Talkin to myself

Y'know that Carpenters song? Rainy days and Mondays?

Well, I've been thinking about it today, and not because I feel down but because I wonder how soon I can expect to start scaring people in public by talking to myself.

I took Ivan to Starbucks yesterday morning for milk and a (ridiculously expensive) donut (that was dry and of which he only the edges) since we had time to kill before I had to get him to preschool. We sat in a couple of chairs by the window and chatted about his siblings, how he slept the night before, and what he wanted to name the stuffed dog he was taking to Show and Tell. We settled on Barkley since his favorite book right now is a Sesame Street collection. Trust me on this: Ivan is a fabulous conversationalist. He doesn't just talk about himself: he asks questions about your day, about what your favorite number is, about who your favorite couple is on Dancing with the Stars. (He favors Brooke and Derek, by the way.)

And it's a good thing he's such a good conversationalist because he's the person I exchange the most words with in the course of any given day.

Lately--since moving into a new neighborhood where it feels like everyone's been here forever and that they therefore don't need anyone else on their buddy list--I'm starting to worry about becoming the person in the corner of Starbucks who can carry on a perfectly fascinating dialogue by herself. As Ivan and I sat there yesterday, an older man (though not much older, so my time may come sooner than I expect) was eating his breakfast alone while staring out the window. He finished and then stayed seated and decided to have a little chat with himself. I couldn't understand a word he said, although he was speaking plenty loudly enough for me to hear him. I looked for the little earpiece that would assure me he was just on the phone, but nope: no earpiece. My older brother would have gotten up and gone to sit with the man just to see what he was talking about, but I'm not nearly so brave. I wasn't worried about my safety or anything . . . just my future.

As I headed up to the preschool to pick Ivan up this afternoon, I was walking quickly, my hands shoved in my pockets while I worked out a plot knot I've reached in one of my stories. Often when I reach these knots, I talk it out with Ron as my sounding board. He doesn't necessarily offer any suggestions, but just being able to say aloud what's going on helps me unravel it a bit. I didn't start talking to myself on the way to school, but I was tempted.

And when I'm thinking about a storyline, I tend to be a lot quieter than usual. So by the time I got up to the school, I wasn't in the mood to try to make conversation with the myriad of mothers there--none of whom I know yet by name. I was afraid I'd lose the ideas I'd just come up with. Opening my mouth might make them fall out of my head and then I'd have to start all over again.

So I wondered, do these women think I'm shy? Unfriendly? In my old (and much beloved) neighborhood in Pittsburgh, there were days I thought, "Do I have to go outside today and make friendly chatter with people? Am I allowed a day off?" But now that most of my days are days off, I worry (that word again) I'm going to get a little too used to this. I worry I'll have more days of absolute silence as I'm waiting for Ivan to come out of his classroom. I worry I'll start to become curmudgeonly before I hit 50 and that I'll limit all of my conversations to those with my children and occasionally my husband. I worry I'll be sitting in Starbucks 10 years from now, working out those plot knots aloud because I've stopped noticing there are other people around who might not think that's normal.

I'm a keeper

Last night after his bath, my 3-year-old came streaking down the steps naked (as all the best streaking is done) to find me and tell me he wanted me to put his clothes on for him. His father was upstairs already, and normally I would have sent Ivan back up with instructions to hand his underwear and pajamas off to Daddy. But I was at a good stopping point in a paper I was editing, so I stepped away from the computer and chased my son up the steps and into his room.

After he was fully dressed and decent again, he smiled and said, "I want to keep you."

Which is a pretty good thing, I think, considering the fact that I don't know a lot of other kids out there who would take me on at this point. I've been busier than usual, trying to tackle new editing clients (not literally, of course, although I've had one or two that require me to wear a football helmet so I won't damage my head on the table as I bang away) while still writing, revising, and submitting my own work. The house isn't fit for company any time soon unless they want to clean it themselves, and we've lived off the same pot of chili for the past 5 days. With Ron out of town now, we're looking at a few evenings of cereal, apples, and popcorn for dinner. Mother of the year I'm not. Nor wife, nor housewife, nor editor, nor writer, for that matter.

But my 3-year-old wants to keep me. So I have job security. For now.

And such periodic affirmations remind me that regardless of how soul-sucking the world of writing I'm trying to break into can be (numerous exceptions aside), it will never define who I am.

BB Review #3: In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak

I'm on a roll.



Okay. I hope that picture is small enough not to offend any of you. And if it's not, then it's time to get out your kindling and matches and join the others who have banned this book for its NUDITY!

Maurice Sendak, for anyone who slept through childhood, is the author of Where the Wild Things Are and illustrator for the Little Bear stories (some of my favorite childrens books EV-er). His book, In the Night Kitchen, has been officially banned in a number of states around the country due to "gratuitous" nudity of the little boy in the story who falls out of his clothes on the way to the night kitchen and is put into batter to bake. He pulls himself out, scolds the bakers, insists he is not the milk, and then helps them by pouring the real milk into the cake: "And that's why, thanks to Mickey, we have cake every morning."

The pictures are anatomically correct, in case you're wondering.

After my 3-year-old son was potty trained, I happily gave away our Once Upon a Potty book for boys out of pure relief that we were done with diapers. That book has anatomically correct illustrations also, by the way. But it's not banned anywhere as far as I can tell, probably because the nudity there is not "gratuitous." But if anyone has ever been around a toddler for more than 15 minutes, you know that for a child this age, clothing--not nudity--is gratuitous.

I read In the Night Kitchen twice in a row to my son this morning just to see if he noticed the five full frontal illustrations of Mickey and the several backside illustrations. Nope. He just loved the story, and I have an appointment with him at naptime to read it again.

Now whether he understood the story is a completely different issue. I'm not sure I understood it. But as an English major, I can bluff my way through a discussion and give you several different interpretations if you'd like. My favorite high school English teacher, on whom I had a monstrous crush, told me in 11th grade that what the author intends a story to be about is irrelevant. What we, the readers, get out of it is what matters.

So I could say this book is a children's version of Pink Floyd's The Wall. It's a bizarre sequence of events that makes sense only on drugs--or in a dream.

Or I could say it's a warning story of the dangers of baking in the nude (without an apron).

Or I could take Mickey's line--"I'm in the milk and the milk's in me"--and say this book is a vaguely veiled preschool lesson in existentialism.

Or I could say it's the story of a little boy who hears a sound in the kitchen and instead of being afraid, he turns the nightmare around to his advantage and becomes the hero, the one we must credit with the cakes we have for breakfast every morning.

And now I'm thinking about cake.

Over on Cooks.com, I found this recipe for Knock 'em Naked Cake.

And if you're naked and eating cake, you may as well try this one: Better than Sex.

But my favorite cake ever is right here. It's technically a steamed pudding and a tad labor intensive, but SO worth every second, every bite, and every calorie.

Steamed puddings make me think of home. My father's favorite was chocolate. This recipe has been in our family for generations and I'm sharing it with you now:

Steamed Chocolate Pudding:

3T cocoa
1C sugar
1T shortening
1C buttermilk
1t soda
scant t baking powder
1 1/2 c flour
pinch of salt
1 t vanilla

Steam for 1 1/2-2 hours. I use a special insert in my crockpot, but you can use a double boiler or a cake pan set in another pan filled halfway up with water, then bake it in the oven at 350. Not sure how long it would take that way, but significantly less than the crockpot.

Then for the hard sauce, which you can't have the pudding without!

1 box powdered sugar
1t vanilla
1t melted butter
2 lg. egg yolks (I don't know how to find your way around this one)

Eat, enjoy, and, for heaven's sake, go put some clothes on.

BB Review #2: Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman

That's right. #2. I'm so proud of myself.



When I was in college, I took a children's literature course. And, sorry, Professor Whose Name I've Forgotten, but all I remember about that class were 2 books: Little Black Sambo and Love You Forever. And the only reason I remember those two is that I did a presentation on them: why LBS should not have been banned and why LYF should be.

First for a re-cap of LBS.

Helen Bannerman wrote this book in 1899. She was a Scot who lived in India for 30 years. The Preface of the edition I have--dubbed as "The Only Authorized American Edition" and without a copyright page--says, "Once upon a time there was an English lady in India, where black children abound and tigers are everyday affairs . . ." Let me interrupt the author right there. Black children abound. That's the first controversial line, in my opinion, of the book. Two sentences in and we hit it. Bannerman wasn't referring to African children, to our modern-day association of black with people of African descent. She was referring to the dark-skinned Southern Indian children. Is the terminology offensive? If so, why?

And, wow, just so much could be said and speculated about at this point concerning what her own prejudices may (or may not) have been. Then we could move from that topic to that of what our own sensitivities are and/or what they should be. Is the offense in the writing or in our 21st century interpretation of the writing? Can we separate this book from its historical context, and does leaving it IN that context make the book any more acceptable? Was "Sambo" a derogatory term before the book was written or only after (opinions vary)? Does it matter? If it's derogatory and inflammatory--whether in 1899 or 2008--is this a book suitable for our children? Will they understand, believe, think it's okay to use "Sambo" when you're telling a 19th-century story but not a modern one?

I suppose we could talk animal cruelty as well. Tigers may very well have been an everyday affair, but the British pasttime of hunting Tigers for sport at that moment of history certainly has to take some credit for the fact that tigers today are an endangered species. Sure, it took another 100 years to put them on that list, but does it matter whether you kill the first 1,000 or the last 1,000? Gone is gone, regardless of the order in which they disappeared.

I enjoy the story, but I admit the controversy makes me uncomfortable.

Speaking of discomfort: my favorite book to hate, Love You Forever. Robert Munsch, it's not personal. I loved Paperback Princess and Alligator Baby and Good Families Don't. But I have to admit I would be quite happy to see LYF disappear from shelves permanently. I'm not advocating banning it or burning it, but hiding it whenever I walk into your house would be greatly appreciated.

I was at a neighbor's yard sale two weekends ago and she was selling the paperback version of this book. My first thought was, "Ew. Put it away." My second was, "Well at least she knows enough to get it out of her house."

Sure, it's a popular book and Munsch has sold more copies of it to more weeping mothers than I could ever hope to sell of anything I ever write. I stopped counting the number of times women in tears would come to the counter of my father's bookstore, several copies in their hand, and say, "Have you read this? Isn't it the sweetest book you've ever read?" No. That was always my honest answer. No.

It makes me uncomfortable. It makes me squirm. It makes me want to scream at the mother climbing the ladder into her son's bedroom AFTER HE IS GROWN AND MARRIED, "Stop! Climb back down! Go home and get some therapy! It's time to let go!" And then when her son goes to her in her old age and holds her on HIS lap? My urge to keck (look it up) is so great that I can hardly even write about it without ruining my keyboard. There's a reason I'm not repeating the popular verse from that book here. I can't. It is physically impossible for me to convince my brain to convince my fingers to punch the letters in the particular order that would land them here on this blog page.

Someone said to me, "You'll understand when you have children of your own." Well, I have four children now, 3 of them boys, all of whom I love and adore and stare at while they're sleeping. But I promise you and my husband and them that I will NOT creep them out by sneaking into their bedrooms when they're in bed with their spouses so I can cuddle with them and rock them to sleep again on my varicose-veined, support-hosed legs. I won't. And if they dare try to put me on their laps when I am too old and senile to care? Oooooh, buddy. Amityville will have nothing on the kind of haunting I'll visit on them after I die.

I'm not the only one out there who feels so strongly about this book, right? Right?

BB Review #1: The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier

See that? #1? That implies a #2 will follow. Implies.



Because I have finally come to the realization that the books I'm trying to get published are controversial--and if they are ever published will likely be banned rather quickly by some parent groups--I decided I should make an effort to read and review banned books. If this sounds like an act of solidarity, it's not. Robert Cormier certainly doesn't need me to approve his books in order for him to continue to be, after more than 30 years, a beloved and successful author. And my readership of 3 won't make a difference in book sales anyway. I'm doing this review and hopefully others because I live in a country where it's my right to read whatever I want and then report on it, regardless of how small or large that audience is. God bless America.

My father opened a used bookstore more than 30 years ago. He was a high school history teacher in a public school at the time and had come to loathe not his job but the administration. When the administration wouldn't let him resign, he simply quit showing up to work so they had to fire him. Dad never looked back.

When I was in high school, I took a lot of pride in being the daughter of someone who could, in essence, say "screw it" to the entire "system," be it his administrators or local politicians or local religious leaders who thought my entire family was going to hell because our religion differed so drastically from theirs. Dad was a staunch conservative, a Reagan fan, and someone who firmly believed that banning books was destructive to society, not to mention just incredibly and ridiculously small-minded. I didn't always agree with his opinions, and agreed less and less as I grew older, but I was always proud of him for being willing to voice his opinion.

At the end of my junior year in high school, I made quick enemies of most of the junior and senior classes. I stood up in an assembly and spoke my mind when what I "should" have done was stay seated and let the status quo continue. The kids hated me, a number of the teachers weren't huge fans by the end of the meeting, and even one of my best friends slid away from me at the table as I spoke, trying to literally and figuratively distance herself from me. But I was George Givens's daughter, and I knew I had every right to stand up. So I did. I'm sure even now, 20 years later, most of my graduating class knows me as that girl who spoke her mind, trembling down to her toes as she did (though they may not have known that), and still find my sin unforgiveable.

So for many reasons--not all--I relate to Jerry in "The Chocolate War." Jerry is a freshman kid, just trying to make the football team and keep moving after the death of his mother the previous spring. But "The Vigil," an unofficial fraternity at his private Catholic school, has other plans for Jerry. His assignment is to refuse for 10 days to sell chocolates in the school's annual fundraiser. But after those 10 days are up, Jerry continues to refuse, thereby infuriating The Vigil as well as the teacher in charge of the sale. Things get really ugly and the story becomes a "Lord of the Flies" in blue blazers.

Throughout most of the story, Jerry is depicted as clearly the good guy. I say most because at the end of the book, he resorts to violence. Shame on him, of course. But I forgive him. He's 14, and the author doesn't let him win just because he literally climbs into the ring. That's not the message Cormier was trying to put across.

In the meantime, Archie (The Vigil assignment guy) and Brother Leon (the teacher) are clearly the bad guys. Their characterizations are so spot on they made me uncomfortable for the entire read because I knew they would wouldn't change. I was also uncomfortable because I knew Archie in high school, and I knew Brother Leon as well: the bullying student and a teacher who thought he was a bully but was nothing more than the student's pawn.

The message of the book seems to end up being "don't try to change things because you can't." This is what Jerry tries to tell Goober after the climactic fight scene. And that's incredibly depressing, right? But another message comes through as well, which is much more important and poignant. And that is this: if you don't back the guy who stands up for himself, you're a bully as well, even if you think you're just a bystander.

On Amazon, this book has, to date, 375 reviews, 44 of which are 1 stars. And the reason for most of those 1-star reviews is that the only message of this book is the first one. This book doesn't have a happy ending. But neither does high school for an awful lot of kids. In my opinion, what better message can we be giving our kids during those years than "stand up not just for yourself but for others as well"? I know it's what I tell my own children almost daily. And I hope to God, for my kids' sake, that other parents are telling their children the exact same thing--not just as a morality lesson for high school but for life.

And for those who may be curious, this book was banned for its use of profanity, sexual references, and violence.

Although, on a lighter note, I think some administrators and PTA moms banned it for this exchange:

"If it isn't chocolates, it's Christmas cards. If it isn't Christmas cards, it's soap.If it isn't soap, it's calendars. But you know what?"

"What?" Jerry asked, wanting to get back to his geography.

"I never though of just saying no. Like you did."

Considering the fact that we're entering only the 5th week of school and I've had 5 fundraisers sent home already, I'm all for starting a chocolate war myself.

Remembering . . . and forgetting

Ron is boarding a plane for Portland in about 45 minutes. He opted to take a taxi instead of driving to the airport himself--in part because it's cheaper than paying for extended parking and in part because he cut his hand last week and it's still pretty sore, so he prefers not to drive.

As I waved goodbye to him from the front door, the driver came around to the side of the taxi to ask Ron if he had any other luggage. I noted then that the man was Middle Eastern and my first--and only--thought was, "Hm. I need to take a taxi to the airport next month. If my driver is Middle Eastern, too, will he feel more comfortable if I sit in the back instead of the front like Ron always does?"

Skimming through some of my favorite blogs this morning, I opened up Janet Reid's and she has a picture of NYC, the reflection of the twin towers in the water. Her heading for the post was "What It Means When We Say We'll Never Forget." It was a powerful image, and the thought of 9/11 still moves me in so many ways.

I was at the gym when the planes hit the buildings. Like everyone around me, I had a hard time at first believing what I was seeing. I got off the treadmill, called Ron, and told him what was happening, as I knew he was at work and not in front of a TV screen. Then I went home to watch the news, and there I sat crying for the next hour or so, thinking, "What am I doing bringing another child into this world?" E was on the way, only about 6 weeks along, and I was terrified for her, for S, for O, for all of us. I finally got it together enough to go pick the boys up from daycare and bring them home to me. The other parents all had the same idea, as I wasn't the first there nor the last.

I've realized, finally, after 7 years, that remembering doesn't mean being afraid. It doesn't mean racial profiling. It doesn't mean assuming the worst every time 9/11 rolls around. It doesn't mean fearing for your husband's life as he gets into a taxi driven by a man from the Middle East. Spending four and a half months in the Middle East was the final step toward that realization for me.

As for what remembering does mean? For me, it means staying--or getting--involved in politics. It means caring about the people that died that day and caring about why they died. It means paying attention to current affairs more than current fashions. It means acknowledging what is wrong with our country and being grateful for all the things that are right with it.

What does remembering mean to you?

Back by popular demand

Okay, so it isn't popular so much as a modest or reasonable demand. And it really wasn't a demand so much as a mention of my blog on a friend's blog. But we'll just call it an excuse or simply mild justification for me to pick this up again.

We're in Chicago now, and it's a rainy, cool evening, which means I could finally bake some cookies. That's what a home is to me: a place where I can bake some chocolate chip cookies . . . and then eat as many as I want before having to face a neighborhood full of avid exercisers and moms whose wardrobes consist solely of short running shorts, spandex, and Starbucks coffee.

I say Chicago, but the name of the town is La Grange, and it's right smack dab between Midway and O'Hare, landing us about 25 minutes by car from downtown Chicago: home of Harpo studios, The Second City, and Al Capone. And I just found out that Chicago has the greatest number of ghosts of any American city, probably thanks in large part to Al Capone and not Oprah, although some would argue otherwise. Don't know how the experts managed to count the ghosts, slippery little spirits they, but who am I to question authority?

All I know is that my house is not haunted. It's not, it's not, it's not. And I know this because I explained to the powers that be some time ago that if they didn't send any spirits my way, I would never intentionally send any their way.

But our house is old enough (built in 1907), as is our neighborhood, that history abounds. This is the 3rd house we've owned (and we've only owned 3, so this is a pretty significant statistic) that was built prior to 1925. We live in the "historic district," which means very little, I think, except that we need permits to do everything from putting on an addition to doing electrical work to rearranging our furniture. Okay, maybe not that last one, but we are looking into remodeling our 3rd floor and have been told that if we don't hire an architect to draw up the blueprints, then the village will make things very difficult for us. What "very difficult" means exactly, I don't know. Sounds kind of haunting in and of itself, doesn't it? So unless Ron finds away around it, which you all know he'll spend hours and hours trying to do, we'll be paying someone a couple thousand dollars to draw up plans for us to put in an itty bitty bathroom and new drywall.

We live four blocks away from downtown La Grange, and the houses get older as you get closer to town and the train station--except for the little houses squeezed in on lots that were split in the 50s and then built upon. Downtown La Grange consists of quite a few businesses, including a Border's (Don't Shop There! Shop Independents!! But feel free to browse), a Trader Joe's, a National City, a movie theater, and quite a few restaurants and antique shops. Okay, so there's a McDonald's there as well, lest you think we're too quaint. The library and the kids' schools are also in walking distance, so my car rarely leaves the garage.

All in all, we're happy here, although, dang it, we miss Pittsburgh a lot. We're homesick for good friends and idle chatter and the comfort of hanging out in neighbors' yards until they kicked us out when they got home and looked into a restraining order.

We had a great 11 years there, especially the last 3 and a half when we learned what a neighborhood can really be at its best.

Off to finish off that batch of cookies while I weep and look through photo albums. Or weep and watch the convention. Either way, cookies will have to be involved.