should shake it or cut it off. Then she takes it in a firm, almost bone-crushing grip. “My name’s Detective Holly.”

“Hmmm. How seasonal.”

I smile. “ I was hoping for Mistletoe but woke up too late in the bad name line.”

I see the little smile twitch at the corner of her lips, but then it’s gone.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Oh, no need to flatter me. I know it’s not much of a pleasure having a detective show up at your door on Thanksgiving. I was just wondering if you could answer some questions about this morning at the mall.” I wait to see if she’ll invite me in, but her face remains expressionless. I sure wouldn’t want to play poker with this lady. “Is there a place where we can sit and talk?”

A miniscule gesture toward the living room, a slight turn of the head and flip of the hair makes me very curious to see what’s in the room she just left. Instead, she takes me down a long hall.

“We can talk in my study,” she directs me to a book-lined room with a large mahogany desk in the middle. The window faces out onto the street with a perfect view of 360. She waves me to the chair on the other side of the desk while she takes the leather bound office chair behind. Elbows on the table, chin on her knuckles, she looks for all the world like a president or a bigwig CEO. My hunch that this woman is used to getting what she wants is promoted to an evidence-based suspicion.

“I’m sure you know by now that the victim was a neighbour of yours, Bill Ballantyne Jr.”

At the mention of his name I detect a slight tightening of her jaw.

“Yes.” She doesn’t say, “how terrible” or any other platitude. Just yes, as if I asked her if she took milk in her coffee. Speaking of which, she’s a little short on hospitality. I could use a cup.

“And I noticed that you didn’t come forward with this information at the time.”

“The police didn’t question me. They already found his wallet, they knew who he was. I didn’t have anything else to add so why should I?”

Most people in her situation would be asking if they did anything wrong. However, I’m beginning to think that this woman thinks the best defense is offense.

“I see.” I make a note of what she says just to make her nervous. It doesn’t work. She looks down at my pad and then back at me with her blank stare.

“When you entered the store, was Mr. Ballantyne already down?”

“I saw a man down, but was in such a rush to get out of the crowd I’m ashamed to say I panicked. I pushed through like the rest of the people.”

I try to imagine her panicking and can’t. She doesn’t look the type.

“And your children?”

“They were behind me. They didn’t see anything.” There’s an edge to her voice now. I feel as if I just illegally crossed a heavily guarded border and have large guns pointed at me.

“And your ex?”

“How did you…never mind. Yes, he was there. I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”

“Okay. I will. He’s in the living room with the rest, I take it?” A guess, but by the look on her face, a good one.

She looks at me, her mouth open in surprise. I’ve managed to crack the surface of this suburban ice queen, but it’s an empty pleasure. For a second she looks lost and vulnerable and I feel a little bad.

“Wait!”

But I’m already down the hall. I can hear the tap of those killer boots as she runs to catch up.

“Wait!”

I keep going. She’s right beside me now, her manicured fingers clutching my coat, trying to hold me back.

“Wait. Please.”

I stop short. She looks up at my face with large, dark eyes. I can smell her perfume, a faint musk, not too strong, but just enough to make you want to taste. Her hand is still on my coat.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I keep my voice down for the benefit of the guests.

She hesitates for a second, then lets go. The poker face is back, with a little twinge of the grim added to it. “No, no. It’s just that…well, some of the neighbours are over.”

“Good. I’ll need to talk to them too.” I turn back toward the living room. “And if you know where I can reach Mr. Ballantyne’s family, I’d be most obliged.”

“They left. Him, I mean. I don’t know where to reach them.”

“Oh, I thought for sure…” Stupid. Never assume. “ He lives alone then?”

She nods. Well, at least I don’t have to be the bringer of bad news. “Do you know of any other next of kin we can contact, then?”

“His mother’s in the nursing home over on Kirkland Ave.” She says through gritted teeth as if even mentioning the man leaves a battery acid taste in her mouth.

“Oh.” I pull myself together before entering the living room. Fat man. Family left in what I’m suspecting were bad circumstances. Lives alone. No close relatives. Going to a sale on Christmas day. Has a house decorated like the remainder sale at Kris Kringle’s Christmas Wonderland. The pieces just don’t add up. What the hell’s going on here?

I enter the living room and am greeted with a room full of anxious faces. I see the ex standing in the far corner behind a large overstuffed armchair. I didn’t notice it before, but he’s got a bandage on his hand and he’s cradling his arm as if it were a baby. The son is sitting on the arm of the chair, curled protectively around a ten year-old girl. On the couch is the frumpy lady I saw running over as well as an older man and another middle-aged housewife type.

They all look a little familiar. The crime scene. The people milling around. It wasn’t just Iris and her family, it was all of them. The whole of Waterforth lane was at the sale.

“Hello,” I say. I look closer. The frumpy middle-aged lady has a bruise the size of an apple on her cheek and the man has a footprint on his pants. The kids seem unscathed, but I do see the teenage boy rubbing his leg.

“Good sale?”

They all just stare at me, the fear in the room rising like steam.

“Mind if I ask you some questions?”

Once again, nothing, so I start anyway. There’s only one piece left in this puzzle and this next question will push it into place.

“What kind of neighbour was Mr. Ballantyne?”

All heads instantly turned toward me, like a field of sunflowers turning to the sun. Except sunflowers look less horrified. And I am definitely not the sun.

“Why do you ask?” Ms. Van Camp, finally says, her lips pursed together so tight I swear she’s a ventriloquist.

“It would greatly aid in the investigation Ma’am,” I say, trying my best to imitate the polite innocence of the rookie at the mall.

If possible, her lips purse even tighter and I can see the muscle in her jaw clench.

“He was an asshole,” This from frumpy middle-aged woman on the couch.

“Lois!” Ms. Van Camp gasps.

“Well, he’s going to find out soon enough anyway, isn’t he?” Lois, continues. “Haven’t you wondered why Mr. Ballantyne,” she says the name likes it’s a contagious disease, “has the only decorations up on the street?”

I shrug. “I noticed he had a lot of them,” is all I say.

Lois snorts. “Yeah. A lot of them. Did you happen to see a vintage Santa in a sleigh? The one made out of wood with the Rudolph’s nose lit up?”

I nod.

“Well, that’s mine. My father made it back in the 50s for our house. It’s a family heirloom.”

“That’s mighty generous of you to lend it to him, “ I say.

“Generous, my patootie. He made me give it to him. Threatened to vandalise my prize-winning rhododendrons.” The amount of bile in her voice could melt snow.

Like water breaking through a badly constructed dam, the threats, insults, vicious gags Mr. Ballantyne made them suffer rush at me in a torrent.

“When I wouldn’t mow his lawn for him, he put cola in my mower’s fuel tank.”

“He wouldn’t let anybody else put up Christmas decorations.”

“He spray painted my house when I asked him if he wanted to join our walking group- thought I was calling him fat,” The middle-aged lady beside Lois adds. “Which I was,” she mutters under her breath.

“He threatened my children.”

Everybody shuts up. Iris looks right at me. Although her gaze is calm, I see the mother beast behind it. A shiver runs down my spine. She’s sexy, but scary.

I look down at my notepad and pretend to scribble something down. But really, I just wanted to avoid her headlight stare.

“I see. What exactly did he say, Ma’am?”

“Stop calling me Ma’am. You can call me Iris.”

“Iris, then.” Her name feels good on my tongue. “Do you remember exactly what he said?”

“He told me if I persisted in putting up my Christmas decorations, I just might get a call one day at work saying my child had been the victim of a hit and run. Or that one of them accidentally slipped on the ice and hit their head.” She delivers this in a flat monotone, poker face fully operational.

“Why didn’t you come forward to the police?” I ask.

A chaotic symphony of guffaws and snorts greet me.

“What good would that have done?” Iris asks. She looks at me and sighs. I see tiny lines at the edge of her eyes, cracks of fatigue in her perfect façade. “You don’t understand. This has been going on for five years, ever since he moved here.”

“We’ve been living in terror at what this man would do to us. We’re tired.”

“Nobody threatens my family.” Iris’s voice is as hard as marble.

“So you…”

Iris looks at me straight in the eye, the smile dangling like a Christmas ornament from her lips.

“We took him shopping.”

“And the manager of the store?”

She looks at me for a moment. A glint of admiration lights up her eyes.

“Number 368.”

I nod.

“And, from what you’re telling me about Mr. Ballantyne, he would have made sure he was first in line.”

Iris just raises her eyebrows. The others are frozen with fear.

“And it wouldn’t have taken much to get that crowd going. Just some well-timed shoving and pushing, “ I say. The picture’s getting clearer and clearer.

Nobody could accuse the people of Waterforth Lane of lack of solidarity.

Iris doesn’t even try to play innocent. “You know how rowdy people get when there’s a sale…”

I look at her and at her two children. She really is a damn fine woman. Although I know I should have her arrested on the spot, all of them as a matter-of-fact, I just can’t do it.

I rise from the chair. “Well, I guess Mr. Ballantyne was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I say, flipping my notebook closed.

They smile and the tension in the room deflates like a leaky waterbed.

“Happy holidays to you all.”

Iris walks me out. “Thank you, detective.” She shakes my hand. She’s soft and tiny and I have to resist the urge to smell my hand for the scent of her.

I play innocent. “Just doing my job, Ma’am. I mean Iris.”

She smiles. “No, I don’t think you are. And once again, I thank you for it.”

I smile back.

She presses a piece of paper into my palm.

“You probably already have this,” she says, her dark liquid eyes staring right at me, “but this is an official invitation. Give me a call sometime. I’ll get a babysitter.”

I have one last look before she closes the door. Hands on her hips, boots up to her knees, a smile of relief on her face.

Oh, I surely will. I think to myself.

Back in the car, I rip up the notes I took and burn them in the ashtray. The Christmas lights from Bill Jr.’s yard dance like coked up fairies on my dashboard. I start the engine and take the scenic route out of Waterforth Lane, driving slowly by Iris’.

Couldn’t prove it even if I wanted to, I tell myself to sweep away the dust motes of doubt in my brain.

Besides. It’s Thanksgiving.

Parent Presence Required: Something has to give

2011-11-20T09:24:00.001-05:00

I have come to a hard conclusion in these last couple of months. It has come after banging my head against the wall, lamenting my lack of time to devote to my writing. Predictably, this has only resulted in a large mental bruise (I wasn't literally banging my head against the wall- I'm no masochist.)

I came to the realisation that I am not going to be able to do anything but dabble in writing until my kids are out of high school. Oh, I will continue attempting to get my half hour here and my hour there of writing time. I wouldn't feel like myself if I didn't. But the dream of finishing a novel in a reasonable amount of time?

I've let that little dream bird fly away.

But let me back track. It has been a hard few months, but not for me. For the members of my family. My role has been simply as supporting actor in the drama.

First we had the summer vacation of constant visits, showing that even vacationing can come to feel like work. For part of those visits I was also literally working, which meant I left work as early as I could to go back and visit with the people camping in my living room.

The day everyone left, my kids started school. And my husband got a call that most people live in dread of:"come right now, your dad might not make it." He was on the plane back home within a couple of hours. This was the beginning of two months where J was more gone than home. At the same time, he also had a major showing of his work in Toronto, which required his presence.

But here is the big thing, the thing that I have only just realised. All this other stuff was circumstantial and conceivably, once all these little crises and events were over, things could get back to normal. (Normal, if I am being honest with myself, has always been an erratic writing schedule where if I can get more than an hour in a day I count myself lucky).

Except that I have two daughters, one who has just entered high school. She will be thirteen very soon and I am just starting to glean what that means as a parent.

I am finding that contrary to expectations, a whole new kind of parenting is being required of me- one more complicated and nuanced than what I have hitherto have had to give. When they are kids, you spend a lot of time making sure they are fed, watered, clothed properly. The bobos are visible and the problems, even those stemming from friendship, are relatively simple.

But now I am dealing with a daughter who is motivated, eager to do well in school. She is happy, blossoming and finally putting herself out there. The problem is, she doesn't always live up to what she thinks she is doing. She has marks for the first time in her life (she has been in an alternative school) and loves it as she can gage her progress. But this also means dealing with the disappointment, the sense of failure when she doesn't get the grade. It means showing her how to take it as a measuring stick for her own progress and not to succumb to discouragement and despair. It means having conversations about the building blocks of the world and seeing her face as she asks questions she will believe will be answered in a finite way, like all her questions so far, but that have no good answers, like, "If there was a big bang that created the world, what was before the big bang?"
It means being present as she figures out what it means to work hard, to feel discouraged, as well as celebrating the successes (she was recently in a very successful production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, something she would never have conceived of doing in Elementary school).

It is helping negotiate her rapidly changing body and her mood swings. It is being available to listen.

As for my younger daughter, she is dealing with more responsibility as she no longer goes to the same school as her older sister and has to make her way home by herself. She spends hours alone after school. My presence is required in more pronounced time alone with her- reading books and cuddling. Trying to figure out why she is so tired all the time.

My attention can no longer be in two places. When I am always thinking I could be writing instead of being present with my children, I am doing a bad job of both. Something has to give.

As I write this, I am half listening to an interview with Umberto Eco on CBC's The Sunday Edition. (Yeah, I know- the irony of doing two things badly at once isn't lost on me). He wrote his first novel, The Name of the Rose, at the tender age of 48 saying that writing is a game for old men (which I am going to assume he meant old women too). He said it was because he felt like poisoning a monk...

There is hope.

October in Books

2011-11-08T08:30:00.001-05:00

Hello! I'm back!

Well, sort of. You will remark that the ratio of books actually read to books simply listened to is a little skewed this month. This peculiar percentage is due to the unfortunate circumstance of not having any time to sit down and read. And when I do have time to sit with a book, I promptly fall asleep in the first five minutes (but I am sure none of you experience that phenomena). However, my life is full of tiresome tasks (I am rocking the alliteration today!) that are considerably less tiresome when listening to a story. Especially if that story is a Victorian, quasi-bodice-ripping murder mystery. Quasi because no bodices actually get ripped- they are only in imminent danger of being passionately torn from heaving bosoms. Heady glances across the dining hall, a whisper disturbing the hairs at the nape of the neck. A flutter of gloved fingers at a bare wrist. That sort of thing.

But first.

Books I actually read on real paper.

Heartless by Gail Carriger

I rejoined Ms. Alexia Tarabotti as she waddled her way through London society heavy with the "infant inconvenience" and still the favoured target of the vampire hives. What else do I have to say about this?

I don't want to get to much into the plot as it is the fourth in the series. Let me just say that if you are looking for the right mix of humour, adventure and rapier wit, draped in rich satin, hatted with superb millinery skills and scented with a dash of steampunk tech wielded by a cross-dressing, debonair French inventor of the Saphic persuasion, then this is the book for you.

The parasol protectorate is the perfect salve for anyone who feels frazzled by daily demands. Okay. So recommended to everyone.

Pattern Recognition by William Gibson (A book club read)

Let us venture into the world if the cyber thrillers for a moment, shall we? The idea behind this book is intriguing. It focuses on the cut-throat world of marketing and the ability of some people to be able to instinctively recognise when something "works." (Side note- apparently this is the idea Gladwell explores in his book Blink, but I haven't read it so am just going on hearsay). The difference is, Gladwell talks about this phenomena in various fields- here it is attached to marketing. The main character Cayce Pollard, is a free lancer in the world of marketing. She is a cool hunter, but also some sort of logo savant- she is hired by agencies to pronounce on logos. Her contract stipulates that she need not give reason for her pronouncement. She will look at something, then either nod her head in approval and you know you have a winner or shake her and it is back to the drawingboard. The downside to this skill is that she had a visceral reaction to many logos- catching sight of the Michelin Man can give her an attack almost immediately.

And that is where I got interested. A marketing person who is allergic to logos. Cayce's sanctuary is in an online chatroom where she discussed the possible meaning, provenance, etc. of mysetrious footage that appear in different places in the web, but most definitely belong to the same story. It has been her obssession for years and until then has been something she keeps secret from her friends and separate from her professional life. Until she is hired by Blue Ant Marketing and its brilliant but enigmatic and dare I say, Machiavellian owner Bigend, to find out where the footage comes from. A story full of nasty corporate spies, ex-secret police from both sides of the cold war, and a whole host of eccentirc characters ensue.

Although Gibson's style took me a while to decode, I finally got to appreciate it. That is, after I looked up the word liminal. He seemed very fond of it. Dry, and unsentimental, the thrilling gets thrilling at certain points, and he is a master of setting up a scene to creep you out. Although the ending was a little rushed, Pattern Recognition is a great book for someone who is looking for a page turner with some substance.

Spinning out by David Stahler Jr.
Reviewed from a Librarything Early Reviewer copy

There are some books that surprise you. You pick them up with low expectations, thinking that this is not the kind of book for you and opening it with a sense of duty. Oh, fine. I really should review this. It was sent to me for free after all. That sort of thing.

But then you read a few pages and although the story has no werewolves, vampires or any supernatural creatures, no murders or corporate secrets being traded to the highest bidder, the book has your full attention.

This was the case with Stahler's Spinning Out, a simple tale of two high school buddies in their senior year of high school. Frenchie and Stewart are the clowns of the school, though they both do well academically, they are the non-joiners, the outcasts. But when Stewart gets it into his quirky head that they should try out for the school musical, Man of La Mancha, the fit hits the shan as they say. Stewart gets the role of Don Quixote and Frenchy gets the role of Sancho Panza, a fitting metaphor for their friendship and personality.

Frenchy (so named because of his French-Canadian background and the fact that he is husky and hirsute- a stereotype I take issue with Mr. Stahler) thinks Stewart is joking, that it is a big lark. But it is soon clear that playing Don Quixote means way more to Stewart than Frenchy could have guessed. Stewart begins to wear his costume all the time, and is rarely out of character. When Frenchy hears Stewart battling the voices in his head, he realises that there is something very wrong with his friend and he doesn't know what to do. Unfortunately, this is just the horrifying scenario he has just lived through with his father. An ex-soldier fresh from Iraq, he suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome and committed suicide, leaving Frenchy and his mother to wonder how they could have stopped him. frenchy is haunted by the "if I had just..." syndrome familiar to the surviving family members.

At first glance, this is a story with a predictable plotline. Disinterested, troubled kid comes of age by taking a chance and finding out he is not such a loser as he supposes. But Stahler has made it so much richer. He deftly weaves themes of mental illness, suicide and depression through out the book without ever getting maudlin.

I think I actually heard the creaking of my heart as it cracked just a little for Stewart and Frenchy.

I suprised the hell out of myself by not being able to put this book down. The characters are rich and nuanced. The plot swift and suspenseful. There are several scenes centered around battling windmills. What's not to like?

I would recommend this to...I don't know who I would recommend this to. It would be a good one for teen boys who don't like to read maybe. But alas, I don't know many of those. I would also recommend this to teen girls who like coming of age stories- fans of Nick Hornby maybe, or Gordon Korman... Hell, I would recommend this to anyone who likes Don Quixote, or even just a good story.

Books I listened to

A Dangerous Mourning and Defend and Betray by Anne Perry

Now back to my 19th century murder mystery obsession. William Monk and Hester Latterly are back in two more adventures (there are way more, I'm sure). I don't have much to say about them except for I remember getting a tad bit bored after the third one. The internal repetitive musings can become a bit much.

Although I find both their characters fascinating (especially Hester- a strong, independent woman with an easily roused temper who suffers from an excess of competence, to the chagrin of all her male acquaintances) much of the time their actions don't make sense to me. They become bitter and resentful at the slightest provocation. They seem to willfully misunderstand each other.

In A Dangerous Mourning, Monk resigns from his post as Police Detective over the arrest of a footman for the murder of his mistress. Monk does not believe the footman is guilty, but his nemesis at the station (whose name I forgot and am too lazy to look up) is getting pressured from on high (not God - his superiors) and wants to get the case over and done with. Nobody will miss an arrogant footman after all.

But that does not stop Monk. He enters into private consultation and is hired by Hester's friend Lady something or other (another name that has fallen down the well of my mind).

Hester has been fired as well from the hospital where she had been working as a nurse for taking matters into her own hands (even though she did the right thing and saved a baby's life, it was unforgivable of her to act without the stupid doctor's consent). She finds herself in need of a place and ends up in the dead woman's family.

Need I say more? As I think about it, I can't even remember who did it? Oh wait. it is coming back to me. I've got it. And I'm not telling...

Defend and Betray finds Hester hiring Oliver Rathbone, the lawyer who convicted the murderer in the first book on behalf of her friend's family. Her friend's brother has been murdered and his wife confessed to it. But Hester's friend does not believe she did it though she won't admit it. What could be the reason for her admission of guilt? Who is she protecting? Rathbone hires Monk to work as his detective for the case and Hester helps get the family gossip. Ooh, the one thing that would keep me reading more is the burgeoning love triangle between Hester, Monk and Rathbone. Although at the rate it is going, it might take a few more books for anyone to declare themselves and I am not sure I have the patience.

Nothing much to say about these books. It caught my attention and I did wonder who done it, but there are some literary tics that become more annoying as they are read to you. I will probably wait for another audio book sale before buying any more (that is how I bought the first three).

All Clear by Connie Willis

I mentioned the first part of this book in a previous post and I am not pleased to relate how equally bloody annoying I found its sequel.

There were so many things I found irritating about this time traveling history to the Blitz in Word War II I don't even know where to begin.

OK, Fine. Let us start where so many books go wrong. Let us begin with character. The character development consisted of each of the three main protagonists indulging in counter-productive games of what-ifs for several hundred pages. That is to say, there was no development. In addition to rehashing the same "Oh-nos" over and over again, and wondering in more and more creative ways how they have disturbed the time/space continuum, their reactions made no sense. If there is one thing I hate, is when a character in a book acts willfully stupid. For example, Polly one of the historians left behind, keeps hiding information from her fellow trapped historians. Why? because she wants to spare them the worry? Because being trapped in the middle of a bombing blitz in World War II with no visible means of escaping is not as bad as the fact that she saw her friend and felow trapped historian Merope at D-Day on another assignment? Or that she thought she bumped into their boss Historian down at the church and that somehow that might be important?

As well, the characters have no history. They spend a lot of time making little acerbic asides to themselves about their case. For example, if a regular Londoner asks them if they want to leave, or where's their home, or make some other assignment, 'they will constantly say under their breath or to themselves some pithy remark like, "you have no idea," she muttered. But not once, in the months they spend in the blitz, do they give a thought to their family left behind. It is like they sprouted out of the ground as historians, without any past history. Although Willis obviously has a knack for keeping people guessing (that's why I kept listening), suspense does not make up for the fact that because I didn't know of any good reason for them to go back home to the future- except for that it was their home, it didn't seem as urgent.

Of course, there is always the disturbance in the Time/Space continuum. Willis deals with time as serpentine, a chaotic system (isn't that an oxymoron?) that will correct itself when tampered with. But if it corrects itself, doesn't it mean there is a plan to begin with? And in the end, that is how she resolves it. The historians are just part of the God Chaotic System's big plan. A notion unsatisfactory in the extreme as well as her conception of time travel. If they are so concerned with the time-space continuum it should be obvious to the Historians that the minute they set a foot anywhere, whether it be in the past or in the present, they change it. The principle of uncertainty tells us that. So the fact that these historians go blundering into one of the more volatile times in history and then spend months wondering if every incident that occurs to them- being hit by a bicycle, influencing someone to join the Nurses- is what will lose the war seems too little too late, if not completely asinine.

I feel like I need to counter this review a little by showing a good review of these two books. And I will mention again that this diptych did win the Hugo Award so it might be just me who found it so frustrating. Once again, I probably find myself in the minority, the story of my life...

Crocodile on the Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters

And I'm back to the 19th century murder mysteries with strong female characters who fall for arrrogant, proud, preferably large and hairy men (the hairy chest thing seems to be a big turn-on in these books).

Amelia Peabody, a wealthy old maid of 32 decides to go travelling after the death of her beloved, scholarly father. She is headstrong, smarter than most and does not suffer fools gladly (my favourite kind of heroine).She's bound for Egypt via Italy when her plans are delayed by the very inconvenient illness of her companion whom she must send back to England. Ms. Peabody is wondering what to do when she comes across a damsel in distress in a cemetery, in a melodramatic moment that is only saved from complete sentimentality by Amelia's biting tongue and common sense. She takes the girl Evelyn back home, nurses her and makes her a companion despite Evelyn's self-professed ruin (she eloped with her Italian art teacher who then left her when she was disinherited before marrying her). Together, they travel to Egypt. There they meet with more adventure than they bargained for in the form of a ghost of a mummy.

While the actual mystery was predictable, and the voice of the narrator used for Evelyn sickeningly insipid, Amelia's first person account is hilarious. There is also a nice love story threading its way through out the novel , complete with a rough hewn Darcy-esque Egyptologist. Definitely a fun listen, though I am not sure if I need to read more.

So there. Thus concludes October in Books. A note about these reviews- they are not so much reviews so much as flippant commentary on the books I am reading.
Duh. I guess that is what reviews are in essence.( Can you tell I am feeling guilty about my bad reviews?)

Whatever I think of the book, the author still managed to write one, which is more than I can say for myself. So. Once again. These are just my humble opinions. They are not even that educated, I am sorry to say and sometimes I like a book more because it suits my mood and less because it is a good book with weighty substance.

In a nutshell- take me with a grain of salt please.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Thoughts on Social Media and Youth: a few random thoughts on our role as parents

2011-10-24T14:01:00.001-04:00

I have been involved over the past year in shaping our school's social media policy. I am becoming more and more interested in the subject, mainly because it is an issue that affects me in my professional life as well as a parent. The conclusion I've come to is simple. We should expect kids to behave online the way we expect them to behave in realtime (as opposed to faketime? That is a weird expression, but oddly appropriate to describe how youth view their online interactions- more on that later).

Being a digital citizen is an extension of being an actual citizen- the same principles are in play.

Which means as parents our roles are the same as they always were: to provide guidance and hope to heck they are at least half-listening.

Now, as you can see from the fact that I write a blog, have a facebook account, a twitter account and a linkedin account, I am not exactly opposed to social media. I use it to connect to friends, as a way to connect with other professionals and even as a marketing tool (which is a fancy way of saying I push the links to this post on my other feeds and engage in other shameless self-promotion). I think there is a huge potential in social media for connecting like-minded individuals, as well as powerful tools for learning.

In a nutshell fellow parents: there is no need to throw the baby out with the bath water. Blow out the match on your tech bonfire and have a nice cup of chamomile tea while we discuss this.

Just thought we needed a visual...

That is not to say there aren't any concerns. There are. But they are extensions of the same concerns we face with our kids concerning non-media: they all have to do with how to be in the world. How you treat others and how you want others to treat you. And of course, how to protect yourself (mostly, from yourself as it turns out).

Having said that, although the challenges kids face stem from the same issues, they do have some unique aspects.

Let us address some of these concerns individually, shall we?

1. Sexual Predators
We have all heard the stories.Young girl enters chat room and starts a relationship online. Boy asks her to meet in person and she agrees. Young boy turns out to be a 50-year old creepazoid with a windowless van. Insert horrific consequences here.

I just attended a seminar by Alissa Sklar who writes the blog Risk within Reason. It was an informational session for parents at our school about social media and ways to approach your own child's use of these tools. She mentioned something people tend to forget- most kids are sexually assaulted by people in their realtime lives- relatives, family friends, coaches. She also mentioned that incidents of sexual assault have declined steadily since 1993 according to Stats Can.

Does that mean we shouldn't worry? No. We should always worry. Worrying is what we do as parents. I am very imaginative when it comes to worrying. I worry about my kids getting their scarves trapped in escalators and choking to death. But does that mean my kids are not allowed to take an escalator? No.

Instead, I give them a set of ground rules that are so simple they seem almost stupid to mention (but that never stopped me):

1. Never post any personal information online (address, telephone number, last name, birthdate, etc.) Now, you will say that I'm being a hypocrite- my name appears online everywhere. The difference is I am an adult, who's brain has finally matured (or so they say) and who uses social media mostly as a professional tool. Just so you are wondering, experts (I guess that means brain scientists), say the children's brains don't fully become functional (like the death star!) until their early twenties.

Which means I got married and had my first child when my brain was still growing.

Hmmm. But that's another story.

2. Never friend anybody you don't know very well.

3. Never meet someone you met online in person.

It is the same as telling your children to never take candy from a stranger. Never go anywhere with a stranger even if he (or she) has "lost their dog and needs help finding it."

See? As soon as we drill this into our children's heads with the cordless Dewalt of repetition, we feel much more secure.

2. Cyberbullying
This is a big one these days, in fact bigger than number 1. (Isn't number two always bigger than number 1? Sorry. Couldn't help the scatalogical connotation) It is the cause of way more problems and is way more prevalent.

Why? because the kids who would not normally be the bully in a physical setting feel like they are able to say whatever they want online without fear of consequences (which is the untruest of the untrue- there are always consequences). Kids who seem shy, hard working and obedient in a school setting can turn out to be the worst of the cyber-bullies. This is where certain aspects of online behaviour needs to be emphasized.

Of course, it can all be summed up in one simple, effective phrase:

Don't be a jerk, either online or off.

However, there is also context to deal with. Tone. Nuance. All the facial expressions, the bodily gestures, the tone of voice that allows people to gage the nuance of our meaning. That is all missing when you are commenting on someone's wall or when you are IMing your friend. Kids need to be aware (and they not always are) that words without all these props can mean very different things.

There is also the problem of distance- it is way easier to be mean to someone (or to break up with someone or....insert bad situation here) when you don't have to witness their reaction.

It is imperative that we talk to our kids about the consequence of their actions, but it is the same talk as we would give a five year old about hitting her friend and grabbing the barbie away. How would you feel if someone did that to you?

Oh- there is also the problematic equation of chats and comments being permanent. These things can come back to haunt you and, like anything negative you've ever done in your life, it probably will, if only in the fact that the comment/text/IM can be rehashed by the person over and over again instead of just fading away like a nonchalant verbal jab in the playground (although it is debatable how much those actually fade- at least you don't have a physical reminder of it).

There is also an interesting side to this sort of behaviour that I will address in #4- faketime.

3. Anti-social behaviour
I woke up this morning, groggily poured myself my coffee and opened my computer. The first thing I see is this article on i09 (my favouritest sci-fi site ever) about a study linking the number of Facebook friends to the density of certain areas of the brain. Which part of the brains do you think it is? Try to guess...

Guessed?

If you guessed the areas of your brain that correspond to social perception and associative memory, then you would be right. Now calm down, nobody's saying Facebook makes you smarter. No. I am saying, however, that people who use it are social- online and off.

Which debunks the whole myth that Facebook and other social media tools are making our children anti-social. In fact, research shows that kids are most likely to friend and communicate with people they know in realtime. It is just another aspect of their social interactions.

In fact, if your kids are spending too much time on facebook, maybe the problem is that they are too social. Have you ever thought of that? Huh? Huh? (Coming from the mouth of a person who's biggest wish is for a door so that she can be left in peace for a few moments).

4. Posting inappropriate images, comments online or the creation of faketime
You know how it was important in high school to project a certain image of yourself? Whether you were a jock, a popular girl, a punk rocker or a nerd (or whatever the hell you were) this has extended to the carefully manicured lawns of teen facebook pages. Teens will spend an inordinate amount of time cultivating their online persona- from getting professional photographs of themselves for their profile photos, to posting certain images and comments online that will make them a contender in facebook hottest chicks page. Some will cultivate a badass image by posting photos of themselves smoking up or drinking. Others will use it in a more positive but no less stressful manner by cultivating their persona as an activist or as a way to help them get into the right university.

How do I know this? My friend is a sociologist who researches youth and the internet and we were talking about this phenomena. Part of the explanation for this behaviour is that social media sites represent one of the few unsupervised field of play for this generation (talking about privileged, middle class first world kids of course). Their lives are so structured, the activities so numerous, the paranoia about public spaces so great they no longer have the hours in the park before dinner, the hanging out in front of the 7/11 (I've dated myself with this reference, haven't I?).

And as teenagers, what does play consist of? Of figuring out who the heck you are, primarily. Who didn't go through phases? I remember at one point I would only dress in skirts and blouses from the 1940s. I also had a pretty extended grunge phase, which is still not quite over, and a nostalgic mod phase which also is not quite over. Although I didn't see it as such at the time, these were all attempts to see which manifestation fit best.

My friend mentions over and over in her research that kids say that parents don't understand, that they take what they post online too seriously, that everyone knows it isn't real.

In very real ways, teens view their interactions online as play, or faketime (which would explain some pretty stupid posts).

I am fascinated and a little terrified by this, as they have chosen a very public space to play the game of identity, a space where everything is recorded and your every mistake archived.

What is important here is to talk to your kids about this. Duh, I know. But don't go all medieval on their butts- there is a positive way to use these tools and ways to manage your online profile. Sklar recommends setting up a google alert with your name, to make sure that you can keep track of what people are saying about you. (I haven't done that yet- but just might. Or maybe I have and nobody talks about me, which is more likely the case). But certain ground rules, little rules of thumb are handy for this:

Never post anything in anger.
Never post anything you wouldn't want your mother/father/grandfather/aunt etc. to see
Oh, and no photos of you drinking, smoking or doing anything else that might come back to bite you in virtual patootie.
And for the love of pete, Keep your clothes on!

What we should be talking with about with our kids:

Privacy
What is privacy? How do they view it? Why is it that the onus of keeping our information secure is on us and not Facebook? Is it worth sacrificing our privacy to use these tools? What should be the role of the law when it comes to Privacy and privacy violations online?

How important is your privacy to you?

My friend the sociologist makes an excellent point when she says that it will be this generation of digital natives that will shape the way privacy is viewed in the future, the way we deal with these issues as a society. Beginning the conversation with them now is vital.

Whoah. Long post and I didn't even say half the things I wanted to say. I promise to be more short-winded in the future...

How to help your kid: let them fail

2011-10-14T08:41:00.000-04:00

I have been thinking of failure lately. I have recently just gone through a three to four month period where I have not accomplished any of my own goals set - finishing my manuscript, running the marathon (oh, I did the training part. I just neglected to actually register until it was too late and the marathon was full) and generally just being better than I am now. So when I received the four, terse form email rejections of my poems it was a hard pill to swallow.

Now, don't get me wrong. When one sends out submissions, one usually expects to get rejected. That is the nature of this farcical game of getting published. Usually it doesn't bother me. But when I haven't been writing and my whole perspective is already slightly cocked toward the howl of the self-doubt wolves with their haunting cries of "You suck! Stick with your day job!", it is hard not to feel defeated.

And I do feel defeated. For a couple of days. Then I give myself a mental kick in the ass and realize that the only antidote is to work harder. The beauty in this simple and elegant silver bullet (we are talking about getting rid of wolves and these kind are most definitely of the Were variety) is that either way it cannot fail. Because work is just work. It is unjudgeable when you are actually doing it. It is only with the finished product- the creative object where you have something that can be criticized, weighed, measured and found wanting (or not) by your peers.

So if you keep working, even if you are sending stuff out, you always have a fully loaded pistol with silver bullets for the bloody wolves.

Unfortunately, this is a lesson I learned late in life (well, in my twenties, but still. I wasted vast fields of time not trying anything for fear of failure, not realizing that the actual trying is the antidote for the inevitable failure) and above all I fear my children will not learn it until well in adulthood. Some of my biggest anxieties as a parent stem from wanting so much for them to feel the satisfaction of having worked hard and accomplished something - not for us, or for anybody else, but only because they had set themselves a goal and worked their butts off to see it through.

However, part of that lesson, I think, encompasses failure.

Remember that seen in the movie Amadeus, where Mozart is dictating his compositions to Salieri and they are all coming out like perfect photocopies from his brain pan? I can't tell you how damaging that scene has been in my life. Thinking that everything I write should come out perfect or else I was just garbage paralyzed me. It took me years to chip away at that particular myth, solidified to Obelisk proportions in my head.

I do not want my daughters to suffer any such misconception on the nature of talent and skill. I want them to try and to fail and then to try and try again until they get it.

I read this New York Times entitled, "What if the Secret of Success is Failure?" recently and the ideas behind it tapped the "duh" nerve (located at the back of my neck, just in case you were wondering). Essentially it has been found that the students who succeed in life are not necessarily the one who did well in school. They are the ones who had to struggle and work twice as hard and therefore know how to deal with disappointment - with the inevitable ego blows that happen when you are not at the front of the pack. What this does is teach resiliency. And, yes, here it comes, that Leave it to Beaver, Post-world War II, parents-know-best mantra: it builds character.

Character has now been proven to be the key ingredient in success, not high IQ (although I think having the luck to be born into a privileged social class probably trumps them all):

“We thought, O.K., our first class was the fifth-highest-performing class in all of New York City,” Levin said. “We got 90 percent into private and parochial schools. It’s all going to be solved. But it wasn’t.” Almost every member of the cohort did make it through high school, and more than 80 percent of them enrolled in college. But then the mountain grew steeper, and every few weeks, it seemed, Levin got word of another student who decided to drop out. According to a report that KIPP issued last spring, only 33 percent of students who graduated from a KIPP middle school 10 or more years ago have graduated from a four-year college. That rate is considerably better than the 8 percent of children from low-income families who currently complete college nationwide, and it even beats the average national rate of college completion for all income groups, which is 31 percent. But it still falls well short of KIPP’s stated goal: that 75 percent of KIPP alumni will graduate from a four-year college, and 100 percent will be prepared for a stable career.
As Levin watched the progress of those KIPP alumni, he noticed something curious: the students who persisted in college were not necessarily the ones who had excelled academically at KIPP; they were the ones with exceptional character strengths, like optimism and persistence and social intelligence. They were the ones who were able to recover from a bad grade and resolve to do better next time; to bounce back from a fight with their parents; to resist the urge to go out to the movies and stay home and study instead; to persuade professors to give them extra help after class. Those skills weren’t enough on their own to earn students a B.A., Levin knew. But for young people without the benefit of a lot of family resources, without the kind of safety net that their wealthier peers enjoyed, they seemed an indispensable part of making it to graduation day. New York Times

"[The successful] were the ones with exceptional character strengths, like optimism and persistence and social intelligence." The article goes on to describe how the Kipp schools and Riverdale, a fancy private school, instituted a character strength report card. The kids would be evaluated on these 24 character strengths:

The 24 Character Strengths
Zest: approaching life with excitement and energy; feeling alive and activated
Grit: finishing what one starts; completing something despite obstacles; a combination of
persistence and resilience.
Self-control: regulating what one feels and does; being self-disciplined
Social intelligence being aware of motives and feelings of other people and oneself
Gratitude: being aware of and thankful for the good things that happen
Love: valuing close relationships with others; being close to people
Hope: expecting the best in the future and working to achieve it
Humor: liking to laugh and tease; bringing smiles to other people; seeing a light side
Creativity: coming up with new and productive ways to think about and do things
Curiosity: taking an interest in experience for its own sake; finding things fascinating
Open-mindedness: examining things from all sides and not jumping to conclusions
Love of learning: mastering new skills and topics on one’s own or in school
Wisdom: being able to provide good advice to others
Bravery: not running from threat, challenge, or pain; speaking up for what’s right
Integrity: speaking the truth and presenting oneself sincerely and genuinely
Kindness: doing favors and good deeds for others; helping them; taking care of them
Citizenship: working well as a member of a group or team; being loyal to the group
Fairness: treating all people the same; giving everyone a fair chance
Leadership: encouraging a group of which one is a valued member to accomplish
Forgiveness: forgiving those who’ve done wrong; accepting people’s shortcomings
Modesty: letting one’s victories speak for themselves; not seeking the spotlights
Prudence/Discretion: being careful about one’s choices; not taking undue risks
Appreciation of beauty: noticing and appreciating all kinds of beauty and excellence
Spirituality: having beliefs about the higher purpose and meaning of the universe -New York Times

Intriguing isn't it? Especially at this time of year, when all the grades fives and sixes here in Montreal are hopping like psycho bunnies to every high school open house (except for my grade fiver. I refuse to do it this year). 11 year-olds who must study all summer to take entrance exams to the private schools and, if they can't afford that, the good public schools and are being judged solely on the basis of extremely academic exams.

It gives you pause.

Although my eldest daughter is doing very well right now, better academically than she has ever done before, this was not always the case. She struggled with the French language (having to learn it at the same time as trying to read it) and was almost shunted through the public system as a kid with learning disabilities. However, I always knew that she had other characteristics that make her an asset to any group she participates in: Social intelligence. Kindness. An extremely well functioning moral compass. Yet I knew that when we were growing through the process of finding a high school last year, no school, based on the current admissions exams, would ever know this.

Although any sort of grading process leaves me deeply ambiguous (there are too many variables with each individual for it ever to be an accurate portrayal of someone's capabilities) the way the character evaluation was implemented by KIPP helped pinpoint some of the very personal mental hurdles the students needed to jump in order to achieve their full potential. For example, if all the teachers come back with a comment such as "so and so freaks out everytime she comes across something she doesn't understand." In the meeting with the parent and the student, the advisor can then talk to the student about this, and perhaps suggest a series of steps or avenues she could try to calm herself down.

I would love to hear what you think about the 24 characters and the character report card. Is it a good idea, in your opinion? What are the pitfalls? What if a kid comes back with 0 on all 24? Would it be easy to view this report card as a harbinger of failure? Is this another way to pigeon hole people?Or is this an aspect of education that has been missing from schools?

September was not in books

2011-10-05T05:57:00.000-04:00

We interrupt this regular programming due to the very scary and unprecedented fact that I did not finish any books in September. Nope. Nada. Not one.

Okay. I did finish an audio book. Does that count?

I attribute this appalling state of affairs to the insanity of the first month of school. Oh and J being away for the first and last half of the month. He was really only here for the creamy vanilla filling part of the month.

No excuses though. Excuses? Is it an excuse? I think it is. I have excuses. So sue me. My daughter started high school. My other daughter was forced to be way more responsible and independent as she no longer had her big sister to rely on to get to and from school by herself. I spend a lot of my time tethered to my cell phone, waiting for the call to tell me she has arrived at school or at home. I also spend a lot of time worrying about being a negligent parent. Worrying takes up a lot of brain space. It might be that I finished a book and didn't even notice.

I actually vacuumed the ceiling. And cleaned my room. And finally cleaned the bathroom, which had so much of my hair on the floor it looked like it was growing a beard. That is why only an audio book has been completed. Audio books make housecleaning bearable.

The first and last month of school is... how can I describe it? It is like, instead of waking up in your bed, stretching a little, meandering to your kitchen for a cup of coffee, you hear the alarm and bolt upright leap into whatever clothes you can find and sprint out of the door, never to slow the pace until you are back in bed sixteen hours later. Or if we were in Star Wars land, we would be perpetually at warp speed.

Yeah. Like that. So no books. Hopefully October will be more fruitful.

"Mom, I'm going to the mall" and other tales of metamorphosis

2011-09-30T05:59:00.000-04:00

My oldest has been going through a strange metamorphosis since the last week of August, the first week of school here in La Belle Province. Although it isn't complete yet (these delicate matters take time) it is well under way.

High school has been good to her so far. At least, the one she is attending has been good to her, which happens to be the one I work at (I think I mentioned this before). So I am in a unique position to see it happen. Not a teacher but the supervisor of a common space where she hangs out, I am finally that fly on the wall every parent dreams of being at one point or another.

But back to her metamorphosis. Indicative of this big change is that she no longer want to move to Victoria, for the first time since we moved to Montreal seven years ago. When I asked her why? She told me because her school was not there but here.

Let us pause at that. She loves her school so much she no longer wants to move back to a place she has always identified as her home. Her love of her school has finally made Montreal her home. I am still in shock.

The other indication of change has been her consistent happiness. Now, she was never an unhappy child. Far from it. But especially the last year she would have dramatic mood swings (just a note that I am quite sure we haven't seen the last of those- it is adolescence after all) and was never excited about going to school. She would miss if given the opportunity, while at this school she says things like, "What do you mean you are taking me out early on Friday? But I'll miss my two favourite classes- English and Math!"

Seriously. Math? The bane of my whole family's existence? The only subject in my life I have ever needed to be tutored in?

Yep.

It is safe to say that I have never seen her so consistently happy in my life. She is a different person: confident, calm, competent and apparently communicative in class (I get the scoop from the teachers, yo- which is another story). Before she was too shy to ever speak up, felt she was no good at school and would get herself in a frenzy of stress. But now, she even auditioned and got a part in the school's junior play. She will be playing Moth the fairy in the upcoming production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

The mind boggles.

The other story: although I went to the same school my mother taught at for most of my life, I didn't realize how it was for my mother. Hitherto, when I went to work, it was like a mini-break from parenting, where ignorant of all my children's mini-battles during the day, I could go on with equanimity, only hearing about it at dinner, when the drama was over and everything dealt with.

Not now. For example, the other day my daughter misplaced her English book (it had dropped from the teetering pile she needs to carry around with her). She was in tears and couldn't see a solution. The bell rang and she had to go to class crying and miserable. Of course, she left me in a mini-state of anxiety. I didn't see her until after lunch, when I found out that someone had found her book and put it on the shelves by the lockers. Very minor incident during the day, but when it is your own daughter in tears, you can't help but get a little stressed for her. And, because I am her mother, she comes straight to me whenever something like that goes wrong.

Oh and friends. She has friends! Which isn't that surprising as she is in an all girls school. And she has made nice friends. Bookish friends as well as friends who look u to her. I see her in the library sometimes and will here a girl calling her name in a high-pitched voice, asking her for help. My daughter goes to her, very calm, very patient and helps her out.

And, of course, there is the meeting of the friend at the mall. Last Sunday, my little girl biked to the mall by herself, met her friend and bought clothes without me. I had never really thought about this before, but hitherto I have exercised relative control over my daughter's wardrobe, just by virtue of being present when it is purchased. But now she is taking her own money and buying herself stuff. Fortunately, most of the clothing purchased is cute and appropriate.

Except for on black sheer top that is my size and would look better on me...

Books in Summer: Part II

2011-09-19T05:58:00.000-04:00

Okay. Now we have crossed the border between July and August. I am looking at some if these titles and am wondering what I am going to say. But sometimes it feels good to just tap the keys on the keyboard and look like I am saying something important like I am doing now. I totally wrote that totally fast. But alas, content is needed. Meaning is necessary and nobody cares about the speed of my typing...So onward to the first book of August...

A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka

This book was chosen as one for our book club, where we had the silly fantasy that we would actually be able to meet during the summer. It never happened, but I felt obliged to read the book anyway, never having missed one in the couple of years since I forced all my friends to join. I feel responsible. I do.

This is the story of a an old Ukrainian man who, after his wife dies, suddenly announces to his daughter that he is going to marry a young, buxom blonde from the Ukraine so that she can immigrate to England with the son. The old man is a dreamer, an engineer with the fervent idealism that can only have conceived of socialism. His daughters, estranged since the death of their mother, come together to try and oust the hussy.

Family relations- one between sisters, husband and wife, daughter and father - are showcased in this slim, easily read volume. There is nothing earth shattering here, although there are many very tragi/comic moments (when the father is dreaming of how it will be to rest his head on the ample bosom of his young new wife, for example). There are also secrets, the youngest daughter who was born after the war are not privy to, secrets that have shaped her family life and of which she is only finding out now. In the end, they achieve a better understanding of themselves, if not complete acceptance. This would be a book, like the Guernsey Literary blah blah blah society, that I would recommend to my mother.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

I read this one in a weekend so that I could go see the movie with my friend. A quick and easy read, (also a book I would recommend to my mother- nice, heartwarming story with just a little dash of historical content) I liked it. I am sure by now everybody knows the story- a young white woman approaches the Help (all black) in her town of Jackson, Mississippi and with the background of the burgeoning civil rights movement, they tell their stories.

I've read reviews about ti that lament the liberty Stockett took mimicking the speech of the Mississippi maids, but having no experience with Mississippi maids I didn't notice.

Warning: it is most definitely a book that likes to manipulate your emotions- one of those puppeteer books (the movie was worse). I am always suspicious of books that do that - they feel less real when the moving parts are so pure. The evil white lady was a little too evil and the maids themselves were a little too meek. I don;t know. I'm suspicious, but am not willing to give it more thought than that. I will say it was a good summer read- fast, historically interesting and, like my tan these days, fades easily. I guess that wasn't a glowing review was it?

We Need to Talk about Kevin by Lionel Shriver

Okay. If The Help was emotionally manipulative, the mother in Shriver's book about a boy who kills nine (I think) of his classmates is totally uncompromising. I swear, my brain was not screwed on right for days after reading it. This was also a book I ended up reading in a weekend- it was rainy and there were still people in my house and I needed to hide away- but I can't say it was a fast, enjoyable read.

Written in the form of letters to her husband, the mother takes us through the whole story of their courtship, and the birth of her son all the way up to the present where she goes to visit him in the juvenile detention center. With unflinching honesty (god, what a cliché phrase, but it is true. It is unflinching. It is honest.) she recounts how she was deeply ambiguous about having kids and when her son was born was never able to create a connection with him. She tries to figure out what part of how her son turned out she is responsible for. A very haunting question indeed, one that haunts all parents.

There is a movie coming out soon about this book with Tilda Swinton as the mother and John C. Reilly as the father. It looks just as haunting as the book...

Audio Books

Blackout by Connie Willis

This book won the three major prizes in Science-Fiction in 2010: The Nebula, the Locus and the Hugo, and I have to admit, I am not sure why. This is the first volume of a diptych ( I think the next volume is All Clear), but it seemed more of a historical fiction with a dash of time travel (a very little dash in the first volume).

The story takes place in both 2050 (I think) and during the Blitz in London. Historians use the technology of time travel to go and study the past. But something has gone wrong and the historians (about four or five of them) are all stuck in London. Basically this whole volume is how they deal with not being able to get back to their time. The trains are late. They're not able to get to the drop because of quarantine. They are detained at work. In other words, hundreds of pages of logistical problems. Not exactly a soothing read, when life is full of those anyway. And besides, the whole future thing was dealt with in a very cursory fashion. When the historians are in the future, they rely on landlines and badly written phone messages to convey important missives from the drop-off station. What? Cell phones never existed? People still write hand-written messages instead of texting? I found this hard to deal with... But most of the novel takes place in London during WWII. The science-fiction part of the book is like the breasts on a Michaelangelo statue: tacked on as an afterthought.

I think I am going to have to read (or listen) the second volume, because the first leaves the reader in such a bad place ( I hate that), but I refuse to be happy about it.

The Master by Colm Toíbin

Now for something completely different. The Master is Toíbin's hommage to the writer Henry James. He leads us through the latter years of Jame's life from the devastating reception of his play, Guy Domville, in 1895 to....wait. I can't remember where it ends. I am pretty sure it did not end with James' death though. I think he left off at James' house in Rye. I am pretty sure it ends before WWI- as it wasn't mentioned and James' died in 1916.

This is a slow, nuanced and textured read (or listen), that hints at James' homosexuality through subtle comments and meaningful glances but is never explicitly stated. It also relies on flashbacks to talk about his different novels and the periods in James' life that influenced them.

After all the post-apocalyptic craziness I have been into lately or all the heavy on the plot YA novels I read, this was a comforting salve. Beautifully written, meticulous as James' personality, I would recommend this book to anyone who loves to lose themselves in the ornate, subtle and layered world of Henry James.

The Prestige by Christopher Priest

Also set partly in the latter part of the 19th century, partly in the present, The Prestige follows two rivaling magicians and the consequences of their feud for their families. Actually more science-fiction happens in this novel, where one of the illusions is not an illusion but an actual scientific phenomena via a machine invented by Nikola Tesla. Did you get that? An illusion that is not an illusion but whose illusion is in the pretending it is magic.

Yeah. Confusing. Still interesting. The Prestige takes us through the world of illusionists in the 19th century, from the frauds who do seances to the stage entertainers. In fact, teh rivalry between the two magicians begins when on of the magicians attends a seance at hi aunts and recognises the tricks of his trade. He is incensed that his craft is being used for such a nefarious purpose and vows to expose the fraud. When he does, he begins a feud that lasts for generations.

I enjoyed reading about the magic tricks and especially the parts with Nikola Tesla, but I have to say the reveal at the end, where we find out the big secret of the one magic act was a little confusing. Perhaps it was because I was listening to it and could not go reread it (oh, I could have rewinded it but I didn't care that much) but the book suddenly ended without me feeling there was a good enough closure.

Graphic Novel

Bayou by Jeremy Love

I made the mistake of recommending this graphic novel to my daughter without having read it before. Bad choice. The novel begins in the south United States of the 1930s with a young, black girl who has to go fish a boy her age out of the bayou. The boy was killed for having whistled at a white woman. The young girl is friends with the local land owner's white daughter and when the white daughter disappears her father is accused. The little girl makes friends with a giant who lives in the bayou and they are determined to go find the white girl. It ends in a very disturbing place and I have yet to read the conclusion. The illustrations are well done and the writing is good. This is a good graphic novel for older teens or ADULTs. Not ten year olds...

YA Fiction

The Salt Trilogy by Maurice Gee

This is one of the most original, sparsely written trilogies I have experienced in YA. The economical, non-sentimental style reminds me a lot of fairy tales, or allegories. They are fantasy in that they take place in an alternative world, but the dysfunctions of their society (like in the best fantasies) or distinctly human. Each novel of the trilogy attacks a different problem. And each novel begins with the next generation.

#1 Salt : Salt is the story of Hari, a poor, dark-skinned boy who lives in the cut-throat place of Blood Burrow and of Pearl, the daughter of a rich man who lives up the hill in Company. They find each other while escaping the city (Pearl to escape an unwanted marriage) and Hari to escape the guards who are looking for him and to rescue his father from his fate in Deep Salt, a forced work camp where never return. Both Pearl and Hari have developed the power to "speak", that is, they can talk with people and animals inside their minds, without talking.

Both an environmental, socio-demographic allegory and a spiritual one, Salt explores themes of environmental devastation, the corrupt capitalist society and the gap between rich and poor as well as gives hope in the form of a connection with the world around us in the form of an inner communication. I know. That's a lot for a small book to do, and yet Gee manages to do it very elegantly, with the simplest language.

#2 Gool personifies hate and violence in a creature that oozes out of nooks and crannies and eats everything around it: rock, plants, animals, people. It is threatening to eat the whole world. Hari has had the misfortune of coming in contact with the creature who has wrapped its grey tentacles around his neck and who will succeed in killing soon as well. It is up to Xanthi and Lo, Hari and Pearl's children, and Duro their friend, to find the secret of the Gool and kill it before it kills Hari.

#3 The Limping Man
(Reviewed from advanced reading copy provided by Librarything)

Power and how it corrupts is the them of Gee's third volume in the Salt trilogy. The town is now under the control of a ruler who calls himself the Limping Man. He is a very powerful "speaker" (as Hari, Pearl and their children) and fears anyone who has the same power. So he makes people worship him by exerting his mind control over them.

The story opens with a distraught mother who is running back to her little hovel in the burrows to save her daughter. She manages to hide Hana and swallow frogsweed which kills her before the guards can take her away to be burned with the other "witches". Hana escapes and finds Ben, the son of Lo and Hawk, a bird that she can communicate with. Together Ban and Hana must find the secret of the Limping Man's power and stop him before he takes over the world.

Like the first two volumes, The Limping Man is written in sparse prose and allegorizes power. The Limping Man is a frail creature, weak, vain and afraid like most dictators and bullies. Hana and Ben are flawed characters- hardened by their own experiences of hardship and loss, but still able to find the reserves of courage to confront the Limping Man.

I would highly recommend this series to any kid (or adult) who enjoys well-written fantasy. I am even contemplating them as a read aloud for my ten year old- the story is beautifully written and would be a pleasure to read, and there are many themes that would be interesting to discuss with my kids.

Phew. Thus concludes the summer reading section. And just in time for September, which, if it continues like this, might have nothing in it...

Books in Summer: part I

2011-09-14T05:49:00.000-04:00

Born to Run by Christopher McDougall

This book was handed to me on our first night in Victoria by a couple of good friends. The only book about running that I have ever read is Murakami's What I talk about when I talk about running and although I run pretty much everyday, I have never been that interested in reading about it. I figure, it's a little like childbirth- the body knows what to do, right?

Right! Part detective story, part personal journey, McDougall takes us on a voyage that begins in the doctor's office, uttering that ominous question, "Why do my feet hurt?" and concludes with a fifty mile race run alongside the Taharamura an indegenous folk living in Northern Mexico and known for their amazing long-distance running (I have since taken to drinking chia seeds, in the hopes that if I drink what they drink, I might inherit their superpowers- no such luck, but the drink is surprisingly tasty- just add some lime and maple syrup-the Canadian version- and you have a protein-packed, nutritious summer refreshment).

But I digress. Along his journey, McDougall meets all kinds of eccentric characters who live in the ultra-marathon world. If you have never heard of an ultra-marathon, it is like a super-sized marathon-usually twice as long, sometimes more, and for added kicks usually in some pretty hostile terrain. He also gives a scathing indictment of the running shoe industry, which, he claims, has caused more runner's injuries than prevented. The core idea behind running shoes is that your foot has not evolved enough to run and therefore needs "support". (Everytime I get new running shoes the clerk at the store makes me walk around to see my stride then looks at me seriously and says, "hhmm. I see you are a bit pronated." What the hell does that mean, anyway?) But apparently, running long distances is how our ancestors used to survive. We can outrun our prey. Oh not speed-wise, but long-distance wise. The human foot, it seems is perfectly built for running long distances, as long as the extra cushioning isn't getting in the way.

A fascinating read that mixes a man's personal journey into rediscovering how to run, the mystery of a reclusive Mexican tribe whose lifestyle is endangered by the brutal drug lords in the area, some evolution of human anatomy and a fascinating look at the world of ultra-marathons. An excellent read, even if you aren't a runner, though be warned- it will make you want to strap on your shoes and hit the pavement.

The Parasol Protectorate series by Gail Carriger

I reviewed the first one in this series in my March installment and gave it five out five G&Ts for Vacation reading. I am happy to say that my rating has not changed for the two sequels. In the second volume of the series, Alexia, now married to her husky, hirsute and handsome werewolf husband Lord Maccon, ends up following the pack to Scotland after an epidemic has caused the supernatural set in London to lose their supernaturalness. She ends up saving the day, much to her husband's annoyance, of course, but in the meantime, befriends a lovely, lesbian inventor genius who appreciates Alexia's curves and who knows before Alexia does the secret that will tear her husband and her apart at the end of the book. Can you guess what it is? Will I be able to write about the third without revealing the big secret? Letme give it a whirl...

In the third volume, Alexia has decided to leave London and visit Italy, the country of her father, in the hopes of finding out more of herself and the predicament she finds herself in. Of course, hijynx ensues, with most of the Continental supernatural set as well as their hunters out for her blood. With the sang-froid, dagger sharp-wit and enormous appetite we have now come to expect from our dear Alexia, she acquits herself with much aplomb as well as effects a reunion with her estranged husband while letting him know the full force of her anger. I am now about to pick up the fourth volume, as I think a further adventure of The Parasol Protectorate is the perfect tonic for these stressful back-to-school days.

Men in the Off Hours by Anne Carson
(this links to a far more intelligent review than I could ever give it)

Ahh, but back to extremely serious mode. This book of poems actually took me months to read, as I would read one or two only a day. I have to admit, I feel unequal to the task of reviewing such a heady work of poetry. Let me indulge myself for a moment and view these little blurbs not as reviews but as a rather lopsided conversation with the small community of folk who read this blog and who actually care about my opinion. It is the equivalent of thatcharmingly asinine poll we give our friends- "Did you read so and so? yes? What did you think?"
"I enjoyed it, thanks for asking!"

What can I say? I did much more than enjoy it. I savoured it. Her spartan imagery, her hard-ass, no-nonsense view of the world appeals greatly to me. I would love to do with words what she can do. I would also like to one day own such a sharp and biting wit, but I suspect I would have to be a different person for that. She also seems to have the same preoccupation with Anna Akhmatova that I do (I suspect she read the same wonderful biography of the poet) and wrote about Tolstoy when I am writing about Tolstoy (for fun and kicks and without knowing a damn thing about the man that is how presumptuous I am). Also, the essay at the end about the way the Greeks viewed women was especially fascinating. When I get home I will persue the volume and give a little sample of her poems here, so you don't have to rely on this inadequate account.

(I am home now and just opened the book. This is what I found...)

Caeli Lesbia Nostra Lesbia Illa (Our Lesbia that Lesbia)
Catullus finds his own love gone to others

Nuns coated in silver were not so naked
As our night interviews.
Now what plum is your tongue
In?

The Magicians by Lev Grossman

Phew. Back to frivolity! I feel so much more comfortable here...

If you put Narnia, Harry Potter, and Catcher in the Rye in a big pot and started mashing them together like over-boiled potatoes, the result would be Grossman's The Magicians. When we meet Quentin Coldwater, he is a seventeen-year old smart ass, in love with his best friend's girlfriend, secretly obsessed with a series of children's fantasy books and miserable because reality doesn't ever seem to live up to the world described in those books. But then he is accepted to Brakebills College for Magical Pedagogy. Quentin is a gifted magician, able to skip a year and graduate faster than his entering cohort. During his years at Brakebills he studies, makes friends, falls in love is introduced to sex, drugs, alcohol. When he graduates, Brakebills has enough funds to set each magician up for a while on school money. Of course, a meaningless string of parties and debauchery are the consequence. Quentin makes some bad choices and ends up feeling as empty and disillusioned about the world until a strange, old school companion of his shows up and proves that Fillory, the world in the children's fantasy novel does exist.

Although I enjoyed this book, I did not love it and it is one of those things that I cannot explain. You would think I would love it, having loved each aspect of it in previous books, but I can't say it left a great impression on me. I was intrigued by the notion of an avid reader of children's fantasy wanting reality to be more than it is (I mean, I've been there- who didn't want to be one of the Pevensies going to Narnia?). I also liked the added adolescent angst of Quentin and the more realistic portrayal of young love than, say the Harry Potter books. The part I did not like however, was how when they graduate, they are not expected to do anything, not expected to use their gifts for the good of humanity. Woe. I sound like such a righteous ass. But it's true. It bugged me that these young people were given this very extensive magical education and yet were given an out when it came to the rest of the world in the form of unlimited funds from their alma mater. (It could be the funds would run out- but I can't remember).What is that about?

Still, an enjoyable read for all those adult Harry Potter/Narnia/ Fantasy fans. I will definitely pick up the sequel, the Magician King.

Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain

I picked this one of the shelf of my sister-in-law, finally in the mood to give it a whirl. I have very little knowledge of the restaurant business, and I am probably the opposite of a foodie. In fact, I was given a lot of flack this summer from my sister's boyfriend, who does own a very good restaurant in Victoria, about never having tried an oyster, and about never wanting to try one. This makes me in his eyes, as well as Bourdain's it turns out, the biggest cretin on earth. Oh well. So be it. There is something about sliding something that looks like a squashed slug down my throat that I can't stomach.

The quote I remember the most from this book is "Your body is not a temple. It is an amusement park." Or something of the sort. He had his first food revelation on a trip to France with his parents, where, yes, he tried his first oyster, while fishing with an old man. The rest of his life was spent treating his body like a death-defying rollercoaster: substance abuse, alcohol and of course, the best food. There is some interesting commentary on the restaurant business (why you should never buy fish on a Monday) as well as a glimpse into some of the kitchens of New York's finest.

A fun, fast read, that also conveniently served as a handy conversation piece with both my sister's boyfriends who work in the industry as well as a good friend of mine who is a chef, all of whom visited this summer.

The Irrationalist by Suzanne Buffam

This book of poetry fell into my lap (not literally people, don't you got no metaphor to you?) during our camping trip on Thetis Island. My brother-in-law brought it and picked it up while it was sitting on the picnic table.

A slim volume full of smart, witty little poems, I remember enjoying them immensely, even laughing at loud at some of them (how often does that happen with poetry?) . However, I read the volume in one sitting and then promptly gave it back, so do not even have an excerpt to share with you.

Here is a good review of it though if you are interested in reading more.

Phew...Half way there! It is not that I haven't been writing on this blog, it is that this blog took me so freakin' long to finish. Let us hope that the second installment doesn't take me into October...

Reflections on a cross-country train ride #3- Chicago to Montreal

2011-09-01T05:57:00.000-04:00

Today is the first day of school for S and C so I guess it is high time I finish the trip posts. Combined with the need to prepare lunches again and think about a school uniform and forms to fill out, yesterday was an extremely wet and cold day, courtesy of the rear end of Hurricane Irene. The cousins were packing up and getting ready to leave (also today). The adults did groceries, folded clothes, baked stuff. The mood was quiet, grey, as if we were battening down the hatches, as if summer was over. And I gotta tell you, waking up at five again and writing this post, it is easy to convince myself that summer is long gone.

However. Here is proof that the elusive season was here and that we enjoyed ourselves. Last time I left you we had disembarked four hours later than we were supposed to in Chicago. Once off the train, we each of use hauled our large bags several long Chicago blocks to the hotel on Michigan Ave. What was the hotel called? I can't remember right now, but it was a Grand old dame of a thing, without a swimming pool, but with large, spacious rooms with high ceilings and the original moulding. It looked a little like the old hotel in Barton Fink. Although we had booked the rooms weeks in advance, they still could not manage to have two rooms side by side. At first the young surly man who could give a crap at the desk told me that the rooms were in separate wings of the hotel. I told him that was unacceptable. He finally managed to get them on the same floor. However, our in-laws room had no view and I think was meant for people in wheel chairs (which wasn't so bad- they actually had a walk-in closet).

An aside here: we noticed this last year, but the point was brought home in spades again in Chicago. Why is it that the more expensive the hotel, the ore you have to pay for the basics. I mean you get a three star hotel or a two star hotel like a Holiday Inn express and you get free use of the pool, exercise room, free wi-fi and a free breakfast. In a four star hotel, you look at the clerk wrong and you owe them ten bucks a second. It makes you want to stick with the generic brand.

Okay. Rant concluded. We continue with a selection of photos taken and hand-picked by artist Jeremy Gordaneer of the last bout of our journey. We had 24 hours in Chicago, so we had to make it count.

The El tracks. Third time in Chicago and still haven't taken it...

Oh! So that's where Central America is!

The first night in Chicago we went out to dinner at a chain place called Giordano's (the place we went to get the deep dish pizza in March). By the time we got back to the hotel it was 11 and everyone was exhausted.

The next day I woke up a little earlier than everybody and had my first run since being on the train and I am glad to say my legs still worked. Chicago has a wonderful bike and walking path that spans its shoreline and this time I decided to go past the aquarium, past the stadium (Wrigley? Aren't there two there?) and back.

By the time I got back, everybody was getting up and ready for the day. We ate breakfast at a little fast food place around the corner and decided to split up for the day. The girls decided to go visit the Shedd Aquarium, since it was such a big hit in March and the boys went to visit the Art Institute of Chicago. Now, do not infer any weird gender stuff here. The little boy wanted to see the armour section. One of the big boys is an artist and the other just likes the stuff. The adult ladies like it too, but also like weird fish. Who doesn't, really?

However, on my run I pass the aquarium and noted that there was already a line-up at 8 in the morning (it doesn't open until nine). When we arrived at around ten or eleven, the line up was circling the square in front of the museum. I couldn't even imagine getting in before closing time.

So we sucked up our disappointment and headed toward the Field Museum of Natural History. Now, we all love the Field, but damn if they don't gauge you at the door! The price of entry is steep and every special exhibition costs extra. So you have to make hard decisions between Horses, Whales or Bugs. We chose whales.

(You are probably wondering why there are no photos of this time. Well as mentioned above, these are selection of J's photos and he was off looking at art. So no photos. )

The best part of the Field museum are the display cases with taxidermied animals in them or the even better displays with mounted skeletons. There is something about seeing all the weird types of Marmot or Gibbon that is extremely fascinating.

On our walk back to meet the other party, the girls and I came across a dance floor in the middle of the park. Every Saturday night in the summer, Chicago hosts a free dance party with live music. They were just setting up when we got there, but the sound system was blaring some funky soul music and C and M, the smallest of the bunch, couldn't help themselves. They strode to the middle of the flat surface and started to shake their booty. I did join them for a dance or two and had the extreme pleasure of twirling on a surface made for twirling, without crashing into anybody and without caring what people thought of me. Would I have done it if I wasn't with little kids? Probably not. One of the reasons I love having kids.

Kids looking cool. They look like a rock band....

Okay. This thing deserves a little paragraph. There are two of these structures made out of glass blocks that project different faces on them. When we were in Chicago in March, they looked a little forlorn in their empty square of concrete. However, little did we know then that in the summer these large glass faces spew water from their mouths and it is the weirdest, largest art/water park we have ever seen.

The kids couldn't help jumping in...

We met up with the others at our hotel (which for the life of me I can't remember the name) then walked to the giant metal jelly bean featured so prominently in one of my blog posts in March. Then to a Pub (can't remember the Pub's name either, but I do remember good spinach pie and C got the most amazing root beer...) for some dinner and back to get our luggage for the walk to the train station for an overnight on Coach to Albany. Yep. Overnight.

A little note about getting on the train though. It's a little cut throat. Unlike the plane, where people have assigned seating and people can wait patiently with the knowledge that they will be seated together, the train has no such nicety. To make it worse, there were a total of two bible camps wanting to get on board, and unlike good Christians, were extremely pushy.

However, I can be a tad aggressive when I want to be, and managed to use the "traveling with children" card (even though my children are quicker and more efficient than most of the adults I saw boarding) and we were able to get four seats together.

And yes. It was uncomfortable. The days of being able to sleep sitting up without too much fall out are far behind me (if they were ever there in the first place). Not to mention the discomfort of having a ten year sprawled across you,, fidgeting the whole time.

Still, it wasn;t that bad either. We all managed to get some sleep, and in the morning woke to some beautiful scenery and some more opportunities to read and doze.

Foot reader.

Albany. Not much to say, except we were gauged by the taxi driver who took us to the hotel. A five minute ride ended up costing twenty dollars, because as the taxi driver said, they charged us 'by the person'. It was Sunday night when we got in so nothing was open. We found another pub, had hopefully our last greasy meal for the trip, and went back to our Holiday Inn Express to take advantage of the pool.

Seen in store window in Albany

The next morning we boarded the train to Montreal. In a car, it takes about three hours to get from Albany to Montreal. In a train about eight. I am not sure how this adds up. Still, it was a beautiful ride through the mountains.

S taking advantage of a nearly empty train car

Thus concludes our cross-country train trip. My sister-in-law, who was supposed to take the train from Montreal to Chicago, then the Empire Builder back to Seattle, had to make alternative arrangements as all train trips were cancelled in the East due to Hurricane Irene. So I will leave you with one last word of advice- if you do plan on traveling by train, heed the natural disasters. They will but a wrench in your plans...

The Dark Side of "You're So Beautiful"

2011-08-17T06:15:00.000-04:00

My sister came to visit with her son, her new partner and his daughter for a couple of weeks this summer. It was wonderful. She came on runs with me, would meet me at work and walk home with me. We would stop at our favourite café on Parc for some white wine and delicious food before facing the hordes at home.

But I was reminded, as sisters are wont to do, of something that used to happen in our youth and doesn't happen to me at all unless I am walking beside my sister.

My sister is head-turning, drop dead, Sophia-Loren sensuous gorgeous. The male species get all vociferous when she's around. She almost causes car accidents. The regular homeless people on my walk home stand up straighter and smile instead of shooting out a "De l'argent!" at me. The waiters in the cafés I frequent who have never given me the time of day before suddenly feel chatty.

I think she might be part veela.

Most women would think that is a good thing- be a little envious. Well, don't be. Being that attractive is not all that it is cracked up to be. Far from being jealous, I have learned to feel very bad for her. I have seen the damage people's perception have done to her over the years, the weariness (and wariness) when she's the subject (or should I say object?) of yet another cat call.

Most of all, I see how, though she be head-turning beautiful, people tend to think that's all she is. And as a teenager, how she began to believe to it herself. I think I have talked about this a little bit in a previous post on pigeonholing, but I think it bears more scrutiny.

Mainly because her step-daughter and my daughter are at the gates of puberty with the key in their hands. And there was one incident during their visit that reflected the complicated nature of dealing with the power of physical beauty and how these young girls have to learn to manage the compliments, the looks in an even manner, without manipulating it for their own purpose (the whole Lolita thing).

My two daughters, my nephew (who is ten) and his step-sister were all going swimming. The step-sister emerges from the bathroom in a very small, revealing bikini. It fit her well.

A little too well. My nephew looks at her for a moment, stunned. Then asks, "Don't you have another bathing suit?" He cocks his head a little to the side and narrows his eyes as if to say, 'there is no way you are wearing that.'

Of course, the step-sister takes it the wrong way, thinks she looks bad in it. My sister and I try to smooth things over by saying, "I think he thinks you look a little too good in your suit, honey."

"She's my sister! I have the right to protect my sister!"My nephew protested.

At the age of ten he knew enough to know that she looked extremely good in her bathing suit (a sign of his own nascent pubescent feelings, I am sure). He also knew enough to want to cover her up, protect her. The look on his face when she emerged from the bathroom was one of shock, something else - let's just call it puberty, and worry. My step-daughter, after her first reaction of feeling bad, knew right away it was because she looked sexy (I shudder to have to use that word for a twelve-year old girl, but that is what she looked like). And there was her first, albeit small, lesson in being objectified. (Actually, I don't think it was the first. She is a very beautiful girl. Extremely smart and kind as well, but who cares about that when you got a nice pair of eyes?)

Back to my sister. We talked a little about how her experience when she was a teenager. People would often trivialize her relationships with boys as not meaning anything, because clearly they only liked her for her pretty face (people would actually say this to her). It was easy to dismiss her opinion because she must be dumb if she's that gorgeous.

Even me. Although I am not guilty of the above two sins, I am guilty to this day of relishing my invisibility as compared to her. I don't envy her. I don't want to be noticed on the street. In fact, it suits me pretty well to walk anonymously through a crowd observing rather than being observed. To my embarrassment however, I have remarked a certain smugness growing like a cancer in me over this fact. I may not be a head-turner, but the kind of pretty that you must get to know in order to appreciate. Which is basically saying that my beauty lies in my personality whereas hers does not. What am I thinking?

I wonder if the theory behind confession was that once you say a particular sin out loud, have to shape the inchoate badness into words, concretise them, the whole force of the noxiousness hits you. You see why it is a sin and are hereby cured of ever thinking it again (of course, it can't hurt to throw in a few Hail Marys for good measure).

That is how I feel about the above statement. As soon as I put what I was really thinking into words, I realised I was just as guilty of judging her as everybody else. For that I am truly sorry. Don't get me wrong. I am still thankful for my mousy presence. I am simply no longer smug about it.

What does this mean for our daughters? The "You are beautiful" compliment comes with a dark side. If not kept in check, or regularly administered with the counter compliment of "you are smart", they will start to feel that that is all they are, or that is all that matters... It is so easy to put people into little categories in our heads- this one is the funny one, this one is the weird one, this one is the beautiful one- that we forget people are tapestries with complicated designs, rich colours and textures.

I want to end this post on a less didactic note, but for the life of me I can't find one pithy thing to say. Oh well. Perhaps I should call this post, The Danger of complimenting 101. Not pithy really, but at least not didactic...Okay. I am stopping now. Publish this ddarn thing already so I can go.

Reflections from a cross-country train ride #2: Seattle to Chicago

2011-08-12T06:06:00.000-04:00

Brace yourselves. This be a long post. J, the official photographer of our rag tag family, selected a few images out of the hundreds he shot looking out the window of the Empire Builder. I will comment wherever possible, but sometimes I won't know where it is. And right now the photographer is sleeping so asking him is out.

Before we begin however, I just wanted to say that although I liked the idea of the train, of spending two days and two nights traveling across country, I also had a massive case of trepidation. This is in no way a boast, in fact, I think it might be a little obsessive on my part, but the idea of not having doing any form of exercise except for walking to the dining car made me very nervous. My running is inextricably tied into my sense of well being- it makes me feel good about myself (inside and out), it rounds off the aggressive edge of my personality as well as gives me a small sense of accomplishment as well as motivation to persist in other endeavours. A day that is started out with a run has a better chance of being a productive day than one that does not.

As well, I would have no control over the food I would be served. My sister-in-law warned us that the meals on the train were huge and rich. The combination of not exercising and eating fatty, american-sized portioned restaurant food woke the lightly slumbering but ever present fear of gaining weight. It's stupid, I know. I have better things to worry about it, I know. But it is what it is. I have one of the bodies that if I look at food wrong I gain weight. And as I am sure has been chronicled by other people suffering from the burden of getting older, it gets worse with age.

It turns out, however, that my fears were misplaced. Instead of indulging in my neurotic, self-centred anxieties about lack of exercise and weight gain, I should have been worried about whether the train would actually make it through the flooded areas of the northern states.

Here is the Empire Builder's route:

This is a map of where the flooding occurred in the last two weeks of June:

NOAA Map of Flooding (most prominently on the Missouri River) on June 18, 2011 Purple is heavy flood, red is moderate flooding, Orange is minor flooding and green is no flooding

Of course, none of us thought about the fact that we would be crossing North Dakota. When we were boarding the train, the conductor (or sleeping car attendant?) told us we were extremely lucky as the route had just opened back up a couple of days before after having been closed for weeks. We would have had to get off the train and taken a bus, the idea of which sends shivers down my delicate spine.

But anyhoo. I am glad to say that I adapted well to just sitting there. I finished two books. Ate huge meals and was even hungry when it came time for more. Miracles of miracles, I even dozed during the day! And, of course, as witnessed below, there was a lot of looking out the window.

Sister-in-law on train

There were a lot of scrap metal dumps along the tracks

Scrap heap. Kind of beautiful. Makes me want to wax all poetical. But I won't. At least not on this blog.

Ahhh. This last photo deserves a little more than a caption. On the first full day of our cross-country journey on the Empire Builder, we had the option to sign up for a wine tasting. If I'm not mistaken, the wines were all from Washington state. This is J getting artsy with the empties.

One of the overturned cars on the track. The yellow stuff you see spilling out is grain.

Umm, I'm not sure why I had to include this photo. But I'm just the messenger here. This is J's show...

Children in the dining car, ordering their Sierra Mist, which is a knock off of Seven-Up.

Chicago! We arrived about four hours later than we were supposed to, due to a few delays and the need to go extra slow in the flooded zones. But we arrived. Now time to slog our bags to Michigan Ave where two hotel rooms awaited us.

But that is for another post...

June in Books

2011-08-04T06:04:00.000-04:00

Let us take a pause now between all this vacation talk and look at the books read in June, a motley assortment of mostly lighter fare that reflects the harrowing season. Of the books started in May, I only managed to finish two (by far the fluffiest ones).

Sequins, Secrets and Silver Linings by Sophia Bennett

This book was recommended to me by my daughter who ordered it through one of those Scholastic flyers that circulate through the school (I used to love those, and can't deny my daughters a couple of books each month).

There were several things initially scary about this book, the two most remarkable aspects being the sugary pink cover and its sticky sweet, alliterative title. However, duty called. The story is about a trio of tweens living in upper middle class London. One of them is an actress, the other a brain and the narrator a fashionista with an art-loving, gallery owning ex-model for a mother and a handsome, kind older brother. One day they end up going to a school fair in one of the schools where the Brain tutors a skinny thirteen year old who is usually more truant than not. They find her behind a booth selling what looks like scraps of cloth and being bullied by some mean girls. They buy the scraps of cloth to show up the mean girls only to find out that they are actually well-designed skirts. It turns out that the skinny little girl is a great designer. The fashionista sets her up, uses her mother's contacts and soon her designs are all the rage. But then it comes out that the girl is from Uganda, where her family lives still. Her older brother has been taken by the soldiers and they don't know if he is alive. She herself used to be a nightwalker, one of the children who used to walk all night to a neighbouring village to avoid being taken by the soldiers.

You can see where this is going, can't you? Fashion meets social justice. The girls are able to make a difference and look fabulous in the process.

A fluffy read with a totally unrealistic premise, it was still kind of fun. It was what it was. How is that for a critique?

I don't know how she does it by Allison Pearson

This book came out when I was a stay-at-home mom and the last thing I wanted to do was to read about how hard a working mom had it.

No. That sounds harsh. And it isn't completely true. It was complicated being a stay-at-home mom. Not in the practical way- I didn't really have a career to speak of and wasn't working enough to make a huge difference to our income before having children, so it was logical that J should be the one in the workforce and I look after the kids. Besides I wanted to. I wanted to be at home when they were young. I would like to say that I did this without any judgment on my part for the women who chose to go back to work when their children were babies. Intellectually, I rocked it. Everyone makes the decision that is right for them, blah, blah, blah, blah. But in my heart I just couldn't understand. But the thing about being a stay-at-home mom is that there is a lot of guilt for not doing anything more than raising your kids, for not being a working mother. Although they don't mean to, or they don't think they do, people judge you too. Nobody wants to say it, but the word lazy is always hovering in the background.

Anyways. I finally picked up the book as one of my colleagues at work was on my case about reading it and the movie is coming out soon. And, as I frequently tell my children, you should always read the book before you see the movie.

So. Kate Reddy is a senior in a major finance firm in London (don't ask me what her actual title is, I can't remember). She also happens to be a mother of two, a fact that does mix very well with the cut throat, old boys club environment she works in. The book describes the avalanche of her life as she tries to keep it from crumbling beneath her feet.

It was supposed to be funny. I guess if your idea of humour is watching an A-type woman distress pies to make them look homemade, watch her maneuver and manipulate the infantile men at her job, completely ignore her husband and children, but still throw elaborate birthday parties for them while trying to keep her head above the rough waters of her mental list then yes. It was funny. For me I just found it tiring. However, I was surprised at the caliber of the writing. I had assumed it was just another chick lit book à la Nanny Diaries, but it was way better written than that. Still. Don't make me deal with other people's mental lists. My own is long enough as it is.

I Kill Giants by Joe Kelly

In June, my library gets hot and I get so tired I am in danger of falling asleep. The students are off, either for exams or actually not there and I am left in my sweltering sauna alone, struggling to keep my brain juices from oozing out my pores. In order to keep myself awake, sometimes I would get up from my desk and read a couple of pages of my graphic novel collection. This is how I read the next two entries- in a valiant battle against the soporific effect of heat.

I don't know if I was just particularly emotional that day, but this one made me cry. Literally cry. It is about a young girl whose mother is dying of cancer. She copes by creating an elaborate fantasy world where she is a giant killer. It is beautiful, funny and intensely moving. The drawings at first threw me a little, as I had a hard time deciphering what was going on. But I think that might have to do with my own limited visual literacy skills. I soon learned how to deal with the odd angles of the images and the vast amount of black in the book, and loved it.

Sloth by Gilbert Hernandez

Sloth is a hard book to describe. The first part tells the story of a teenage boy who has just woken up from a year-long, medically unexplainable coma. Together with his girlfriend and his best friend they stroll the streets of their comatose little suburb. Then it shifts and it is his girlfriend who has been in a coma for a year, and their roles are completely altered. The friend is now a rock star and her boyfriend is very popular and doesn't know she exists.

I honestly don't have much to say about this book. Definitely interesting and weird, and I know probably talking about the mal du siècle manifested by our disenchanted, suburban youth, but honestly, that's all I got.

Fever Crumb by Philip Reeve

Set in a post-apocalyptic, Steampunk London, Fever Crumb is a fourteen-year old young engineer who has been raised by the order of engineers. She is the only girl in the order, who usually do not allow women to join. In her world, the rational rules: they shave their heads because hair is irrational. They never show emotion. Her world is one of cogs and wheels, of mathematical formulas and algorithms.

But when she has been requested for a job by an archeologist in London, she must leave the shelter of her own home. And yes, havoc ensues almost instantaneously.

This book had some of the best world building I've read in a long time. It is a prequel to his mortal engines series where whole cities become nomadic and predatory. In this one, London is still sedentary, but is under threat from a nomadic tribe from the North called the Movement. I just read a review of Fever in the Guardian written by Frank Cottrell Boyce who called one of the major themes of the series "Future litter". (It was a good review- you should read it) Archaeology is a huge industry as people find paraphanelia from our day and try to explain its purpose or figure out the technology behind it. Reeve also emphasizes the random selection history is guilty of with passing references to the religious cult of Hari Potter, and with swear words like Cheeses Kris (I wish I could remember more. I can't wait to read the Mortal Engines series now!

Reflections on a cross-country train ride #1: Seattle

2011-08-01T06:38:00.000-04:00

First of all, this freakin' continent has got one large waistline. Unless you think of Central America as the waistline, then the whole of Americas looks more like Pamela Anderson - top heavy with a sleek Brazilian booty.

But I digress.

When we left Victoria, we took the clipper, a fancy katamaran that goes really fast and makes your stomach feel like you've been on a three-hour roller coaster (gravol recommended) to Seattle, with the intention of boarding a train to Chicago, as I think I mentioned in my previous post. Luckily I did take the gravol, as the trip through the Juan de Fuca strait was choppier than a speech by George Bush jr. Still, during the first part we went out on deck and watched Victoria recede in the distance. Then I went back down to our seats and in an effort to ignore my queasiness slept a lot of the way.

Holding it together admirably. Trust me. Not feeling so good in this picture.

Then came the grueling walk from the clipper dock with all of our suitcases and our whiny children up steep hills to the Warwick hotel on 4th. We arrived like a sweaty herd of elephants in the lobby, only to hear by the surly witch at the desk that our rooms were not ready, and that we could not check in until they were. However, they soon changed their mind about our room readiness when they saw how much luggage we had to store.

Halfway up hill

But! But first! In one of those miraculous moments when the universe aligns, we were able to meet our friend Julian who now lives in Portugal. He was on his way to Victoria for a sister's wedding and was only in Seattle for one night. It just so happened to be the one night we were in Seattle. Julian met us at our hotel with his friend and off we scampered, a merry group of ten, to explore the streets of Seattle.

Julian in Seattle!

Of course, the first thing I did was drag everyone to the Seattle Public Library. Everyone meaning, four kids (two of them mine, the others my niece and nephew) my sister-in-law, brother-in-law, J, Julian and his friend, resident of Seattle who probably had already seen the library. Still. It was important. It is the mothership, the home of Nancy Pearl, the most famousest librarian ever. And it is new and fancy.

View from Seattle Public Library

[Warning: next paragraph contains librarian talk. Skip if bored]

The inside is large and spacious and doesn't feel cramped like many libraries. The shelves are a distance apart with a lot of space on them. The non-fiction section is a spiral that gradually spans a few floors (I can't remember how many right now). It is like being inside a snail shell. The view from the top is extraordinary and a little dizzying. The one thing that confused me a little was the YA section, which seemed kind of thin. Was it an afterthought I wonder? If anyone knows, please comment. The one thing I did see n the YA section that intrigued my geeky little librarian heart, was that they shelved the audiobooks with the regular books. They didn't do this for that adult sections or the kids sections. Hmmm. Is it because they want to make it as easy and give as many points of access to books as possible? Is it to help the teens who find it easier to listen to the book and follow along with the print, or who only pick up the print copy after they've been hooked on the audio copy? Very intriguing.

looking down on to the first floor of the library from the top

[Boring librarian talk concluded. You may continue reading]

After the library we separated from the in-laws and children and went to indulge in happy hour at a cocktail lounge across from the library called Sazerac. Yes! For all fans of the HBO series Treme, that is the drink Chef throws in the face of the food critic who dissed New Orleans cuisine. The food critic wipes some of it off his face, tastes it and says, "Nobody throws a Sazerac!"

Which, of course, meant that I had to try a freakin' Sazerac drink. Here is how Wikipedia says it should be prepared:

According to the Sazerac Company of New Orleans, the modern day Sazerac Cocktail recipe calls for 1 cube of sugar, 1¹⁄₂ ounces of Sazerac Rye Whiskey, 1/4 ounce of Herbsaint, 3 dashes of Peychaud's Bitters and a lemon peel. One Old Fashioned glass is packed with ice. In a second Old Fashioned glass, a sugar cube and 3 dashes of Peychaud's Bitters are muddled. The rye whiskey is then added to the sugar/bitters mixture. The ice is emptied from the first Old Fashioned glass and the Herbsaint is poured into the glass and swirled to coat the sides of the glass. Any excess Herbsaint is discarded. The rye/sugar/bitters mixture is then poured into the Herbsaint coated glass and the glass is garnished with a lemon peel. Wikipedia

It was delicious. Like, way over the top, a party in my mouth, delicious. You could still taste the smoky edge of the whiskey, but it was definitely getting friendly with the other ingredients. I can see why it is not used to throw angrily in people's face. It is too good.

But moving right along.... We left Julian and his very friendly, whiskey connoisseur friend Matt who had other plans, and went to soak up the alcohol with some Mexican food at Mama's Mexican Kitchen, where we had huge black bean burritos and enough chips and guacamole to even satisfy me ( and I like my chips and guacamole).

When we arrived back at the hotel, the kids were still in the pool so we hurried and joined them. A swim, a sauna and a some Finding Nemo on TV was the perfect end to the day.

The next day, I set out for a short run before everyone woke up. It was a short run, that took me past the space needle, the science center, and other large institutions, then through some residential areas. Of course, the weather was grey and rainy. Westcoast.

After everyone was packed, donuted, and interneted (wifi cost too much at the hotel) we checked out, stored our bags and went to explore the city.

First stop: Pike Place Market, where I got myself an awesome crumpet with almond butter and honey for breakfast and one of Seattle's famous coffee.

Trust me. The crumpet was worth noting.

It was right around the corner from Left Bank Books, a collectively owned anarchist book shop.

The family on Pike Place Market

We roamed around the market for a while, then headed toward Pioneer Square, stopping at toy stores, and book stores along the way.

Of course, lunch had to be had. So we back tracked a little, went up the hill and alit at this very large brewery which for the life of me I can't remember the name. Not memorable, except for the fact that all children chose the vegetable side dish instead of fries. That was weird.

Our train was leaving at 4:30, so we wanted to be there about an hour before. King street station is undergoing some renovations right now, and just recently got rid of an ugly drop ceiling that was covering up this:

Although beautiful, the effect was a little creepy as many wires were still hanging down from the ornate ceiling, giving the effect of an old, beautiful torture chamber. It didn't help that this was one of the settings for the evil scientist in Cherie Priest's Bone Shaker.

The ferocious child luggage guards

Boarding the Empire Builder !

King street station...

Goodbye King Street Station!

Stay tuned for the next episode of the Great American train journey where we actually ride the train. Featuring a selection of J's 800 photos he took from the window, some musings on sitting there for two days, train food, close quarters and no exercise. Will she crack under pressure? Stay tuned, folks, stay tuned...

Reflections on my trip to Victoria

2011-07-27T09:33:00.000-04:00

July 19th, on the eve of leaving Victoria.

I don't think I have the constitution for visiting. My stomach is in knots and the copious amounts of alcohol imbibed in these social calls is beginning to pickle my insides. I am sure I am turning a distinct shade of green.

And that would be my excuse for not having posted in several weeks: a gruelling schedule of barbecues, social calls, family obligations, old friends. We leave in a couple of hours for Seattle (in fact I should be packing, but everyone is asleep and it is finally quiet and I don't want to wake them) where tomorrow we will take the train to Chicago and how do I feel this time about leaving home?

Pretty okay, actually.

No. That's not what I want to say. I mean, yes, it's true, but I am trying to pinpoint this feeling I am having. Wistful?

No. I am not made of wistful stuff.

Nostalgic? Umm, no.

Sad? No.

Exhausted? Well, yes, but that's nothing new.

Complicated?

Aaaah. I feel complicated about Victoria. But I will have to continue this later as I really do need to break the silence, get people up and pack our bags.

July 27th- back in Montreal.

To continue the train of thought I began over a week ago, Victoria is a hard city for me. On the one hand, I have a small army of loved ones who have permanently set up camp in the garden city and who show no inclination of leaving. Family members, yes, but also friends. Friends. Good friends. Friends whose kids I have known since the day they were born and who are now friending me on facebook and when I see them hover over me like overgrown bean stalks. And family. My sister and my mother as well as J's family are all there. And I have to say, I miss my sister something terrible most days.

But. but. The city. The city drives me nuts. And yes, I have already written about this a few years ago, but it bears repeating.

First of all, we had a few good days where it was sunny and warm, then back to cold and rainy. Let us just say, that leaving Montreal in 30 degree weather, I had not thought to bring along a pair of socks and shoes, only sandals. I painted my toe nails blue to match the colour of my feet.
(Okay, that's not exactly true, bt it sounds good.)

Second of all, for a city that touts itself as being green and environmentally friendly, they sure do drive everywhere. Now, this might be a phenomenon caused by the fact that it is actually easy to drive in Victoria, but still. In a city where it is easy to bike everywhere and where walking doesn't even take that long, people still choose their cars. I am still a little perplexed.

Third of all (can you say third of all? or is it thirdly? Both sound wrong. Number 3.) I present these newspaper articles as evidence of the self-righteous, idiotic and ultimately scary attitude of many of Victoria's citizens:

Social media gave Victoria cops eyes and ears on Victoria Day

Gardener ticketed for trying to grow a Garry Oak Meadow in front yard

Oh and also the neighbour who complained of our laughing on the front porch (we were talking of J's new found love of theme socks) at 10:00 at night. Honestly? But this is because front porches are never used the way they should be used- places to gather and watch the people go by, say hi to your neighbours and basically living in your community. If I had any advice for Victorians, it would be to try and use their front porches more often. Have a seat with a cold one, say hi to your neighbours. Strike up a conversation. And this is coming from me, anti-social queen of the world. (Of course, I don't do that. But J does and everybody in the neighborhood loves him. Which means we have someone to move our car when we are on vacation and somebody to feed our aquatic mini zoo as well).

However. I know I incline toward the negative, and of course our trip was more than that.

Some highlights of Victoria

1. Going for a run and seeing deer walk toward you on the sidewalk. Seriously. They were just strolling around eating stuff out of people's gardens. And this happened several times.

2. Going for a run by the ocean. The ocean. The smell. The air.

3. Thetis Island. Okay this is not , exactly in Victoria, but it was a definite highlight. We went camping on this idyllic island for three days, three glorious days where I didn't have to change out of my clothes except to go running and showering meant a jump in the ocean. Of course, C managed to cut her face while trying to cut rope to mae a raft, but thankfully it did not reach her eye and it wasn't that deep. No helicopter needed. Still, she'll have a nice little scar for always right beside her nose.

4. Last but not least, and although I grumble about our packed schedule, it was great seeing everyone. To J's dad who despite some health issues still manages to paint everyday, to my friend Honor who has overcome some major health issues and who is making some lovely jewelry, to my sister who has her own naturopathic clinic and her partner who owns an awesome restaurant in the heart of downtown Victoria, to everybody who came out to see us. It was wonderful. Thank you.

Stay tuned for next post: Seattle to Chicago to Albany to Montreal...

My sister: an hommage

2011-06-23T16:15:00.000-04:00

My youngest sister has known what she wanted to do with her life ever since she knew that the career of veterinarian existed. Perhaps she knew before that, some sort of magic womb intuition. Or maybe she is a soul continuously brought back to this flawed world in order to commune with the animal kingdom. Whatever it is that makes one person know, with all the certainty of their being, that there is only one thing they want to do, she has it.

Three years old. Tiny little nymph of a child with a mischievous grin. First words: endocrinal radiology.

Just kidding. But I remember her room: animal alphabet wall paper, single bed more occupied than Noah's Ark. Stuffies everywhere: Horse, monkeys, bears and a huge larger-than-her bunny rabbit my mother christened Harvey. If we wanted to leap into the bed and cuddle her, and my other sister and I always did (sisterhood is not unlike being lion cubs) we had to accept the lumpy corpses of stuffies and their plastic noses poking at our ribs.

Alas, my poor sister landed like a welcome afterthought in a family whose every member is allergic to animals. No pets, unless they were the kind you could stick in a tank (a rule I still hold to with my own children).

Well. When she was around ten years old ( I can't remember exactly when- maybe younger) she got into dressage in a big way. So much so that one Christmas, my mother surprised with a big box. In the big box, was a lot of paper and one VHS tape (remember those?). On the tape was a video of her brand new pony, Lollipop.

Now, when I say this story, you must fully comprehend the meaning of a pony in our family. First of all, it was a huge expense. My mother was by no means upper middle class. In fact we were solidly middle class. For my sister to have her own pony, she needed to work off her horse's board at the stable. She also needed to get her own paper route to defray expenses. She did this, as well as played on soccer and field hockey teams, ballet and school until she graduated from high school. In the summers she worked as a summer girl for some rich Americans who owned a large house on Salt Spring Island.

In short, my sister was always working. When she wasn't working, she was studying. When she wasn't studying, she was partying harder than anybody I've ever known. Burning the candles at both ends is an expression I'm convinced was tailor made for her.

She continued this gruelling schedule during her undergraduate years. In fact, she worked even harder as she knew that getting into vet school is harder than getting into med school. She was not accepted to the schools in Canada, but this didn't stop her. She applied to vet school in Melbourne, Australia and was offered funding from the rich American family who had been so pleased and awed by her work during the years.

Work, work, work, work. She continued to kick vet ass during her schooling. After graduating and in between those horrific qualifying exams that the medical professions seem so fond of, she took a trip to Cambodia, Egypt and Nepal, even volunteering at a vet clinic on Egypt. She did her exams, got an internship in Manhattan , then a fancy residency in Madison. Right now, she is completing this residency and planning to go back to Manhattan for a Fellowship which will make her one out of four people in the world who are doing what she will be doing when she's finished.

And this is the reason I'm writing this post about her now. I received a phone call from her last weekend. She had just completed one of the most stressful times in her career so far (more exams and her presentation of her research for completing her residency) and she had done both with flying colours. But that's not all. She was approached by a woman who offered my sister her dream job in Vancouver (the city she wanted to live in) as soon as she's finished her fellowship. Her ability to speak French was the icing on the cake. My sister would be the ideal candidate to speak in Europe. And let's not forget her very plump six figure starting salary.

Besides, stating the obvious - that I am so proud of her even though I have no idea what her specialisation is (she has tried to explain it to me and all I retain are the words endocrine, radiology and minimally invasive) - I am inspired and not in the Hallmark kind of way.

I mean that my kids are so lucky to have someone like my sister to look up to (except for the smoking. They are not allowed to role model that). She is the living example that if you find something you love, and you work your ass off (it's true. She has only a small amount of ass left) you can achieve just about anything. And not only for my kids. For me as well. When I'm feeling tired and brain dead and just want to lean back in my chair and pass out, I think of my sister. I think of the work she has put in and the times she must have been discouraged but didn't give up.

I think of how amazing she is.

Then I slap myself in the face, force my eyes back to the computer and continue working.

Okay. I guess that was a little Hallmark. So sue me.

Is it over yet? A Day in the Life: End of School Year Edition

2011-06-17T17:16:00.000-04:00

Tired. Fatigued. Exhausted. Overrun. Overwhelmed. Sleep deprived. Haggard. Bushed. Worn out. Knackered. Drained. Burnt- out.

Can’t find anymore synonyms to correspond with this end-of-the year feeling. You know. That feeling you get when just as you’re about to finish the last act, all the balls you’ve been juggling since September are going to come crashing down on your head. And they are made of lead. And it will hurt.

End of the year. Let me take you on a scenic tour of my brain this morning.

5 AM

Wake up at 5 AM, as per usual, after less than six hours of sleep as per usual (these days). Make my eyes open enough to pour some stale, old coffee in a mug and microwave it. Then go to the bathroom where I ungunk bleary eyes. This takes a while.

Remember that I found a couple of lice once again in daughter’s head yesterday. Again. Third treatment again. Calculate how to find the time to give her yet another treatment. Wonder vaguely about the damage lice shampoo is doing to her brain.

Make mental pros and cons list in my head: Better to have bugs or chemically induced brain-damaged child? Do not come up with an answer. Debate taking her to a hair dresser to get her hair professionally dyed purple. Do not come up with an answer.

Retrieve bitter, microwaved coffee and sit in front of my computer in a glazed stupor. Force my arms to pick up pen. Force my eyes to look at list. Check the weather.

Scratch head. Remember lice.

See the tax bill. Instead of forcing myself to write, I check our bank accounts. Do mental calculation of how we will be able to live until next paycheck.

Remember lice. Scratch my head.

Stare at piece of paper with half-finished poem. Decide to make alphabetical list of derogatory terms for females for a poem on number 7 of Tolstoy’s ten rules: Keep away from women. Particularily enjoy poontang and jackpine savage.

Remember lice. Scratch my head.

Remember out of school care bill. Find cheques for less used bank account. Write cheque and put it in prominent place for children to remember.

Lice. Scratch.

6 AM

Go for a run. Clothes still damp from yesterday’s run. I smell like a mouldy basement. Decide to go for an hour, which will make everybody late. Decide I don’t care. Need the time to mentally figure out how to get through the day.

7 AM

Arrive home and still no solution. Pack the lunches, give the cheques, make children change out of too-small clothes into clothes where they do not look like badly stuffed sausages. Make lice girl put her head up in boring braid instead of awesome hair explosion, then in a scarf. Spray both my children’s hair with the astringent homemade lice prevention mix (alcohol, lavender, tea tree oil and something else but I forgot).

Forget to do my own. Scratch.

Shower, find something nice enough to wear at graduation ceremonies at work. Graduation ends at five which means I won’t be able to go home before daughter’s graduation party. Need something that I can wear to both events as well as walk for an hour in without sweat stains showing and without wanting to kill myself out of discomfort. Don’t really succeed. Decide I don’t care. Do wear spectacular, red sandals that I bought myself for my birthday. Am pretty sure I will regret it by the end of the day.

Mental note- need something for potluck- samosas? Wine? Bread and cheese? Will I have enough time to pick something up on my way? Should I send J?Decide both. J pick up samosas, me some wine.

Do I have lice?

7:30 AM

Out the door. In the car. J drives me to work, the kids to school. Traffic like the tentacle of a dead octopus due to simultaneous construction sites on the streets of Montreal. Soon driving won’t be an option. Mentally calculate how I will get to work next week. Come up with several solutions all of which will make me late. Give instructions to family: J go to Mountain equipment coop for tent repair kit (necessary after our oldest took it with her on a hell trip to the wilds of Mont-Tremblant where she came back looking like she had been eaten alive by saber-toothed bugs and where a raccoon entered the tent twice by piercing holes in it- the girls left food in it, even after expressly being told not to.). Mentally calculate how much I should charge each girl. Kids: Go straight home after school. J give lice treatment. S prepare for graduation party. Remember to shower and use deodorant. Deodorant lost in the wilds of Mont-Tremblant. Use mine. C blow dry hair after lice treatment. Samosas for potluck. J put lice sheets in laundry. Tell daughter she will have to wash her sheets and towels everyday.

Lice. Scratch.

7:45 AM

Forced to stop issuing instructions as I have arrived at work. Let two students in who forgot their passkey. Decide not to let them in until they return their books. Retrieve very late books. Arrive at work feeling guilty for not being dressed up more. Should have tried harder.

Another ball dropped.

June. Is it over yet?