World War Z: The Webkinz Apocalypse

I am working my way through World War Z, but as I mentioned before, I’ve been having a bit of trouble getting focused on it. Still, I’m all about the zombies right now, so you can imagine the thrill I got when this little item buzzed across my twitter stream:

Webkinz Halloween Zombie Costume Preview! http://bit.ly/JXuDy #Webkinz

Sing with me: Zombies and Webkinz … these are just two of my favorite things!

If you don’t know what Webkinz are (and if you don’t, what planet do you live on and how are you reading my blog from there?), they are cute little stuffed animals that you buy at Hallmark. Each comes with a code that, once entered in a website, unlocks a virtual pet that you name and care for, along with a bunch of games and so on. It’s a kind of mass contagion that has spread among the tweener set. My daughter has, I don’t know, forty or so of them, and yet I fully expect her to end up in therapy someday to discuss her childhood Webkinz deprivation: one kid we know of has more than a hundred.

I used to play on my daughter’s account, but she told me to stop and then changed her password on me. So, with no other option, I decided to buy one of my own, and discovered how truly addictive collecting Webkinz can be. I’m up to about twenty of my own now. My favorite thing about Webkinz: you can give them names that are totally inappropriate, even for celebrity children. I have a virtual chicken named Beaker McNugget, and my virtual camel is a cross-dresser named Prince Humperdink. Top that, Nicole Richie!

I like to think of it as embracing my inner child, and the fact that my inner child probably rides the short bus makes it all the more worth embracing. I’m sure any psychiatrist would agree. Not only that, I am sharing my daughter’s interests. I’m in touch with my child and my inner child, at the same time - I'm multitasking!

My Webkinz have been sadly neglected since I started my book project and blog, to the point where my husband is predicting a mass pixelcide. And this has me worried, because I love my books and my Webkinz and my family and you, my dear blog reader. How do I fit it all in? None of these are things that can be outsourced, like we do with things we hate (cleaning, yardwork). Actually, I imagine I could pay a nine-year-old to care for my Webkinz, but have I really reached the point where I am outsourcing my hobbies? Obviously, it’s a question of priorities. I need to figure out how to make time for what’s most important, and yes, I’m working on it.

In the meantime, though, the zombies have invaded Webkinz World and it is clearly a sign: Read World War Z, it contains vital knowledge. I will finish this book! I will do it for the Webkinz.

Uncle Montague’s Tales of Terror

I chose this book because of the delightfully creepy illustrations on the cover, which reminded me of Edward Gorey, who managed to be at once macabre and whimsical. It also got good reviews, notably from Stainless Steel Droppings, so I decided to read it as my first book for that site’s RIP IV challenge.

There is always a danger going into a book with very high expectations; I had hopes of being transported to a quirky, ominous, Gorey-esque world. I wasn’t, and thus I was disappointed with Uncle Montague’s Tales of Terror. I kept waiting for it to grab me, the way the Graveyard Book did, but it never happened.

The premise of the book is simple: A young boy visits an older relative, who tells him a series of scary stories. The cover informs us that “Uncle Montague’s creepy stories have something - or someone – in common.” Well, okay, but if it hadn’t said so on the cover, I wouldn’t have caught that from the text. The stories were intriguing, to be sure, but I felt too short and disjointed to build up the sort of page-turning, stay-up-all-night-to-finish-it suspense I was hoping for.

In fairness, I think I would have enjoyed Tales of Terror more had I not gone in with such high expectations. It is a children's book, and I think it would be a wonderful book for the kind of kid who likes telling scary stories around the campfire. Unfortunately, I don’t do campfires and my daughter doesn’t do scary stories so there’s just not much call for Uncle Montague at our house.

14 books down, 36 more to go.

It’s a Sign; or, How to Judge A Book by Its Cover

The zombie book is moving somewhat slowly (as zombies will do), so I decided to lay it aside for the weekend and pick up the pace a bit with something else from my to be read pile. But how to decide? The pile was already monstrously big when ten more books appeared mysteriously, possibly added by the book-collecting ghouls that seem to haunt my house.

Now, I’m a little superstitious, Halloween is coming, and I’m trying really hard to complete the RIP IV challenge; unfortunately, in addition to my seasonal sense of foreboding, I’m also feeling a tad indecisive. I look for a sign to aid my choice: flickering lights when I open a book, an ominous bird flying overhead, maybe a 666 in the ISBN number.

Nothing.

If I were in a gothic novel, this is the point at which I might read a mysterious letter or ancient manuscript containing some clue or key piece of information. Then I remember: In Sixpence House, the author asserts that you actually can make certain judgments about books based on their covers. For example, when the cover of a book only has reviews of an author’s prior work, and not of the book itself, this is a very, very bad omen.

So it was that a chill passed over me as I examined the cover of Past Imperfect, by Julian Fellowes, author of the wonderful Snobs and screenwriter of one of my favorite films, Gosford Park. The back cover reads:

“Praise for Snobs”

Cue ominous background music.

“I couldn’t put Snobs down.”

And so on.

No! I have been waiting for this book for months! Oh, the humanity!

It is probably for the best that I don’t live in the Castle of Otranto or Northanger Abbey or even Hogwarts School, but this also means there isn’t much chance that, within the confines of my suburban house, the words in this book will magically re-arrange themselves into a witty, elegant read. I’m sorry, Past Imperfect: I judged you by your cover, and found you wanting. Back to the library with you! Begone!

Ask Not What The Moochers Can Do For You …

When I embarked on my 50-book challenge, I imagined that I would learn important lessons about life, myself, and everything. And so I have: I wasn’t meant to be a mooch.

I figured it might be expensive to buy all my books this year, especially given my propensity for reading only one out of every four books that I bring home. So when I ran across a site for exchanging used books for free, I thought, brilliant!

The site is Bookmooch. You list books you want to get rid of. When someone requests one, you mail it and get points. (Important tip: this is another reason why hardcover books are so uneconomical – the postage’ll kill ya.) Then you use your points to request books you want from other people.

I sign up and list ten books, then search excitedly for books I want. Does anyone want to give me a copy of The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse? Please? No rush, I just want it in time for Easter. No luck. So I create a wish list of books I want. When someone lists a book on your wish list, you get an email and can request it.

I set about filling my wish list (I am highly skilled at wish lists and gift registries), and quickly get my first book request: a gentleman in Israel wants my unread copy of The Crack at the Edge of the World. I weigh it and discover it’s going to cost $12 to ship it to him. Does anyone else think that seems like a lot of money to get rid of an old book?

On the other hand, I will get three points for shipping it overseas, which is three books for me, or four dollars per book. I’m torn. So I check out his profile page, which includes a long list of books he has mooched in the past. I discover one called Dying for Chocolate (Culinary Mysteries). It turns out there is a whole series of mystery novels in which the sleuth is a caterer, and the books come complete with recipes that the reviewers claim are quite good. This is exciting, although it creates a bit of a dilemma as to which bookshelf I would file such a book on. Still, I add it to my list, and continue checking his mooch list.

Then this little gem jumps out at me: Brainless: The Lies and Lunacy of Ann Coulter.

I don’t need to read this book, and it might be hazardous to my health if I did – I think I could develop whiplash by nodding vigorously through all 300 pages. I like this guy, and agree to send my book off to him. I hope he enjoys reading it. It made me look very smart sitting on my shelf all this time, but now it deserves to be read, and he deserves to read it.

So I send off his book and fill up my wish list and wait.

And wait.

I mail off more books.

And wait. And wait.

I mail off more books, and start to feel pangs in the post office.

Wait a minute! THIS ISN’T FAIR! There are never any books for ME!

Now, it’s not like I have trouble getting books for free. That’s what libraries are for, and I have a long hold list at the library too. The problem with the library is the whole pesky time limits thing – they actually want books back in some reasonable amount of time, so that other people can read them too. I suppose that’s fair to other people but that’s just not how I read books. What about ME?

Possibly I am not using bookmooch in the most efficient way. Instead of entering titles I want and waiting, maybe I should browse the shelves, like at a used bookstore. I browse by language/country, and discover that if I go with the obvious choice, English, I am treated to a monstrously long list of John Grisham, Tom Clancy, and Mary Higgins Clark, and paging through this list to get to anything else could take … well, the same amount of time as just waiting patiently for The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies to show up on my doorstep.

I browse by category, selecting “humor” because you are what you eat, or something. Here again I am treated to a long list of John Grisham, Tom Clancy, and Mary Higgins Clark. Did I miss something about The Chamber? Other books that I mysteriously failed to laugh through include The Lovely Bones, Hannibal, and Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Oh Brutus, you card. I also take note that Moon Unit Zappa has written a novel, information I assume could come in handy someday.

Not only am I no closer to acquiring any free books, I am increasingly agitated reading the titles on the long list. Can someone please explain to me why so many novels have “:A Novel” in the title? Is it because I might be confused about whether it is or isn’t a novel? (Let’s see … is this a novel, or a novella, or a very long short story? I can’t enjoy it unless I know for sure!) Does the publisher fear that bookstores might be unable to shelve the book properly without being given a BIG HINT where it goes? My inner conspiracy theorist suspects there might be lawyers involved.

I think bookmooch is a great idea, and I haven’t given up on it. I am wondering if there may be another lesson to be learned: the one about patience being a virtue.

Curriculum Night! Now with Ultra-Violent Zombie Mayhem!

Book #14 is World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War. I haven't gotten terribly far with it yet so I don't have much to tell you; I'm still trying to figure out the whole Zombie thing. What I've learned so far:

• Zombies bite a lot.
• Zombies are very focused - specifically, on braaaaiins.
• Dogs don't like zombies much. I suspect this may be true of other animals as well, and if any birds ever drop by for a bit of suet, I'll be sure to ask them.
• Zombies stand out in a crowd.
• Zombies scare the crap out of people.

Unfortunately, I didn't get much further than this because last night was curriculum night at Emma's new school. So our evening began with a rushed dinner, at which I tried to persuade my family that we should do family Halloween costumes this year: The three of us could go as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. My husband insisted that "No one will get it. We'd have to wear signs."

I don't see a problem with this: Posterboard and markers? It'll be the cheapest Halloween ever.

But then Emma, the wee traitor, nixes the plan. "No. I want to be a witch. I've never been a witch before."

I bite my tongue.

Off to school we go. First we get an overview from the principal, then, a word from our Parent Association: Saturday night is the Heritage Festival! It's a potluck, please bring a dish to share that celebrates your heritage. There is talk about the lovely ethnic dishes people have brought in the past.

Here's the thing: I consider myself to be a generic American, and proud of it. And I could probably manage some representative dish, but there are issues with most of my ideas. For example, the school is a peanut-free environment, so I can't bring a tray of PB&J's on Wonder Bread. Should I bring some McDonald's and blame society for my weight problem? Honestly, my family has lived in the midwest for many generations: my heritage is jello molds at potlucks. Wait a minute, I can do this! I have a zombie brain jello mold. All I need is some green jello and gummy worms and here we come, potluck! 

Then we head into the classroom, which I refuse to call by its official name, a pod; I've seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I know how the pod thing works. Everyone is asked to introduce themselves and say what they enjoy doing most with their child. The fathers talk about finding things to do outdoors with their sons, to keep them from playing too many video games. Nearly everyone talks about reading with their child. Everyone else nods in approval. This is what good parents do. I am a good parent.

And then it's my turn, so I tell these other parents that my daughter and I read together, we cook together, we play games like Go Fish together.

This tongue-biting thing is working for me. I managed not to say that my daughter reads too much, so I try to distract her by playing online games with her in Webkinz World. I left out how I bribe her with new Webkinz from time to time, so that she will read less. Now, understand, she is fixated on the Warriors series by Erin Hunter, which I gather from the cover has something to do with cats, and she's to the point where I'm afraid she will start meowing instead of speaking.  Also, she likes to cook, so I buy her muffin mixes let her bake her own breakfasts; she made her own TV dinner before we came here tonight. Yes, I left that out too. You say bad nutrition; I say developing self-sufficiency. It's a fine line. I do supervise the oven part. 

I smile politely. Everyone smiles politely. Then we all focus our attention on the teacher, who gives us a handout discussing the education of the preadolescent braaaaaiiin. 

Help! A Bear Is Eating Me!

Before I begin, I have a brief note from my inner pedant, to the editor of this book: Spell check is your friend. I am not terribly picky about typos in instant messages, emails, tweets, Facebook status updates, or blogs (including my own), but seriously, if you’re going to charge me $10.95 for a book, before taking my money, could you spend 45 seconds letting your PC find and remove the glaring typos?

Book number 13 is Help! A Bear is Eating Me! by Mykle Hansen, and I don’t even know where to begin. I’ll start with the cover. One of the reviews on the back cover says, “this is the gayest shit I’ve ever seen,” a statement that is attributed to a “noted Internet culture critic.”

Okay, that’s not exactly how I’d put it, but I can see where the noted, yet anonymous, culture critic is coming from. Two words leap to my own mind: surreal and profane. Actually, this may well be the most profane book I’ve ever read, even including the porn book I found in my cousin’s car and read when I was ten.

The narrator is a guy called Marv Pushkin, who has something to offend everyone. The book is a long interior monologue by Marv, who is trapped under an SUV and, well, being eaten by a bear. I quickly found myself rooting for the bear, although in the interest of full disclosure, I must add that I also rooted for Voldemort during the last Harry Potter movie, much to the dismay of the two teenage girls sitting behind me. That said, the fact that the narrator is referred to as an asshole on the book’s back cover may be a sign that my reaction to him was not unique.

Marv and I have a lot in common, which I should probably find alarming, but don’t. For example, Marv is confused by people’s insistence that the outdoors is so great. “Certain people – hippies, I guess you’d call them – insist to me that human beings need nature, for some reason.” I, too, frequently find myself baffled when confronted with such assertions. Speak for yourself! If you need nature, it’s all yours - enjoy.

Marv is not a team player, and neither am I. “A team is a group of people who do what I tell them to, or I fire them.” Or in my case, do what I tell them to or I issue time outs, withhold allowances, and restrict television privileges.

Marv “wouldn’t be obsessed with money if there wasn’t so much great stuff for sale.” I know just how he feels. Many is the time (okay, once or twice) I have gone hiking with my husband and observed that it would be so much more motivational if someone would build a mall at the end of the trail. Then, obviously, I would understand what the pockets on cargo pants are for: my credit cards. And I wouldn’t have to carry all that heavy water and food because I could just buy it at the food court.

Where I draw the line with Marv, though, is where he observes that he and the bear are not so different: “We both have excellent taste. You are eating me, for instance, and I would eat you, too.” Sorry, no. I am not hairy, I do not stink, and I’m almost a vegetarian.

I’m not sure if I’m a better person for having read this book, but now that I’ve spent some quality time with Marv Pushkin, I know I’m a better person than at least one fictitious character, if only because I’m not fool enough to find myself in a situation where being eaten by a bear is even a remote possibility.

13 books down, 37 more to go.

The Great Outdoors, According to Whom?

All I can say is, since I had planned to finish Help! A Bear Is Eating Me! before my husband’s return, it’s a good thing I chose a short book.

My husband was scheduled to camp and hike for three days, returning home on Sunday afternoon. So I was startled when he called my cell phone at 1pm on Saturday. It was hard to hear him; I had taken Emma and her little friend to Family Fun Center where I was attempting to track them through the game arcade. In between game machine jackpots and the associated squealing, I was able to make out the following:

“ … coming home … seven hours of rain … reading in the tent … got a blackberry signal, snow coming … backpack broke … home soon.”

Apparently, for the seven hours of rain, my husband and his friend Jim couldn’t even sit in the same tent, as neither of them had a tent sufficiently large. I would mention that we have comfortably had 14 people to a full dinner at our house, including dessert and hot coffee, but my husband reads my blog on occasion and I think that might be salt on an open wound.

Anyway, they headed out of the wilderness and warmed themselves at Jim’s house, time they evidently spent planning next year’s trip to the “Wonderland Trail.”

Brilliant. I have just the book for the occasion. And while he’s off chasing white rabbits, I’ll stay home and raise a glass of magical potion (aka, a blender drink) in a joyful salute to creature comforts.

Help! or, Why I Fear the Outdoors

For the next book in my challenge, unlucky  13, it is only fitting that I choose a book on an unlucky topic. I recently signed up for RIP IV, a Halloween-themed reading challenge, so I have several books on suitably creepy subjects in my To Be Read pile. But number 13 calls for a subject that is more terrifying even  than a combination of zombies, vampires, Frankenstein, ghosts, Edgar Allan Poe, Rocky Horror, and the Phantom of the Opera, even if you mixed them all together and had Vincent Price narrate the whole thing.

I am speaking, of course, of the great outdoors.

Not long ago, my husband Dave announced he was planning a three-day backpacking trip with an old college friend. He knew better than to suggest I come along and it is to his credit that he didn't invite me, even to entertain himself watching the fearful shudders and the look of mortal terror that would have accompanied my polite decline.

I was informed they planned to hike near Mount Baker, "In fact, we'll be hiking up the bunny slopes."

This strikes me as vaguely silly. After all, if he would just wait a couple months, the ski lift will be running and he could can simply take a ride to the top, ski down, and have a nice hot chocolate at the bottom.

He insists I don't understand the outdoors, because I've never really been camping. This is completely untrue. I went camping once, with a group of friends in Connecticut. We camped on the infield of a race track, on the weekend of antique car races. We had a great deal of fun until we attempted to actually sleep - the tent, which had started sagging due to the rain, collapsed, leaving us to attempt to reassemble it in the dark, to the melodious and may I add loud strains of Pink Floyd coming from a nearby Winnebago. The other campers didn't help, nor did they offer to share their beer.  We couldn't really figure the tent out in the dark, so we settled for a partially slumped tent and enjoyed a few restful moments of sleep before the sun rose and the antique engines resumed their laps around the track. 

My husband informs me that this is not really camping, and I wasn't really outdoors. Well, I was wet, cold, dirty, and ruined my manicure, how much worse does it need to get before the fun begins?

A group of our friends here in Washington State went camping a few years ago in Leavenworth. My husband opted to stay in a tent; I opted to rent a cabin shared with our friends Neil and Teresa. In the morning, while Teresa and I did civilized things, like bathe, Neil drove into town and returned with a tray full of Starbucks lattes, hot and yummy.

Dave said, "Wow, you guys are really roughing it."

Neil replied, "You have no idea. The Starbucks in town doesn't even take debit cards."

Then there was a collective eyeroll.

I could go on with these camping tales of woe, but I think you have the general idea. So, he is backpacking and camping this weekend, and presumably deriving some perverse enjoyment from the experience. Mwanwhile, I am sitting on the sofa, under our well-maintained roof, and reading book number 13 in his honor: Help! A Bear Is Eating Me! by Mykle Hansen.

A Supremely Bad Idea: Three Mad Birders and Their Quest to See It All

I imagine you've been wondering how long it would take me to finish this book. I've been wondering the same. Two weeks! I'm kind of behind schedule now - although not disastrously behind - 40 weeks left, 38 more books to read. That doesn't sound behind schedule to you, I realize, but I like being ahead of schedule so I'm a little stressed.

I don't know why it took me so long to get through. Part of the problem may have been the 12-hour days I worked last week. Have I mentioned that I read for a living? Not just any reading: my days are jam-packed with page upon page of emotive statements like "based on our regression analysis," and "industry sources indicate the trend is (pick a direction)." Take those days and lengthen them and then, just for kicks, add a little stress-induced insomnia to the mix, et voila! I become a Slow Reader.

The subject matter didn't help. A Supremely Bad Idea concerns three birdwatchers (excuse me, birders) and their travels around the United States to see as many species as possible. Long passages discuss the nuances of identifying various species - I am yawning just thinking about it.  

Apart from that, though, I enjoyed the book. It's essentially a travelogue in the style of Bill Bryson - sharp observations permeated with a gentle sense of humor. The author, Luke Dempsey, is  aware of the nerdy reputation the hobby has and so never takes himself too seriously - and there is ample compensation in the travel narration.

The descriptions of run-ins with inconsiderate others are flat out hilarious: obnoxious, shouting birding tour guides and groups of men called "The Pregnants"; at these encounters, the author's superhero alter-ego, Small Injustice Man, unfurls his cape and holds his ground.

One of my favorite sequences involves a trip they took to Texas, where they attempt to avoid "The United States of Generica;" that is, they will not eat or sleep in any Motel 6's or McDonald's. The hotels run the gamut from a stellar bed-and-breakfast to a place so disgusting I felt skeevy just having read about it.

Like birdwatching, the book took me places I would not have gone otherwise, and I confess a newfound regard for birds and birders (although I reserve my right to poke fun at them, since they evidently have a sense of humor about it - mostly).

12 books down, 38 more to go.

Stray Cats and Suet Cakes

I’m still working on A Supremely Bad Idea, and if anything proves that I am not, and never will be, a birder, I think my slow progress with this book does. I’m also not having much success with my attempts to be an armchair birdwatcher: not a single bird has been seen nibbling at the new birdfeeder.

Now, although it’s possible that the birds don’t really like suet cakes, or that they’ve heard a rumor that my house is occupied by an Alfred Hitchcock devotee, I think there is another possible reason for both my lack of success with both the book and the birds: There’s a giant CAT in my backyard, yellow and Clifford-sized; much too big for my dog to chase off.

We live next door to the local vocational school. Our little street has eight houses on it, and it is surrounded by the college. A little suburban island in a sea of … well, not quite academia … more like motorcycle maintenance. But apart from the occasional late-night donut drivers in the parking lot, the school is generally a good, quiet neighbor.

Several weeks ago, we got a letter from the school, addressed to “Our Neighbor,” alerting us to the school's upcoming expansion: an 83,000 square foot building. I didn’t think too much of it until the giant yellow CAT earth-moving machines showed up outside my house. I had the idea that there would be noise, jackhammering like woodpeckers, off to the side of my house – in the background somewhere. Instead, my house began to shake like an earthquake, accompanied by a constant background screeching – not unlike the music in the shower scene in Psycho, or a very loud, angry mouse, or perhaps a large family of mice, being driven from their home by the giant yellow CAT.
 Now, I’m thinking maybe some WD40 is in order, but if you saw how big this CAT is, you’d understand: there’s not enough WD40 at Costco to take care of this squeaking.

It should come as no surprise then, that I’ve found it a wee bit hard to concentrate on reading … and that the birds have been scared off. Of course, they might have left simply because winter is approaching; in fact, there are icicles on the bottom of the birdfeeder. Granted, they formed from the melting suet cake, but still, they are icicles, and that means winter.

So, I’m trying not to worry too much about the implications of all this. After all, we like cats, and winter means Christmas. I’m just going to play some Christmas tunes on my iPod and hope the birds come back in the spring.

American Zombie Fashion Show, an Educational Event

On Saturday, I took my daughter and her friend up to Barnes & Noble in Woodinville, which was hosting a mini American Girl Fashion Show, complete with games, prizes, raffles, and a nice, educational book. If you aren’t familiar with the American Girl concept, they aren’t just dolls, they are pure marketing genius – 18 inch dolls that come in two major lines:

• “Just Like You” dolls, which come in every possible permutation, so that a girl can have a doll that looks like her, right down to matching outfits, which are available in both kid and doll sizes.

• “Historical” dolls, which each have a series of books you can read to learn about girls at different historical eras, along with historically accurate clothing, furniture, and other overpriced (excuse me, high-quality) accessories.

Thus, they manage to appeal to both fashion mom and education mom, and although I was personally outraged when they introduced a historical doll from the 1970’s (I am not a museum piece, although I hope to be eventually), I don’t have too many other complaints about the dolls.

The B&N event was a fundraiser for Seattle Children’s Hospital, so I figured, we’d go, support a good cause, and while the girls enjoyed the fashion show with their dolls, I could read a book, except that I forgot to bring one. Okay, plan B: I can peruse the shelves and possibly add a new title to my ever-increasing reading challenge pile.

No, I haven’t finished the birdwatching book yet … thanks for bringing it up.

As soon as we arrive, I realize this is not a small event: The entire children’s department has been rearranged to accommodate a wriggling mass of girls, dolls, moms, and did I mention everyone brought their little brothers?

Emma and Julia race to the front and sit on the floor in a large gaggle of girls. I can no longer see them due to the size of the crowd, which means I can’t keep an eye on them any other way except to hang around the one entry from the children’s department. No worries – there are plenty of tables of books right near the entry, and I am excited to find an autographed copy of World War Z, which I was planning to read. Autographed Zombies! Yeah!

I wander back into the children’s department and immediately realize there is no place left to sit: if you weren’t there early enough to grab a seat for the show (we weren’t) then you were stuck milling about with the mob of moms. I try to stand and read but this elicits many comments from those nearby, notably: “Oh, I wish I’d thought of that.” I consider pointing out that there is a huge bookstore attached to the children’s department, but I really just want to read.

So I seek out an alternate spot. I move further away from the podium and discover there’s a Thomas train table over in the toddler section. With three completely empty chairs! No one else has noticed them yet! I claim one eagerly. I read two paragraphs.

Two little brothers discover the train table, and begin moving trains around the track. An audience of younger brothers quickly gathers to watch. The two train brothers start complaining that they can’t maneuver the trains with all the audience brothers in their way. The audience brothers think it would be more fun if the train brothers shared their trains. A collision ensues. All the little brothers attempt to grab what train cars they can. Several mothers rush over, shushing and apologizing and glancing nervously over their shoulders at the mob of mothers of well-behaved children behind them.

I get up and look for another spot, and finally discover a very low empty table, hidden behind a stroller parked right at the children’s department entry. I move the stroller slightly and hide behind it, hoping to read another paragraph or two. Something about Zombies in post-apocalypse China. Must … Focus …

A little brother wanders by with a book that is blaring like a fire engine. A moment later, I hear a Mom state firmly, “NO. Pick a quieter book.”

Zombies in China. Doing … Something.

The announcer on the small podium is starting the contests! “Everyone who dressed like her doll may participate! If you and your doll are both wearing pajamas, come on up!” A mass of jammie-and-pink-Converse-wearing girls surges forward.

Zombies! Patient Zero … Attacking ... Something.

“All our winners receive an Ariel the Mermaid game box, containing Go Fish, Tic Tac Toe, and Disney Dominoes!”

Disney's Mermaid Zombies, now there’s a book I'd like to read.

The fashion show is over, and there are excited girls and frustrated little brothers buzzing all around me. Emma and Julia come find me. I hand over their promised shopping money, and find myself holding two dolls while they buzz excitedly around the American Girl tables. Moments later, Emma re-appears.

“Is it okay if I buy a third Coconut?”

Coconut is the American Girl dog. She already has two of them, along with three cats, two horses, two doghouses and a complete American Girl stable set.

The hook has been baited, and, in my zombified state, I bite: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

As with a zombie movie, you can already predict how that ended.

At the checkout, the two girls pay, as I wait patiently behind them, my arms full of dolls, a poster, and a zombie book, gazing wistfully at the empty, overstuffed reading chairs near the cookbook section. It is my turn to pay, and they are already walking toward the exit. I pile everything on the counter so that I can fish my credit card out of my purse. The cashier looks at me sympathetically and says, “I’ll put the zombies in your purse for you.”

And the winner is ...

I got a couple of awards and I am so flattered! First is the Lemonade Award from Misty at Book Rat. Stop by and check out her wonderful review blog (and don’t miss her Zombie Haiku post – a personal favorite of mine).

So, since the Lemonade Award is for blogs that show great attitude, I’d like to pass it along to a few great blogs I’ve run across:

Nancy @ If Evolution Really Works
Rosie @ Books and Bakes
Melissa @ Betty and Boo’s Mommy

I also was awarded the Blog Lovin' Award by Cindy at Media Medley. Cindy is an artist who documents her art and artistic techniques in her blog; she also paints wonderful, custom oil portraits from photographs. I have one for each of my children currently adorning my entryway and what a showstopper!

The Blog Lovin' Award criteria seems to be a bit flexible, but the award was given to me for "for impacting my life in a positive way through their works." It is generally awarded to five blogs at a time. So on that basis, I would like to give the award to the following bloggers:

Allyson @ 2 L’s and a Y
Rachel @ Bookworm Wannabe
Marie @ The Boston Bibliophile
Rachy @ Parajunkee
Glory Von Hathor @ Ghosts in the Pantry

Thanks and congratulations, everyone!

Suet cakes? For me? You shouldn't have

In the evenings, I sit in my reading chair and read, at least for a bit, and glance (okay, glare) over the top of the book, at the birdfeeder.

The birds won’t come. They don’t seem to want the suet cakes. I can’t imagine why: Seeds encased in solidified slime. Yum. It reminds me of that stuff they used to sell in health food stores in the 1970s, which my mother insisted on feeding me instead of Wonder Bread and Pop Tarts and all the yummy stuff that emerged from my classmates’ lunchboxes.

I like birds and I’m enjoying this book about birding (note the use of correct terminology), but the birds clearly don’t like me very much. I think they may have heard there’s a Hitchcock fan in the house. Either that, or the birdhouse people up the street actually do put seed in all those houses. There is one other possible explanation, of course: My husband might, maybe, could have been a teensy bit right.

But I think they just don’t like the suet cakes.

A heartbreaking post of staggering uniqueness

I got a little frustrated last night. I was reading a list of upcoming “hot” fall books on the Daily Beast site. It’s the usual stuff mostly: Dan Brown, Mitch Albom, and so on. I glance at the author’s name, and it says, “Sara Nelson, author of the bestselling So Many Books, So Little Time." Really? My ears perk up (or maybe my eyes, as I was reading). A check on Amazon reveals the book chronicles her effort to read a book per week for one year. Huh.

Not only that, but Anna Quindlen, whose books I’ve never read but evidently lots of other people have, has tackled the subject as well, in How Reading Changed My Life. You don’t say.

I knew when I started this project that it wasn’t an original idea; how could it be? I came up with it when I ran across a discussion group on goodreads full of people doing the exact same thing. Not only that, I ran across a couple of blogs (links at left <<) whose authors are doing the exact same thing.

I feel ordinary again.

Now it occurs to me, maybe I should start over. I could read something else, like the encyclopedia, but that’s already been covered quite engagingly by A.J. Jacobs in The Know It All. Actually, I didn’t even finish that, although I liked his other book, about the bible. Either way, scratch that.

Maybe I could read another list of books. Christopher Beha got pretty good reviews for doing just that in The Whole Five Feet, in which he spends a year reading the Harvard Classics.

I think if I keep looking, I will find myself completely discouraged and just give up. Goodbye, cruel blogosphere!

Maybe I could choose another list of books. My beloved Strand bookstore has a list called The Strand 80. This list is largely composed of classics and Important Books that already line my shelves; they fall into two categories: books I’ve never read, or books that I’ve read repeatedly (Jane Austen, F. Scott Fitzgerald). Many were read for school, inevitably. I’ve already seen the movie for some (Lord of the Rings); but for those I have read nor bothered with the movie, is there a point to forcing myself? Maybe there is but I’ve never been a huge believer in suffering for art, which is a conversation for another day.

I think this is where I get into trouble with reading. I buy things (or when I’m feeling budget-conscious or run out of shelf space, check out of the library) that everyone likes, or that I “should” read for some reason, but I’m not really interested so I don’t read them. Then the books sit there, staring at me from the shelves, making me feel guilty and worse, inadequate. They’re doing it right now.

I take my daughter and my dog for a walk (only the latter was on a leash) and on our usual route, we pass what is easily the most, well, festive house in the neighborhood. It’s painted like a gingerbread house: purple with colorful trim. But it’s, oh, so much more than that.

This house has a huge yard, and it’s filled not with grass, but with trees and assorted lawn sculptures, and it’s surrounded by a white picket fence. And every last thing on the property is covered with birdhouses. Birdhouses on the fenceposts. Birdhouses hanging from the trees. Birdhouses mounted on posts, scattered about the yard. It’s Hitchcock’s worst nightmare.

And these are not just any birdhouses, mind you: Every last one of them is painted colorfully, fancifully, like a miniature gingerbread house. An explosion of color. The owners never decorate for Halloween; they don’t have to – even as an adult, I’ve long been convinced that the house must be inhabited by the sort of person who keeps a kid-sized oven inside.

But here’s the thing: You remember that house. I get lost looking for other people’s houses, and if you ask me what color most of my friends’ houses are, I probably couldn’t tell you. Ummmm, beige? No, wait, brown. I don’t know. This house, though – I know exactly where it is. We look forward to passing by and debating whether or not they ever put birdseed in any of those houses.

For a long time I thought: those people are crazy (the house is rather small, so I assume they’re not rich enough to be “eccentric”). To me all those birdhouses were just a kind of giant EFF YOU to the neighborhood. But today it hits me: No, they just don’t care. It’s their house, their way. Isn’t that how it should be? Many people have houses, but only one family has THAT house. It’s not about the house, it’s about the personality.

I spend some more time with the Strand 80, and now I feel a bit differently about it. First of all, I realize I’ve easily read half of these books.

Yea! I’m well read! Gimme a Woo-Hoo!

Then I stumble across book #20, Ulysses. The book that I read four chapters of and then delivered a very persuasive oral presentation on, in college. One thing I remember about Ulysses is that it isn’t about plot: the story is about one ordinary man’s day. That’s it. All 800 or so pages.

But nobody else could have written it. Every chapter is different, an entirely different style to suit the subject of the chapter. For example, the chapter when he visits the news room is written like a newspaper article. It’s a work of genius. The absolute simplest thing – a man’s day – elevated to a work of art.

A work of art I’ve not ever finished reading.

Much like our birdhouse-loving neighbors’ house, I tend to recoil from things that are different. That’s not so unusual, I imagine. But that’s the stuff we remember, isn’t it? Those are the people that stick with us, and the books, and the places.

For the moment, I’m on page 140 of A Supremely Bad Idea, and plan to keep going. Hope you stay with me.

Cleaving? So soon?

I read Julie & Julia as part of my reading challenge, and then saw the movie. I am among the crowd that thinks Julie Powell is a tad over-rated. I had to force myself to finish the book, which had its moments to be sure, but in general, I found her kind of whiny and self-absorbed. I liked the movie more, primarily because Nora Ephron's screenplay was delightful and focused more attention on the Julia Child aspect of the story, which was incredibly engaging.

(As an aside, I would add Julia's book about her time in France to my reading list, but I'm already drowning in a sea of books. So many books I want to read! Not enough time!)

I looked to see if Julie Powell had written anything further and apparently, she has another book coming out, in December. It has one review on Amazon and it isn't a rave. Further searching on other books sites brought up some really bad reviews.

Now, I'm curious, and I learn that although the movie is out in the US, the book release has been delayed until December. The book is available in the UK, though. Why not here? Is it that bad? Why is a book by an American author that was made into a Hollywood movie only available in the UK? I'm an avid conspiracy theorist. Humor me.

Amazon UK won't ship it to me, but my money is good with an eBay UK seller. Cleaving is on its way.

So I explain all this to my husband and tell him I'm waiting eagerly for this book. 

He asks, "You ordered a book because you think it will stink? And you needed this bad book ... urgently?" 

Wait, that doesn't seem right, when you put it like that. 

"Well, I just wanted to see for myself."

"Right," he says. "Because your real hobby is ... rubbernecking. You can't let a good train wreck pass by without gawking. In fact ... you have to order an advance copy of it, so you can have the first, best view of the trainwreck."

Now I'm in a tough spot. If Cleaving is good, I will be wrong, and I thus triumph over my husband. (See? I will tell him. I just wanted to know, it's not a trainwreck, I'm not a rubbernecker!) If Cleaving is awful, I will be right, but my husband will taint the victory by lording his own over me. 

I await Cleaving with great trepidation. I'll keep you posted. 

Have you ever seen so many birds?

We went out to buy a birdfeeder yesterday. (Also, school supplies – no time like the last minute.) I have a brilliant plan – why travel to see birds when you can bring the birds to you? I have a couple of hooks on my front porch, I can hang birdfeeders from them, and then watch them from my reading chair as I read A Supremely Bad Idea. The cat usually sits on the back of my chair, and it’s something we can enjoy together.

My husband points out that it’s September and although we may get birds now, we won’t for much longer. He also points out that what I’m proposing is an awful lot like bird watching … which it isn’t. It’s somewhat similar to birding, but just barely.

Okay, I admit he may have a minor point here – I do have a small fixation on birds, evidenced by odd bits of decorating here and there. Bird plates, bird bowls, bird tchotchkes … I used to have a bird coffee table, but my ex-husband took it in the divorce, just to be spiteful; and to be spiteful, I let him take it and took the 35mm camera instead. That worked out well: I’m sure his current wife appreciates having a unique bird-themed coffee table as much as my husband appreciates having another film camera taking up storage space in the garage.

But back to the birds. How did birdwatching get such a sorry rep? Seriously, Alfred Hitchcock had a total bird fixation. I took a class on it once, in college. Apart from the movie “The Birds,” which I’ve always found more comical than suspenseful, Norman Bates’ hobby was taxidermy – his house was full of stuffed birds. And mother, obviously.

Anyway, we bought a birdfeeder and some suet cakes. (I don’t know how the birds can eat that stuff, but maybe they think that about my food too so who am I to judge?) Then we had lunch at Red Robin – chicken, if you must know. If I see any birds, I’ll be sure to tell you. And of course, I’ll keep reading.

Must ... focus ...

I just realized I woke up at 6am, and it's now 10am and apart from drinking coffee and explaining to the dog that it's RAINING and he can have his walk when it stops, I promise ... I've just been flitting from site to site. If I were really surfing, it would be exercise. Websurfing, not so much.

I've been reading for four hours! But I'm not any further along on my project, now am I?

The Quest for Quiet, and the Occasional Tufted Puffin

I recently David Ulin’s article in the LA Times, “The Lost Art of Reading.” In it, Ulin makes the case that reading a book is difficult these days, because “after spending hours reading e-mails and fielding phone calls in the office, tracking stories across countless websites, I find it difficult to quiet down.” Books, on the other hand, force us to slow down, “to distance (ourselves) from the present as a way of reconnecting with a more elemental sense of who we are.”

I began this reading adventure in part because I realized that on my recent week-long vacation in Cannon Beach, I had read three books, even though my days were filled with beaches and bumper cars and bikes and the usual mayhem that is our family. We had no computers; and of the five cell phones there, only my husband’s work phone had a signal.

On the drive down, the two older kids were texting friends and then, as the signal died off, discussing how many bars they had, and checking their phones constantly for new messages and asking repeatedly, “How many bars do you have now?” I don’t understand this particular obsession - if I was checking for bars, it would be the kind that serves blender drinks.

But I understand the immense gravitational pull of the constant updates. I spend a great deal of time flitting back and forth between email and Facebook and god help me, Twitter; and then obviously I need to feed my Webkinz and … I can’t even guess how many times I hit my browser’s refresh button in a day, because I can’t concentrate long enough to come up with a good estimate. I wonder if anyone’s published a study on that? Better google it.

Anyway, a funny thing happened when all the technology got shut off. No, it isn’t that my powers of concentration suddenly returned; you’ve already figured that out. It is that my stepson (who is a great reader but also a great gamer, and a keeper of very late hours), suddenly started getting up early. So one day, he and I got up around sunrise and took a long walk along the beach, down to Haystack Rock.

We saw tufted puffins flying, and a remarkable black bird with a long, bright orange bill, called a Black Oystercatcher. I took some pictures and then put the camera in my pocket and just stood there, barefoot in the sand, looking up, spotting puffins as they flew overhead, trying to see what other birds their might be. The water was incredibly cold. It was very quiet except for the sound of the ocean and the cries of the birds circling the rock.

Shane and I didn’t talk all that much on our walk, which is remarkable given that this is a boy I once paid $20 to say nothing for a full half hour, and I consider it money well spent. But on this walk, we were mostly quiet, in a pleasant kind of way.

We shared our adventure with the rest of the family, who agreed that we should go back and visit the puffins again, the next morning. My husband, who has endured many an eyeroll from me when he mentions his childhood birdwatching, commented, “I think it’s a great idea, we’ll make a birdwatcher out of you yet.”

I don’t think so, dear. And anyway, the correct term is birder.

Which is all a roundabout way of announcing that after hitting the refresh button too many times for a couple of days, and reading the first few sentences of several books but just not being able to concentrate on them, I have found the next book I want to read for my challenge: “A Supremely Bad Idea – Three Mad Birders and Their Quest to See It All.”

Catching Up or Leading the Way?

I wrote a letter to an author this week: Yong Zhao, who has a book coming out called “Catching Up or Leading the Way: American Education in the Age of Globalization,” about standardized testing and how it is killing education in America (No Child Left Behind, etc.).

I am just ecstatic that he wrote it, because of my own daughter Emma, age 9. We bought our house so she could go to a particular school: one labeled by the Seattle Times as The Best Elementary School on the East Side.

By the time we hit third grade, Emma was fighting me daily against going to school, unable to sleep due to nightmares, and a chronic discipline problem in the classroom. I was convinced it was my own bad parenting, and if you’d had as many teacher meetings and Too-Bad-You-Can’t-Control-Your-Child-Tsk-Tsk looks from all the perfect moms as I’ve had, you’d think so too. I took Emma to the pediatrician, filled out a questionnaire, and did you know that’s all you need to do to put your child on daily medication?

I’m sorry but the idea of giving her a pill just so she can get through her day strikes me as a little too Brave New World. I looked at my funny little loud-singing, trampoline-jumping, magic-potion-making monkey and thought, No, this is very wrong. She is who she is and I don’t want to change that. So the doctor referred me to a neuropsychologist, who, after testing, uncovered a few relatively minor disabilities (dysgraphia – she has difficulty writing) - and urged my husband and me very, very strongly: take your daughter out of that school.

She recommended a small private school, which I toured as soon as possible. Their slogan is “In a world that teaches children to fit in, we teach them to stand out.” It’s on the front page of the packet. The tuition is on the very last page of the packet – and you don’t get the packet until the end of the tour. It was one of those rare days I was glad I had sold out; we had an alternative to discouragement and drugs. Emma had a trial day and instantly made a group of friends. Every day, for the rest of third grade, she asked, “When can I start going to my new school?”

Looking back, I realized that everything I was told about the public school and its reputation was based on test scores. There was no art program, except one provided by the parents. Drama was an after school program for the upper grades, again, arranged by the parents. Handwriting lessons were limited, a real handicap when you have dysgraphia. Science was limited. So why didn’t it click with me? One reason may be the staff at the school: nice, caring, well-intentioned people. It wasn’t them, it was the system.

I wrote to Mr. Zhao and told him all this; I didn’t expect an email in reply, but I got one, and I was grateful to him all over again. “Thank you for sharing your story with me, it is for children like Emma and my son that I wrote this book.”

I went to a movie with a friend that same night, and I told her about this. She commented, “I was worried when the rhetoric for No Child Left Behind began. It seemed very corporate to me - less about education improvement and more about teaching conformity.” Brave New World, anyone?

Tomorrow, we will meet Emma’s new teacher from her new school. I’m excited: we don’t have to conform this year. It will be an adventure.

Ella Minnow Pea: Orwell Meets Lewis Carroll, Writes Book

Book number 11 is complete. It was an odd book, called Ella Minnow Pea, by Mark Dunn. The plot premise concerns a small island whose residents worship Nevin Nollop, creator of the sentence “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” – the shortest sentence that contains all 26 letters of the alphabet (and used by many typing teachers for practice). The sentence is on a cenotaph honoring Nollop, and one by one, they fall off – an act interpreted by the High Council as a sign that the letters are to be banished from the alphabet. Punishments for violations are draconian; third offense results in banishment. Neighbors turn in neighbors, and inevitably, the council members use their position of power to gain advancement for themselves, confiscating property for their own use. It has a very Animal Farm quality to it.

The book is written in epistolary form, so the writers must obey the edicts as they write – resulting in the writing devolving over the course of the book to near-nonsense. It’s quite fun, really – as though Orwell was channeling the spirit of Lewis Carroll. The citizens attempt to conform, but as the language structure itself deteriorates, it is harder and harder for them to do so.

I enjoyed the book, but it’s not for everyone. When I described the plot to my husband, who I thought would enjoy it because he enjoys playing with language and torments me with his endless puns, he rolled his eyes and said, “I’m glad you like it, dear.” My stepson was all, “Yeah, whatever.” And my friend Cindy said, “I read that for my book group … you’re really enjoying that?”

I did, actually. 39 more books to go.

What's wrong with conservative? Everybody likes vanilla

If I'm going to read, I need to see, so I decided it's finally time to replace my old glasses which always make me feel a bit like I'm looking through a fog. The practical aspect is easy - go to the eye doctor, get a prescription. But then I find myself standing in a room surrounded by eyeglass frames, and I have to decide. I don't know ... be practical? I really should. They're glasses, I wear them all the time, they should be conservative and go with everything and not draw comment from the suburban SUV mommies that I live in fear of. But then again ... why not get something fun?

My husband suggests practical. "When I get fun frames, I don't wear them, and then I end up replacing them with practical ones," he says.

I throw the question out to my facebook friends. The subject of glasses resonates with a lot of people, it seems. But the comment that resonates with me is from an old high school friend. 

"Conservative ... Jess? I don't think so."

I didn't used to be quite so dull. My favorite sweater in high school was a bright green affair with footprints all over it in even brighter green - people are walking all over me! Worn with amazing sparkly earrings (ouija boards!) and a crazy watch collection (personal favorite: Jesus Christ watch with the name of all 12 disciples next to the numbers; Dan Quayle watch with mixed up numbers was another) and lots of long fake pearls or vintage rhinestone pins or whatever took my fancy.

In college, I turned my brown hair into bright red hair (think Molly Ringwald), and then went platinum blond (think Jean Harlow). I was going to be a filmmaker (college major) or a writer (post-college dream) and Do Great Things.

But I had bills to pay and took jobs to pay them, and discovered I was a fairly good editor and that was close to being a writer, so I kept doing that and figured I'd write on the side. Then I got fired from a job, and found a better job, but they wanted me to finish my college degree, so I worked during the day and took classes at night.

The job was on Wall Street, which paid well, better than publishing, and I liked the financial security so I worked hard and tried to fit in - and the green footprint sweaters became black and navy blue suits. Once a friend talked me into "branching out into brown - live a little." The sparkly earrings became demure little studs. The hair color became my own color - at least, the color I think it originally was - applied professionally, to cover the ever-increasing gray. I dated a lot - guys who wore suits, mostly - and was incredibly frustrated at my inability to meet "The One."

Then I met my first husband (you already know how it ends), who encouraged me to write, and I wrote one short story (a good one), but somehow with all the moving and chaos and drama that accompanied that marriage, I didn't manage to write, even though I quit my job to do just that. We moved constantly, buying and selling houses as we went. At the end of that four-year tornado through my life, I found myself a single parent of a toddler, in Seattle, working full time at a bank.
 
And so on. I think this is the part where the violins start playing in the background. But don't bother with that: I am not complaining - I have a good , secure life; a nice house that, if you visited, you would compliment; and I have a bookshelf full of classics and assorted bestsellers, many of which I haven't read but which I always mean to. If this is what life is, then I consider myself fortunate indeed.

Still, I feel a bit of a pang now and then. One of my college classmates wrote a series of acclaimed children's books, about pigeons, no less (I consider pigeons to be flying rats). A high school classmate became a movie star; my friend's kids recognized her quickly when they were playing some video trivia game. An old work friend quit her job, went to pastry school in France, and now has her own patisserie in a trendy Manhattan neighborhood. My high school English teacher, who always encouraged me to write, wrote a book and won a Pulitzer Prize.

And here I am, trying to decide whether or not to get the fun eyeglasses or the boring ones.

It's easy to get into a rut when you're busy - and playing it safe is a lot easier than taking chances. When life is hard in some places, you play it safe in others - and before you know it, you're in a rut. You're vanilla. Nothing wrong with vanilla - everyone likes it. But what if your heart is really New York Super Fudge Chunk?

Time to take some chances.

Lately, when I choose books, I look for something by an author I've read before, or perhaps I go on Amazon and look at things I've read and follow the recommended title links (people who bought this, also bought that) until I find something. Sometimes I buy things from the book section at Costco. Once in a while, I will see a magazine review and buy the book. 

I mostly read chick lit. It's pleasant enough. After a while, it kind of all feels the same, though. Maybe that's why I don't read so much.

Maybe, what I need to do is find my way out of the book rut. Find new ways to do things. New ways to find books, new books to read ... something news. I don't know about life, but with books, at least for the next 9 months, I can do it. One extra rule is added:

6 - Can't read two books by the same author.

Of course, I have a few books on my library reservation list that are by authors I've read already. And that's fine - I can still read them (if I am ever first on the waitlist) - I just can't count them. I still have 40 more books to go, but there's no reason I can't read more.

I still haven't decided about the glasses, but only because I haven't found anything quite fun enough, yet.