I haven’t posted to this page in ages, as work and remodeling after Toxic Mold Fest 2007 have taken their toll.

However, I should say that I’m currently reading a few different books:

I Was a Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids: Rethinking Modern Motherhood, by Trisha Ashworth and Amy Nobile
E is for Evidence, by Sue Grafton
In Praise of Slowness, by Carl Honore

On order: Sarah Susanka’s The Not So Big Life: Making Room for What Really Matters.  As usual, spurred on by the mortal peril of a family member (and also a parent in our school’s recent battle with cancer), I am trying to shift back into “the big picture”.  I just read an article in Woman’s Day about how large homes are not necessarily the best trend to follow.  I’m starting to feel myself wanting to break from the culture—the multi-tasking, uber-active culture where consumerism makes it “necessary” to buy a bigger home.  To fit all the stuff.  Which is meant to make our lives better, but ends up draining.  Oh, I’ll stop before this turns into a rant.  Mainly, I’m trying to make sure I don’t slip too far away from the things I want in life, because it’s so easy to get swept up in the current.

Also, I just finished the paperback by Jonathan and Faye Kellerman, Capital Crimes.  One of the two stories in the book uses Sacramento as a secondary location, and I can’t quite figure out how they came to consider Sacramento as such a rural area.  I realize it’s not as sleek as our neighbor to the west, San Francisco, but not many of the people I’ve met wear western belt buckles or own ranches.  They’re there, I suppose, but as an anachronism...The best I could work out, they were middle-aged characters, so maybe the CHARACTERS were stuck in a previous image of Sacramento.  Who knows, but I think it’s a combination of stereotyping and poor research. 

Matt and I are reading, You Read to Me, I’ll Read to You: Very Short Scary Tales to Read Together, by Mary Ann Hoberman—Perfect for the reluctant reader

Also, Matt has some guide to Zelda which he reads in the car and after breakfast.  Not to mention, all the Franny K. Stein books he’s devouring, thanks to Grandma Peg. 

Currently on my nightstand, along with a notebook for compulsive list-making:

Organizing from the Inside Out, by Julie Morgenstern
If you are a tad OVER-analytical, this is the book for you.  You can write charts and lists for DAYS and still not be done with the book.  Good stuff if you comfort yourself in the self-help aisle with thoughts of a smoother life.  I think I’ve learned a lot from her in previous reads, but there’s one thing I haven’t figured out: Her “equalize” step, which maintains the organization you worked so hard to achieve. 

Women and Money, by Suze Orman
PBS television specials rise again, and this time I am working to get finances tamed.  Picture me on the phone with the credit card company, re-negotiating a new rate.  I like this book’s concept: Five days, spread over five months (one full day per month doing the items for the theme), to get a grip on your money situation.  This month is the reality check.  Check, please.

Curb Appeal, by HGTV Books
The upside of having to rip up our courtyard to build french/roman drains so the mold doesn’t come back?  New landscaping.  Focus on the positive, right?

Outside the Not So Big House, by Julie Moir Messervy and Sarah Susanka
See above.  Love this series of books, by the way. 

This book list is like an emotional barometer.  Any time I gravitate toward “improvement” books, self OR home, it means I’m looking to regain control in my life.  Things are spiraling, and I need to get back to a sense of order.  When I return to “book group” books and mysteries, you’ll know I’m relaxed. 

My first year teaching junior high, my room mother gave me this book.  It was good, but going back to re-read it after two kids and with more parenting under my belt makes so much more sense. 

The images of Helen Reddy, and her free-form brain dump at the end of each chapter resonate, even if her love affair and corporate career don’t).  Please, if you haven’t read her, take a moment to read the first chapter on Powell’s. 

There is nothing so horrifying as being a mother who doesn’t love her children enough to make an effort. 

Seriously, if you won’t read the excerpt, at least read this passage about the night which Kate, a venture capitalist, is up in the middle of the night, “distressing” store-bought goods for the Winter Program so they appear to be homemade:

Because I still recall the look my own mother exchanged with Mrs. Frieda Davies in 1974, when a small boy in a dusty green parka approached the altar at Harvest Festival with two tins of Libby’s cling peaches in a shoe box. The look was unforgettable. It said, What kind of sorry slattern has popped down to the Spar on the corner to celebrate God’s bounty when what the good Lord clearly requires is a fruit medley in a basket with cellophane wrap? Or a plaited bread? Frieda Davies’s bread, maneuvered the length of the church by her twins, was plaited as thickly as the tresses of a Rhinemaiden.

“You see, Katharine,” Mrs. Davies explained later, doing that disapproving upsneeze thing with her sinuses over teacakes, “there are mothers who make an effort like your mum and me. And then you get the type of person who"--prolonged sniff--"don’t make the effort.”

Of course I knew who they were: Women Who Cut Corners. Even back in 1974, the dirty word had started to spread about mothers who went out to work. Females who wore trouser suits and even, it was alleged, allowed their children to watch television while it was still light. Rumors of neglect clung to these creatures like dust to their pelmets.

So before I was really old enough to understand what being a woman meant, I already understood that the world of women was divided in two: there were proper mothers, self-sacrificing bakers of apple pies and well-scrubbed invigilators of the washtub, and there were the other sort. At the age of thirty-five, I know precisely which kind I am, and I suppose that’s what I’m doing here in the small hours of the thirteenth of December, hitting mince pies with a rolling pin till they look like something mother-made. Women used to have time to make mince pies and had to fake orgasms. Now we can manage the orgasms, but we have to fake the mince pies. And they call this progress.

The fact is, in the real world, SAHMs don’t have spare hours to bake elaborate goodies without sacrifice, either.  But tell that to a mother who is slightly guilt-ridden already, especially at 1:37 AM.

This is not a recent book, and work is currently so hectic, I don’t have the energy to do anything but reread books lying around the house.  It’s available in paperback, and if you want a book that’s both comic and disturbingly accurate, this might be for you. 

I’m taking a break from making entries for books.  Although I’ve been able to sneak in reading, it’s along the lines of Making Social Studies Come Alive or The Optimistic Child.  For fun, I’ve thrown in Women and Money, by Suze Orman. 

Keep reading! 

P.S.  If you need an inspirational biography to read aloud to your child, may I suggest A Pocketful of Goobers, by Barbara Mitchell?  You could not read a more inspirational story.  Of course, you have to get past the title.  My third graders were riveted to the tale of George Washington Carver.  If you’re like me—trying to compensate for a lack of information about African-American history—his name is familiar, but his story is not. 

It’s not the fact, however, that he was a role model for African-American educators and scientists.  In an age of cynicism and self-centeredness, this is the sort of story your child should be reading.  More dramatic than Grey’s Anatomy (close, I guess, but without sex in the supply closet), yet uplifting...read this story.  READ THIS STORY.

I am a fan of mass market paperbacks—the kind you can pick up in your grocery store on the way home from work.

Here are two excellent reads:

John Lescroart’s 1999 Dismas Hardy/Abe Glitsky mystery, Nothing but the Truth

Oblivion by Peter Abrahams

Lescroart is a Northern California author, and I’ve seen him around.  Friends of mine tell stories about his generous spirit...meeting with aspiring writers and helping fund creative writing programs.  My husband remembers bagging his groceries when Ryan was working his way through the teaching credential program.  It makes me happy to support the hometown guy, just as when I purchase a book at an independent bookstore.  It doesn’t make it feel like a sacrifice, though, when his stories are so good.  He fleshes out his protagonist’s marriage and family life in a very realistic way...a bit like Jonathan Kellerman does with his Pete/Rita Decker stories.  Good stuff.

Nancy Pearl of Book Lust recommended Oblivion as a thriller reminiscent of the movie Memento.  The detective had traumatic brain injury and is likely dying, yet he’s trying to solve a mystery with gaps in his memory.  Also a good story, but if given the choice, I’d pick Lescroart.

Tan’s latest work is Saving Fish from Drowning, but I had to go back and re-read her book of essays, The Opposite of Fate.

Tan’s fiction is good stuff, but I like reading her autobiographical material even more.  The woman has a mystic edge to her: a friend who dreamt about his murder in the weeks before it happened; ghostly communication, and hallucinations caused by long untreated Lyme disease.  How can you resist?  It helps, also, that she is so “readable”...her phrasing and prose move you through the book with anticipation.

Some essays deal with the surreal nature of seeing you have made it to the literary heights of having Cliff Notes made from your book, others with the nature of race in writing.  She includes the eulogy of her beloved editor, an essay about her mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s, and the story of how she toured the country in a rock band with Stephen King and Dave Berry, among others. 

For fans of The Joy Luck Club, you can learn about what it was like to have Hollywood interpret her first novel, not to mention dealing with an author’s fear of failure for “The SECOND Book.”

Having read it, I’m glad I kept my copy of The Kitchen God’s Wife.

Bet Me, by Jennifer Weiner—I will say this, I laughed very hard at this book.  Weiner’s characters make for good friends...the sort you’d like to have in your playgroup.  Sarcasm and idiosyncrasies run rampant, and it makes for an entertaining evening or two.  I followed this by picking up Little Earthquakes, a story I’d let languish on my shelf for a while.  A little darker, but still entertaining.  File this under: Great for a weeknight or when the kiddos are napping.  If the kids are napping, it is worth ignoring the laundry.

Into Thin Air, by Jon Krakenaur—I will NEVER understand the mind of mountain-climbers, however, I liked reading this tale of the deadly 1996 season on Mt. Everest.  Up until the last 75 pages, when the expedition falls apart and the people you’ve gotten to know tidbits are steps away from death.  Then?  Not so fun.  Tragic and terrifying.  Riveting, despite the fact I wasn’t in love with Krakenaur as a person.  It’s a study about good people who are driven by the need to attempt the riskiest adventures.  My sister, listening to me mutter about altitude sicknessess I’ve never heard of before, asked, “What makes people think that would be FUN?!” In truth, I don’t think that the author ever implied it was fun.  But there was a drive to do something that went beyond the pursuit of pleasure.  Unfortunately for them, it was not going to end well.  File this under: Books about things I’ll never experience in real life.  Thank goodness.

Holidays on Ice, by David Sedaris—Warped but hilarious essayist Sedaris has a small (read in about 75 minutes) collection of holiday essays.  For those of you who listen to NPR, you might recognize the Santaland Diaries.  He wrote it for NPR (I believe it was for the show, This American Life), and they replay it every so often.  When Sedaris was 33, he was hired as an Elf at Macy’s in New York.  The essay is both outrageously funny and insightful.

The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, by John Le Carre—Spoiler alert—Anna Quindlen recommended this book.  True, it wasn’t a personal recommendation, but she put it on a list of her ten “go-to” mysteries.  I’m not sure it actually qualifies as a mystery, it’s more of spy novel.  It’s set in the height of the Cold War, and oddly deals with spies and revenge.  Honestly, I found it boring, and I was not very happy with the ending.  I like my endings wrapped up tidily in velvet bows, and the hopelessness of both the romance and the escape meant I walked away disappointed.

Cross, by James Patterson—A hardcover with an emotional storyline for the Alex Cross series by Patterson, I couldn’t wait to find out more about the death of his wife.  Of course, it’s a bit ridiculous to buy a hardcover of a book I’ll likely never read again, but Patterson is a comfort food for those who enjoy the “damaged detective” novels.

Echo Park, by Michael Connolly—Speaking of damaged detectives, Harry Bosch is back.  Yet another madman is on the loose.  There will be crooked cops, drinking, love affairs gone sour, bad press for the LAPD, and a few innocent lives at stake on a tight deadline.  Again, this is a series that is dependable for a few hours of entertainment.  It may not change the way you look at the world, but it’s hard to put down at the end of the evening.

Another Day in the Frontal Lobe: A Brain Surgeon Exposes Life on the Inside, by Katrina Firlik—A memoir of a young female brain surgeon.  If you enjoy medical dramas more for the interesting cases than for who is hopping in the supply closet with whom, then this book is very satisfying.  It also fit my December reading needs (quick and not too heavy on philosophy).  I’m always intrigued how people survive medical school.  My son’s surgeon runs countless marathons and climbs mountains, while I can’t manage to exercise more than once a quarter.  This woman operates on the human brain and has the time to reflect on mortality and write a book, to boot.  Come to think of it, I feel like a lazy bum right now.  Where are my Nikes?

I have a few more to list, but my daughter is beckoning.  Hot Wheels await.

This was a week when I told my family I would need to quit teaching; having tried to make peace with the emotional ups and downs of all the family drama which envelops me, I just can’t do it.  At the end of the day, I often feel a failure.  Some love me; some parents loathe me; some have no opinion whatsoever because they just can’t be bothered.  Of course, I make this announcement about six times a year, so my family has learned to nod patiently and keep folding the laundry.

There are times when I flounder in a sense that I’ll never be on top of my game.  How can I be the kind of teacher oft cited in interviews as the inspiration when I’m constantly inundated by paper?  Moan, moan, flail.  Self-pity, self-centered, self-denial.

Frank McCourt achieved fame (and a Pulitzer Prize) for Angela’s Ashes, but he saved my year with this book.  I was contemplating giving notice this week because I’ve been so overwhelmed by the disconnect between the teacher I can be in reality and the teacher I long to be.

I don’t have much in common with an Irish-born high school English teacher raised in the harshest of manners.  I bear no emotional scars from an Irish-Catholic upbringing decades before my birth.  But his life and conflict over his teaching career are so familiar it’s as if I were slipping into conversation with myself.  This wasn’t a simplified version of the story, “Rookie teacher gets a job in a tough school, faces immense odds, cries, then has a flash of inspiration and ends up changing the lives of all her students by the end of the year.” You know, Edward James Olmos and Michelle Pfeiffer who make you want to run to Watts or Bedford-Stuyvescent with a notebook and witty reparte. 

This is the true story of false starts, insecurity, abject failure, and poignant discussions with children.  Parents sometimes adore him; students flock to his classes, and yet others think he has it all wrong.  And, like me, he wants to quit.  He wants to wipe the emotional sludge off his shoes as he returns each night to try and have a life of his own.  Yet over a few decades, he gets a feel for his own style.  Not in a flash of inspiration, but in the kind of evolution Darwin would find comforting. 

I will be re-reading this one.  It is to teaching what “Operating Instructions” by Anne Lamott is to new motherhood.

If you’ve ever sat down on the couch and flipped the remote a few moments, found a non-offensive piece of television fluff, and spent the next two hours watching something pleasant but utterly forgettable, you know the exact feeling I had reading this book.

It was thoroughly non-offensive.

Two weeks from now I will forget anything about it, other than the author of A Year in Provence wrote it.  Oh, and they made a movie out of it.

The characters, plot, and setting make vanilla seem exotic.  I’d probably like the protagonist Max, along with the typical entourage, well enough.  It’s just that I know him about as well as I do the man down the street.  And thats with an omniscient narrator telling me Max’s interior monologue. 

I spent three or so hours reading this.  Not once did I hurl it across the room in a fit of disgust, but I am setting it down with the sad realization those are hours I can never regain.  It wasn’t even escapist enough for me to feel proud of procrastinating my lesson plans.

Harsh words from a woman who’s never published, I realize.  But for a man who’s written numerous books, he should have the concepts of TENSION and character development down pat.  The man should not need an amateur to tell him that books need to be grounded in little details, yet have something more at stake than wine swindle of minor proportions.  And while I enjoy the occasional slow but pensive tale, rich in mood and setting, if you’re going to hang your hat on ambiance and character, then develop them for God’s sake!