Dr. Seuss Gone Awry

Being that my mother is a children's librarian, I promised her that I would read to my child(ren) and teach him/her/them to love books. Not too hard, since there is not much better than curling up with a spectacular book.

Except, 16 months in, and I'm already hiding books.

Bring on the criticism, but it's hard to feel like a bad parent, when I'm only doing it to for the sake of mental preservation. For the record, I haven't hidden all of the books, mind you, just a select few. One of which is Dr. Seuss's ABCs. After reading it no less than 8 times a day over the last three weeks, I've reached the breaking point in my sanity.

Actually, all of the books now hidden in various couch cushions are Dr. Seuss books - including The Foot Book, which Woodstock loves almost as much as hearing the words "goo goo goggles" and "zizzer zazzer zuzz."

According to my mom, kids love Dr. Seuss because of the lyrical quality of the books, the funny nonsensical words and the natural tendancy of (even sane) adult readers to exaggerate parts. They all combine to make a surpremely lovely experience for the children and their parents, until the repetition phase sets in.

Woodstock will drag her battered copy of Dr. Seuss's ABCs out and over, saying "Aay aay aay Book!" (A as in ABC). When I'm done reading it (or Himself is done reading it), she will hand it to us again and say and sign "More." The only possible way to break the chain is to momentarily distract her, shove the book under the nearest pile of junk and say, "All gone!" while trying to sound sympathetic. At which point you'd better hope that The Foot Book isn't anywhere to be found.

I've read these books so many times, I have them memorized. In fact, in the grocery store (near Woodstock's nap time) the other day, I could be heard reciting the ABC book from memory - just to hear her giggle. It apparently doesn't matter if I don't have the book, she still begs for more at the end, grocery lines or not.

So far, I've consented to read the book(s) multiple times daily, mostly for selfish reasons - who could deny the adoring, pleading look on her face and the warmth of a blessedly still toddler curled up in the crux of your elbow, bouncing up and down when you sing the alphabet song, pointing and repeating her favorite words over and over with you.

It's almost worth reading it a ninth time.
Almost.
Because even with all the syrupy sentimental cuteness, I do have a point at which the alarm bells start ringing, warning me of the impending arrival of the men in white lab coats.

Anyone want to read a great book to the world's cutest kid?

A Novel Disaster

I was accosted in Costco on Friday by a husband-and-wife author team who were there promoting and signing their new book.

I doubt there is anyone on the planet who enjoys reading more than I do. I doubt there is anyone that gets as much pleasure out of buying a new book, during the too-often-times when heading to my local bookstore is cheaper than paying my library fines.

However, I don't like being pressured into buying anything. In fact, many times I don't take the samples because I don't want to feel obligated to purchase the item which I just sampled. Especially when I'm on a tight timetable and on a strict list (on which I MUST operate in Costco, for fear of going bankrupt). Except I was supposed to be meeting Himself in the book section at Costco and he was late. I didn't dare wander off, so I was virtually held hostage by a set of over-eager authors wielding Sharpies at a card table. And, well, it's fun to meet the authors of books - it gives you a little insight to what might be going on between the covers of the books they wrote.

They gave me the run-down about the book. They read me the reviews (odd, yes? If I'm buying a book, I can probably actually read the reviews myself) and talked about how it was their first work of fiction.

I gave in. The book was $9. The cover looked like something my mom might be interested in. I had it autographed for her and continued to sit in the book section, burying my nose in a coffee table book about something so benign I don't remember the subject matter.

Because I can't pass up the opportunity to read a new book, even if it is supposed to be a gift for my mother, I began reading it that night before bed.

It was TERRIBLE. Awful. Worse than anything I've read in a long, long time (possibly ever). Bad enough I'm not sure I can in good conscience give it to my mother. (Not to mention, the subject matter, a fictional story on dealing with in-law relationships, is not exactly something my mom is probably interested in - given that her in-laws are dead).

I'm not sure what to do. I can't re-sell it or donate it. I had it autographed for crying out loud. I can't keep it. It isn't autographed to me. Do I give it to my mother anyway and admit that I read it, it's terrible and I'm sorry for letting someone push me into making a purchasing decision that affected her? Even if it was only $9?

Is it bad to throw away a brand-new, perfectly good (as in "good shape" not as in "good good") book?

Yes, it really is bad enough that I am considering something that is tantamount to a cardinal sin in my home - throwing a brand-new something away.

At the moment, I've done nothing. The book is still residing on my night stand. The guilt is killing me.

The One Where I Confess ...

I'm starting to feel like something is wrong with me as a member of the literate female society.

First, it was Jane Austen. I've tried half a dozen times to read Jane Austen and while I love the strong-willed heroines of her novels, I really, really, really don't like reading them. I've seen the movies (other than the epic length A&E P&P - too long for something I didn't even enjoy the short version of). I didn't like them either.

It's not that it is 19th Century lit - my two favorite books of all time are Les Miserables and Huck Finn and both were written in the 1800s. It's not that it is chick lit (classic or otherwise) - there are a few Sophie Kinsella novels I will admit have given me guilty pleasure once in awhile. It's not that it's classic literature - again, look at my two favorite books (and the fact that I actually like Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Dante, etc.). I'm not sure what it is. Even though I plan on trying again someday, I just cannot seem to make myself like Jane Austen. (Much like the fact that while I keep trying Ahi Tuna steak - I cannot make myself like it. I love the concept of it, it's just the eating part that gets in the way.)

With all that, I was already feeling a bit outcast from the "literate females of the world unite!" clique, but lately, I'm feeling even more outside the bounds of literate femininity.

I don't plan on seeing Twilight. Or, even finishing the series. Unless things change drastically and soon.

I did eagerly read the first book - and it was good in a 'nothing else to read, breezy, easy, done in a few hours' kind of way. I was mildly annoyed that it didn't wrap things up, but not enough to stand in line for Book 2 (No, I can't remember the title. Yes, it does in fact make me lazy). In fact, I never got around to reading the rest of the series.

When my mom called a few weeks ago asking me if I'd like to listen to Book 2 on CD, I said, "Sure, why not?" After all, I listen to books on CD while cleaning and heaven knows my house needs cleaning. I even caught myself thinking this would at least potentially redeem me in the world of chick lit (not that I am confusing Stephanie Meyer's writing skills with Jane Austen's - even I recognize that would be a cardinal sin). I could at least hold a conversation with a girl/woman between 12 and 40 who had read it. Feel like a part of society. (Besides, everyone else is doing it!)

Except, I don't actually like Book 2. In fact, it is grating on my nerves so much that I can barely tolerate it. The whining. The self-entitlement. The sheer oddness of the whole thing. Not to mention the plot. Maybe it's the mother in me - the wanting to reach out and shake Bella and say, "Good grief. The world doesn't revolve around you!"

Like my aversion to Austen, I can't exactly explain why I don't like series. To be certain, many times I just need a book to entertain me. It doesn't have to be realistic. It can be rather far-fetched. This is, after all, coming from someone who unabashedly loves the Mrs. Pollifax series and has read every single one - more than once. Those are certainly far-fetched and terribly unrealistic. Yet, at least the characters are entertaining. Mrs. Pollifax is, in fact, quite charming. It's just not very entertaining to be cringing and rolling one's eyes through an entire book like I am through this one.

I'm not sure if I am more disatissfied with the book or with the fact that I feel like something must be wrong with me as a woman who likes to read. If I can't identify with Elizabeth or Emma (or even Mr. Darcy, as unlikely as that would be) on one end or Bella and Edward and Jacob on another end ... what does that say?
How can I not like Jane Austen novels (on one, classic end of the spectrum) OR Twilight (on the other, modern chick lit end of the spectrum)?

One or the other, fine, a woman is entitled her selectiveness and tastes. But both?

Clearly something must be wrong with me.

Running from Kites

I sat in Wolfgang Puck's express yesterday, in Terminal B in the Cincinnati Airport, absently dining on four cheese ravioli in a spicy tomato sauce, lost among the streets of Kabul and the loss of innocence of a fictional character named Amir, the trade paperback held open by the heavy rim of the white stoneware plate.

My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.

I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.

I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.

We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.

Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.

I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.

Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.

Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.

All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.

Service Included

I love food.

This does not mean I necessarily love eating. I have to be in the right mood to eat, a problem given my current milking status. But I love food in all of its incantations.

I love cooking.
I love selecting produce (and meats) - though I hate grocery shopping.
I love farmer's markets.
I love cookbooks.
I love the Food Network (especially anything with Alton Brown).
I love trying new food (not the same as eating).
I love festivals with food.
I love talking about food with anyone who also likes it - one of the reasons Himself and I get along so well - we sit and dissect the potential ingredients of anything new we eat and play amateur critic at every new restaurant we visit.

Most of all, I love reading about food.

Because food is a growing obsession, there are more and more books out about food - especially narrative nonfictions - one of my favorite genres to read. Favorites include: Julie & Julia a dialogue about a woman who sets out to cook and eat every recipe in Julia Child's The Joy of French Cooking in her tiny New York apartment, Garlic & Sapphires - the delightful tale of Ruth Reichl's misadventures and split personalities she creates as the New York Times restaurant critic, and Kitchen Confidential - Anthony Bourdain's behind-the-scenes look at the underbelly of the culinary world.

This weekend, I gleefully picked up a new narrative - Service Included from the library - the very first patron to check it out. I read the entire thing on the drive to and from visiting Himself's family in The Great Frozen North. It was, as Anthony Bourdain would have referred to it (and as the author commented on), "Food Porn." I was in absolute drooling heaven as I read the author's narrative about her 18-month stint as a captain at Per Se, the NYC offspring of Napa Valley's The French Laundry.

More than my love of reading about a 4-star restaurant from the waitstaff's point of view, was my vibrant memories of my one (and probably only) dining experience at a similar restaurant - Maestro at the Tysons Corner Ritz Carlton. As she described the food, the philosophies, the adventures, the setting, I replaced it all in my mind with my own 4-star experience. Chef Keller became Chef Trabocchi. Laura, the manager, became Emile. NYC became Tysons Corner. The food - American with a French influence became regional Italian with an American influence.

Last Halloween, Himself and I took advantage of a complimentary dinner at Maestro as guests of the chef and manager. I had hired the entire back-of-house restaurant staff for an event earlier in the month and was rewarded with the most exquisite dining experience of my entire life.

We, as guests of the chef, were given no menu - instead we were asked if the chef could cook for us (of course!) and how many courses we would prefer (Himself, starving, answered that the suggested 7 courses was fine). What we didn't realize is that, as guests of the chef, we would also get several extra courses - resulting in an 11-course, 3.5-hour dinner that stuffed us so full we didn't eat for another 24 hours. It was absolutely divine.

For 3.5 hours we were the only people in the universe, it felt. A cast of waitstaff swirled around us, anticipating our every need before we even knew we needed it. We sat, entranced, watching our food prepared in the open kitchen - like watching a silent ballet. We enjoyed the 50+ bite-sized dishes (tasting again - my favorite way to eat). We tried not to look like a couple of "wanna bes" and tried to limit our amazement and drooling to after everything was said and done.

Had we paid for the meal, we would have been out $400+, not including tax and tip. It cost us the extra $40 I put toward the 20% gratuity the house picked up for us (a startling revelation - I never expected the house to also comp our tip!). We left, feeling uncomfortably full and completely satiated, vowing to never forget the experience.

It made reading Service Included even better because I had lived, even if only for a few hours, a 4-star life, and I could easily picture everything she described - the sites, the sounds, the indescribable flavor of black and white truffles, the feeling of being the only people in the room - the most important people in that split second.

It made the red curry we had for dinner last night very dull indeed.

This is My Town - in Books

When my mom was helping me unpack/move boxes in the Hobbit Hole awhile back, we tackled the bookcase in the den (which has since been moved and re-arranged). As she was digging into a box, she stumbled across my "random collection of ultra-boring books" (this according to Himself, not me), which included several autobiographies and biographies of well-known people. She looked at them as she put them on the shelf and commented on the number of democrats represented in my collection.

Honestly? I had never realized this. I LOVE to read. I can't think of anything I like to do more (including anything to do with food). I love biographies of fascinating people. I make LISTS of people about whom I want to read. I don't necessarily think about whether or not I agree with the person's philosophy, I choose them based on how fascinating they are to me. I like to read about people who made surprising contributions to the world or did something different or were influential during a particular period for whatever reason. Beyond that, I love to read non-fiction books on things about which I am passionate.

I looked at the books. What I saw was not a representation of political leanings/ideology, but a representation of DC - a compilation of so many of my passions. I realized that it might appear to an outsider that I am slightly obsessed with all things DC - architecturally, culturally, anthropologically - everything. I have a stack of DC-related coffee table books, which I often find myself thumbing through. I have Meg Whitman's book on her perspective of Washington (in which she comments so accurately that DC is the place to which over-achievers come to congregate and and find their place in the world - so true!), Katharine Graham's collection of essays on Washington Life, a collection of essays written by Marjorie Williams - a prominent Washington-based writer, autobiographies of Madeline Albright, George Stephanopolous, Sandra Day O'Connor, Katharine Graham and others.

Then there are the books which have Washington connections and reflect my life's passions (which do a pretty good job of explaining why I love DC so much): the Joseph Ellis biography of George Washington, A People's History of the United States, several books on journalism, by journalists and commentary on the media - all with some sort of Washington insight.

The fact that I want to read a biography on every President of the United States probably should be revealed, in interest of full disclosure on all obsessively DC things. I am dying for a particular book on the history of Washington and another detailing the architectural significance of some of its greatest buildings and monuments.

I love that city, the people, the culture, the flaws, the insanity, the precise nature of everything there, the symbolism, the history - everything (okay, everything but the traffic). It was the city of my coming-of-age, the city in and around which Himself and forged our relationship, the city that encompasses such a rich part of my life.

Maybe there is no "slight" obsession. It is probably no wonder there is a shrine to my beloved city in my bookcase.

The Memory Keeper's Daughter

My latest read, The Memory Keeper's Daughter, is one that has led me to think outside my normal realm of "What if?" thoughts. It is well-written and vividly evokes emotion and a kaleidescope of imagery that makes it easy to become wrapped up in the compelling narrative.

The charaters are complex, but not so complex that I can't continue to read it while doing my daily "I'm working out, really" routine on the elliptical machine. And the story line is haunting. A father, who, in a moment of crisis, with the best of intentions, sends his baby daughter away with a nurse and tells his wife she died. He intends for the baby to be taken and placed in an institution for the mentally handicapped, as the infant has Down Syndrome. Instead, the nurse, shocked by what she finds at the institution, raises the girl herself.

A secret, that kept, poisons everyone - the father, the mother, the remaining child, the baby's twin brother. From one single switch point, their lives spiral further and further away from each other - wildly out of control. The son seeks solace in running and his music, desparately hoping his parents will remove their focus from the shadow of his sister's death and discover that he is still alive - and in need of their love. The wife, after trying to bury her sorrow in alcohol and long drives, escapes to a business, affairs and a life that no longer includes those she once loved. The father, tormented by his decision, haunted by the photos and letters the nurse sends him of his daughter, forges blindly on, not realizing the family's wounds he caused that fateful night have never healed.

It's a painful read from all the raw emotion, but one that is immensely satisfying in the complex menagerie of thoughts it stimulated. After reading a description of the wife in the year after her baby's "death," bathed in grief, smothered by "propriety," I again said a grateful prayer that I was not privy to be a wife in the early 60s. The delicate, sunny descriptions of Phoebe, the daughter, and her simple interactions with the world, made me immensely grateful that we no longer live in a society where the mainstream, acceptable answer is to "hide" those who are different from everyone else.

I've continued to ponder that decision, made late at night in utter innocence - the decision the father felt was the best course for his family - and ended up giving rise to a generation of bitter, painful silence and resentment. It makes one want to shout, "Look around you! You're all suffering. No one is alone in this story," but the silent walls that grow between each character are soundproof, inpenatrable.

The richness of the tapestry woven by the descriptions of loss and love and family are accompanied by the theme of "Despite [the] desire to freeze a moment or to go back into the past and alter events, time presses us forward." Despite wishing a thousand times to go back and change his mind, the father continues his journey, weighted by this crushing secret.

I've had secrets - good, bad, revealed, silenced. None so significant nor far-reaching, but impactful in their own ways. Never before had I thought of these secrets, untold, so profoundly affecting the lives of those I touch, without anyone ever realizing it. We each seemingly go through life, our innermost thoughts and decisions carefully guarded - protecting those we love, protecting ourselves from others. Yet, the book forces one to pause and consider how those thoughts, decisions, secrets seep out and stain the fabric of life - either colored in brillant, happy hues, or menacing swirls of dark despair.

It's a book, while compelling and beautiful, I will be glad to finish - grateful for the imagery, the story, the lessons, the internal dialogue it has spawned, and yet repulsed by the haunting truth of the impact one's deepest thoughts and switch point actions can have on those he loves.