Through a Glass, Darkly

I read this book because Publishers Weekly said that the main character, Isabel, “could easily pass as Buffy or Veronica Mars’s wiser but funnier older sister.” Veronica Mars? I’m in.

And I did read this book with Veronica’s voice in my head. I pictured her tailing people and doing surveillance and climbing in and out of windows. It’s a good comparison, I think – both Veronica’s toughness and her vulnerability are evident in Isabel. Isabel is tough in different sorts of ways, is more of a bad girl than Veronica, but the similarities are definitely there. The big crime in this book, the missing person case that Isabel has to solve? I had it figured out way before Isabel, all thanks to an episode of Veronica Mars.

This is, I believe, the first in a series featuring Isabel Spellman and the rest of her family – her parents, her brother, her younger sister, and her Uncle Ray. All of them, except for her brother, are involved in the family business: private investigation. They use these skills not only on clients, but also on each other. No boyfriend is safe, no little sister can expect to get away with anything. It’s hard to keep a secret.

I found the way that they were always spying and pranking each other a little bit frustrating, a little bit tiresome. I could accept it better as the setup for the rest of a series, though. It read more like a setup than anything else – the big mystery came fairly late in the book, after we spent a fair amount of time establishing the characters and how they interact. It was a funny book, very noir in tone. The text is often organized like we are reading Isabel’s notes, which was a fun stylistic choice and which made it easy to get through. I don’t give it a wholehearted recommendation, but I do think Veronica Mars fans will enjoy it, and people who enjoy mysteries or noir that focuses on 20- and 30-somethings will probably also find something to appreciate. While I was reading it, I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d read another in the series, but something that happened at the end hooked me, and I look forward to checking in with the Spellman family again.

One of my favorite books is Circle of Friends by Maeve Binchy. Sometimes I like books because they are “important,” but this is not one of those times. Instead, this book is important to me. It hit me at the right time, the story of Benny and Eve and the people around them. The ending hugely impressed me in that it was about Benny growing as a person rather than Benny needing a boy to complete herself. The movie, by the way, got that all wrong, and I can’t forgive that, no matter how cute Chris O’Donnell is.

I like some of Maeve Binchy’s other books, the older ones, but none of them as much as Circle of Friends. I haven’t read one since Scarlet Feather, because I found that one frustrating. The reviews of Whitethorn Woods, though, were very very good, and I thought, “I am in the mood for a nice spring book like that,” so I checked it out.

It is kind of hard to tell you what Whitethorn Woods is about. There is a small town in Ireland called Rossmore, and next to the town is a wooded area: Whitethorn Woods. In Whitethorn Woods there is a well that is a shrine to St. Ann, where many people go to pray. Unfortunately, Rossmore has grown in size, and now there seem to be plans for a bypass around it, a road that would go right through St. Ann’s well.

So, the story is about that conflict, but it presents it in these one-shots about different characters. We have Neddy, a man who isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, and then we have Clare, his wife, who tells us why she loves him just as he is. We have Becca, who has her ex-boyfriend’s new woman murdered, and her mother, who sells the story to the tabloids. We don’t return to their stories, exactly, but we do get glimpses of them as we continue on with one-shots about other people. I expected there to be a bit more of an arc in terms of the characters, but instead it was slices-of-life, always with the well or the road in the background.

The man who holds the story together is Father Flynn, who, as the representative of the church, tries to stay out of the question of the road (and who believes the well is nothing more than superstition) and instead tries to do his best to care for his flock and his family. We return to him at the beginning of each of the three sections, and he helps move the story along.

On one hand, if you were looking for a story, there’s not a whole lot going on in this book. It’s very character-driven, and many of the vignettes do have closure of their own, but some do not. On the other hand, I had a hard time putting it down at the end, because I did very much want to know what was going to happen with the road and the well and the people I had met. I finished it in the break room at work, and if there hadn’t been people around, I’m sure I would have cried. I was definitely fighting tears.

If you have read Maeve Binchy before and liked her style and her characters, you will probably like this book. Many of the reviews I read called it “classic Binchy,” and I can’t disagree with that. It was like a cool, thick milkshake on a warm afternoon. It made me happy. I’m glad I read it.

When I registered for my first semester of college, we still had to do the wait-in-line-at-the-registrar’s-office thing. Just that first semester. And there wasn’t really a line, because it was just freshmen and it took me forever to pick out my classes (because everyone told me that they would be helping me pick out my classes, but, no, that was not exactly how it all went down – they expected me to know what I wanted to take) and I just walked up and got registered, huzzah!

The second time I registered, well, that was supposed to be online. UNCG had finally switched to registering on the internet! But I was going out of town for the weekend, so my best friend did my registering for me. She got me all the classes I wanted. It was very uneventful. At least on my part.

The third time I registered is the memorable one. I had a pin number, a four-digit pin number that they gave me. I saved the printout, just as I was supposed to. I was all ready to register at midnight, just as I was supposed to. And my pin number, it would not take. I had apparently missed the communication about how they were adding two zeros to the beginning or the end of everyone’s pin number. I can’t remember which. I just remember that there were two crucial zeros missing that I still don’t know how I was supposed to know about. I think maybe I got screwed because I saved the original piece of paper that had my pin number instead of having to look it up again, so when the letter came that said, “Here is your pin number,” I thought, “Oh, I already have that,” and put that piece of paper aside.

I am slightly less high-strung these days, but, to my 18-year-old self, this was an unmitigated disaster. I stayed up, repeatedly trying to register. I got no sleep because I was so worried. I called my dad and sobbed at him at something like three in the morning (I am really sorry about that, Dad). I ruined Easter weekend (why would they make a freshman’s registration start on Easter weekend? That still seems so foolish – don’t make the freshmen register when there’s not going to be anyone around to help them for a couple of days) by moping around, sure I was going to be unable to graduate, ever. I thought maybe God was punishing me for dumping my nice boyfriend the weekend before.

And then, on Monday, I went and got it all straightened out. And the really awful part is that I got into every single class that I wanted. As a freshman. Trying to get into some competitive business classes. Boy, did I feel foolish. Also, God apparently did NOT hate me.

After that, registration wasn’t so fraught with peril. I was still using dial-up, so it was incredibly slow when I was trying to register, but I generally got exactly what I needed, so it was no big deal. Well, Mike will tell you that it was still a big deal just beforehand, when I would be all nervous and freaked out, but it ended well.

Last night, Mike was supposed to register, and he forgot. So he called me and, as I was driving to work, I wrote down the pertinent information (very dangerous stunt, do not try this at home) and got to work and registered him. I didn’t get his first choice for one class, but I think it will all work out okay.

It was kind of bittersweet, really. This is the last semester that Mike will be registering, because his spring semester next year will be student teaching. We’re just about ready to put this school thing behind us, to start the next chapter. We’re going to start doing the “last things” – the last time Mike has to register, the last time he has to buy textbooks, the last test. We’re not there yet, but it’s getting close.

I finished The Memory Keeper’s Daughter early last week, but I wanted to wait until after my book discussion to talk about it, because sometimes the book discussions make me change my mind about a book (hello, The Secret Life of Bees, which I liked much better after talking about it). I had been avoiding this book for a while, to be honest. I remember when it came in the first time, and I thought the cover was so interesting, and I read the premise and thought, “Not for me.” I’m not sure why, exactly – I like modern fiction. It just seemed a little sad. (And I can deal with sad stuff, but the premise seems almost gratuitously sad. More on the premise in a minute.)

Speaking of modern fiction - a few weeks ago, one of my coworkers was processing a book about writing chick lit, and she said, “You should look at this, since you read so much of that chick lit stuff – maybe you could write a book like that.” And that was very nice of her, but the bad Curtis Sittenfeld in me was actually kind of offended. In theory, I say, “People should read what makes them happy,” but in reality, I don’t think of myself as a woman who reads a whole lot of chick lit, because (and I hesitate to say this) I like stuff with a little more . . . meat to it. I read some, but I don’t have the patience for a whole lot of it, because I don’t feel like I have a lot in common with the kinds of women who are (often/usually) protagonists in chick lit. And so I was unreasonably offended by this. And I know I shouldn’t have been, because I truly don’t think less of my friends who read a lot of it. I just want to be thought of as a woman who has slightly more literary tastes. Whether that is true or not is up for debate.

I suppose it also depends on how broadly you define chick lit – my coworker may be thinking of it as “books written for women,” which I do read. A lot. I have been told the word for that is “chiction.”

Another coworker, processing a fairly large order of paperback chick lit, said, “I sure will be glad when this chick lit phase is over.” And what did I do? I defended chick lit. I said things like, “There have always been books written by and for women in their 20s about the things that concern them – some people think of Jane Austen as the grandmother of chick lit.” I convinced them that chick lit is not a fad. I explained that (some of it, at least) has merit, just as any genre fiction does. So it’s easy to see why they think it’s a passion of mine.

Anyway, now that I have revealed my gross disgusting snobbery, I guess I should actually talk about the book at hand. Let’s start with the premise. On a snowy night in 1964, an orthopedic surgeon named David is forced to deliver his own baby, as his wife Norah is in labor and they can’t get to the hospital. They do get to David’s own clinic, though, as does a nurse named Caroline. Norah delivers a beautiful baby boy named Paul and then, unexpectedly, another baby, a girl. Norah is sedated as David makes the discovery – his daughter, Phoebe, has Down syndrome.

In an instant that changes the rest of his life, David makes a decision – fueled by memories of his own sickly sister and how her death destroyed his family and his childhood, he asks Caroline to take the baby to an institution and to leave her there. When Norah regains consciousness, he tells her that the baby died.

Caroline, though, can’t leave the baby in that awful place, and so she keeps Phoebe for herself. And so she and Phoebe leave town and start over, start a new life together.

Yesterday, one of the women said that it was a beautiful book, just not her thing. And that, I think, is how I feel. Kim Edwards told the story well, and it was an interesting story, but . . . my instinct was right. Not for me. Some of the ladies mentioned yesterday having a hard time with it because it was so cerebral, so in the head, but I think I like that kind of thing, generally. I certainly read a fair amount of it, and I like character-driven books in general. I think my main complaint was that the characters themselves just seemed to fall deeper and deeper into despair and hopelessness because of the terrible thing that David did. They never seemed to be getting anywhere. And that was probably true to life and certainly understandable, but I do like to read books that are a little bit more about redemption.

Of course, that sentence right there is me exposing my tendency to want things wrapped up neatly. I don’t have to have all the loose ends tied up, but I want to believe in a world where lives can be redeemed, where telling the truth sets people free. And those are good things to believe in. But it’s not always what real life looks like.

Here is where I am going to talk a little bit about the ending, so if you haven’t read it, proceed with caution (or not at all).

(more…)

Like most of the country, I had no idea what was going on in the Men’s Division II Tournament, but my mom mentioned tonight that Barton (from Wilson, NC) won, and that the ending was kind of incredible. I pretty much had no idea what she was talking about (because, you know, I don’t have ESPN), but then I found the clip online, and . . . she was right. (Here is a slightly shorter and therefore slightly less impressive clip if you are pressed for time. But you get the replay afterwards, so there is that.) (Have I mentioned today that YouTube is the greatest invention of our generation?) Be sure and watch the part where they all run around chasing the guy who made the game-winning shot behind the basket and they can’t catch him. That’s my mom’s favorite part. (Hi, mom!)

You guys, that is awesome. They had one player who scored 10 points in 45 seconds. Now people are cheering them in airports and they got to be on ESPN. Their on-campus celebration was attended by 5000 people. Their coach hopes this will help them get donations for a gym renovation. This isn’t on the grand scale that Division I is, but . . . it’s pretty exciting for them just the same.

I had been meaning to read The Other Boleyn Girl for a few years now – I remember putting a lot of holds on it for patrons not long after I started working at the library, and it was in the back of my mind as “one I’d like to read at some point.” This year I’ve been making an effort not to avoid longer books, so I thought now was a good time to cowboy up and check it out.

The Other Boleyn Girl is from the perspective of Mary Boleyn, a mistress of Henry VIII and the sister of Henry’s second wife, Anne. Mary and Anne are part of the Howard family, who are seeking to improve their standing and who will stop at nothing to do it. At first this means using Mary to tempt Henry away from Catherine of Aragon, and then, when Mary does not prove ruthless enough to seal the deal, the family switches tactics and uses Anne instead. Anne, though, has a mind of her own, and as she ascends in power, refuses to simply do her family’s bidding.

It’s easy to get distracted, as I just did, by Anne’s story, because it’s hugely fascinating. Philippa Gregory has taken some liberties with the facts, expressing some highly speculative theories (a homosexual ring within Anne’s court, a possibly incestuous relationship between Anne and her brother George) as fact. According to Wikipedia, many historians were displeased with her portrayal of Anne, and some of the scholars whose resources she used have distanced themselves from the novel.

There I go again, getting distracted by Anne. This is Mary’s story, though – Mary, who was forced by her family to separate from her husband and become the king’s mistress, Mary, who, after giving the king two children was forced to make way for her sister and help her in her quest to become queen. And, ultimately, it’s Mary’s story of finding a life outside of court, which, the book implies, probably saved her from the witch hunt that ultimately cost Anne her life. (Was that a spoiler? hehe.)

This wasn’t a perfect book, but it was hugely entertaining, and kept my interest through almost 700 pages. I had thought perhaps it would be a good book club selection, but it’s simply too long. I am planning to read some of her other books, though, and if any of them are shorter, I can certainly see them being full of interesting topics to discuss. One of the things that struck me the most was that I had only thought of women of this time as pawns, but I saw Anne very capably acting in her own interests, and realized that her daughter Elizabeth later did the same, not just in the world of fiction.

I recommend this book with the caveat that perhaps it might be good to brush up on Anne and Mary Boleyn and Henry VIII before you read it, so you don’t get taken in by some of the more lurid plotlines. I’m certainly glad that I had done a little reading first, so I was able to keep a more balanced picture of Anne in my mind.

I read Alison Weir’s novel on Lady Jane Grey, and I think I’m going to try her biography The Six Wives of Henry VIII at some point this spring. It’s funny how one book leads to another, isn’t it?

A friend of mine lost her mother this week, and I have tried to be helpful in small ways: going to the service, providing a couple of meals, offering to come and help clean (and making her promise she would call me if she needed it later on) . . . six months ago, I wouldn’t have been so attentive to detail, but experience is, after all, the best teacher. Which means I knew to put the casseroles in disposable pans so that she wouldn’t have to return them.

Doing that kind of cooking is, actually, kind of stressful for me. I have had some bad experiences with post-baby meals . . . I always feel as if there’s some sort of Martha Stewart Standard I can’t achieve. There are a few dishes I do pretty well, but I’m not an organized cook, and the kitchen is still in a state of disarray from my adventures earlier today (I’m going to clean it up when the game is over). I admire people who are so much more competent about these things than I am. I forgot to cook the chicken yesterday, so when I was putting it in the casserole today, it was too hot and burned my fingers. I baked cookies from some frozen dough, but had trouble spooning them out because I didn’t give them enough time to thaw. I spilled chicken broth on the floor and counters. There are dirty dishes in the sink.

Instead of getting stressed, I tried to think of it as part of my sacrifice for my friend, an act of prayer. She probably won’t ever know that it was a little bit difficult for me to bring her those things or to attend the memorial, just like I won’t ever know exactly what people went through to be supportive of me last year.

Last weekend, I went away with some other women from church, and it was another piece in what I’ve been learning about community. I can be somewhat hesitant to put myself in situations like that, going away for the weekend with people I don’t know all that well, but even in the past week, I have seen how those relationships have grown, simply because of being able to spend time together in a new place (over mass quantities of food). I still have a lot to learn about being comfortable and being willing to show who I am, but I am starting to be able to approach relationships from a place of security.

So I was able to offer myself to my friend in a small way: my burned fingers, my slightly deformed cookies. The dishes that are still in my sink. She doesn’t have to know about that. I just want her to know that I was thinking about her.

-Is it just us, or was CBS airing and commentating these games like no one was watching them? Could they have BEEN any more low key?

-At this point, it’s a cliche to hate Billy Packer. But, you guys. I really really hate him. And he hates everyone. Everyone is wrong, he could do everything better himself. I would like to watch someone who enjoys the game. Is that so much to ask? Mike refuses to mute Billy, so I usually have to leave the room. He seems worse this year.

-Who has a more thankless commentating job than Jim Nantz? He doesn’t even bother to try to disagree with Billy anymore. I used to get mad at Nantz, too, but lately I think he just sounds defeated. He needs a hug. (But not from Billy Packer, who has never touched him while commentating.)

-I miss Dan Bonner. I didn’t really get to hear him very much this year. He’s my favorite. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that before, but I just wanted to say it again. He smiles a lot.

-A lot of people have been talking about Gus Johnson this week, and how he won’t be commentating any more games this year since he got bumped for James Brown. Dan Bonner + Gus Johnson = my favorite commentating team. *sigh*

-I am not a fan of Roy Williams doing commercials. Don’t do that, Roy. (But if he was going to do a commercial, shouldn’t it be MasterCard? Are Mike and I the only ones who think Roy Williams doing a MasterCard commercial would be hilarious?)

-Mike woke me up to tell me that (good news) Carolina had won and (bad news) he was now beating me in the brackets. He was only a LITTLE gloaty. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s love in the time of basketball.

KARI: I read an article that was talking about 300 and how more women are going to see it than they thought.

MIKE: Yeah, they were saying that after opening weekend. They thought maybe it was because they had expanded the Oracle’s role or something.

KARI: That is not why. It is because of this. *holds up Entertainment Weekly* Look at his abs.

MIKE: That’s what [a former professor of Kari's] said when I saw her on campus.

KARI: Yeah?

MIKE: She wanted to know if you’d seen it, because it has pretty men running around in their underwear.

KARI: Nice. I did see some discussions online with women who were wanting to see it. And it wasn’t because of the Oracle’s expanded role.

(Later, discussing our brackets.)

MIKE: You got every winner right last night.

KARI: Yessssssss.

MIKE: But our Final Four picks are very different.

KARI: So we should know by the end of the weekend who is going to win eternal bragging rights. For the next year.

MIKE: Yep.

KARI: Well, everyone’s saying Georgetown is going to win [UNC’s} bracket.

MIKE: Yes. Everyone thinks that.

KARI: So we’re kind of like the 300.

MIKE: How do you know that we’re the ones who would be the underdogs?

KARI: The Spartans! There were 300 of them! How could they possibly win! That’s totally us. No one expects us to win.

MIKE: Except . . . didn’t we already play the Spartans?

KARI: Right, Michigan State.

MIKE: And beat them.

KARI: Hmmmmmm.

MIKE: So I think we’re the bad guys.

KARI: Well, I didn’t pick UNC, because I am always superstitious about picking my own team, but I really hope we make it past this weekend.

MIKE: Maybe more people would believe in our team if they ran around in their underwear.

KARI: And the female viewership would increase.

MIKE: And no one would know why.

Let’s talk about black pants. Five (FIVE!) years ago, I went into Lerner/NY and Co./whatever that place is called and bought the perfect pair of black pants. For, I don’t know, $30. Maybe $40. They are polyester, so I don’t have to iron them, and I can wear them in all but the coldest days of winter (and this is the South, y’all, so I am saying I can wear them all year long). I can wash them myself. They keep their crease. They’re flattering. I am still wearing them, five years later. I wear them every week. In the summer, I usually wear them twice a week! It’s possible that was the greatest $30 I have ever spent, wardrobe-wise.

But, you guys, these pants, they cannot last forever. And I have exactly zero other pairs of work-appropriate all-season black pants that can replace them. What am I going to do? Black pants are a necessity!

Now, maybe I should take back the “perfect” bit, because I always have to wear these pants with flats. Which is fine. But probably the “perfect” pair would be just a tiny bit longer, so they could be worn with either flats or low heels. But that is such a minor detail when you have loved and been loved by a pair of pants for five years, don’t you think?

(Now that I have denounced the pants in this way, they are probably going to fall apart. Right now. While I’m sitting in this chair. You betray the pants, the pants will get their revenge.)

Regardless of the future of these pants, a girl really ought to own more than one pair of black pants. It’s part of the Girl Code. I am failing as a woman. So, I need some new black pants. I need them to be as great as the ones I have on right now. And I hate shopping with the fire of ten thousand suns. So, I declare that this spring and summer I will be journeying on The Quest for the Perfect Black Pants: 2007 Edition. (The only way to get through the worst kind of shopping - shopping with a goal already in mind - is to make it sound like an epic journey. One day songs will be written about this quest.) I will let you know how it goes. And if you have any suggestions, I could really use them.

My wonderful husband, seeing Anne Lamott’s latest book on my Amazon wish list, preordered it for me. It came in on Wednesday, and I refused to open the Amazon box until I finished The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, knowing I would want to dive in right away, knowing that the other book would lie sadly discarded in a corner. And that’s not really fair to it, now is it. Plus, I don’t do more than one book at a time. Also, my book club is next week, so I really seriously needed to finish The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. But when that was done and I finally, gleefully, got to open the box, I felt a little weepy, like, “If I start this, I will finish it, and then what will I look forward to?” There’s a huge stack of books waiting to be read that is right next to the door of my room because I haven’t even bothered to move them next to my bed. And yet I ask that question.

Maybe it’s just that it was a weepy sort of week. I would find myself talking to people about the Boy Scout who was missing and realize that I was doing a terrible job of fighting off tears, driving down the road. It was even worse when he was found. And at other times, to be honest. A random song on my iPod, Elizabeth Edwards having cancer again (she has small children, you guys. This is very sad). It’s a good thing I stayed out of the Hallmark store, is what I am saying.

I feel like I kind of grew up with Anne Lamott. Or because of Anne Lamott. But I’d prefer to say “with,” because it makes me feel like we’re friends journeying together. I didn’t know it at the time, but the day I bought Traveling Mercies because I was in a very very bad time (I spent years, it seems now, in a very very bad time) and went home and made myself a bubble bath and got in the tub and started reading, that was a turning point of sorts. I wouldn’t let myself finish it. I rationed it, so it wouldn’t be over. I walked around in a state of wide-eyed wonder. I read passages to people. I was the most annoying kind of reader there is – the one who wants to convert you to a book that was changing everything. A book proselytizer. I apologize to all of you who went through that with me.

I’m not sure whether I can articulate exactly what I have learned from her, but it has something to do with keeping a sense of humor about yourself, about knowing the times and places to be irreverent, about forgiveness and not expecting to get everything right the first time . . . or at all, really, because we are broken and flawed people here. And it helps to remember the same things about other people, too. Traveling Mercies was the right book at exactly the right time – it began to nudge me out of the self-pity I was mired in, it gave me the courage to start standing up for myself in certain ways. It helped me see faith as a gift rather than a claustrophobic closet.

If Traveling Mercies was a defining sort of book for me, Plan B and Grace (Eventually) are like continuing a conversation with a friend over many years. Those friends who can see you change, who can see the edges sort of softening, who can see you working things out and becoming more sure of yourself and what you believe.

I am the fangirliest of fangirls when it comes to Anne Lamott’s nonfiction, and so I come to her books knowing that I am going to find something to like about them. And, of course, I did like Grace (Eventually). There wasn’t really any question, but it’s nice to have that settled.

When I was on vacation, I needed to buy a bathing suit, which is something that can send any woman into the depths of despair. And there was a point in a snooty department store where I did indeed approach despair and Mike dragged me out by the arm before I assaulted the smug saleslady. But then I was in Target, trying on bathing suits, and I looked in the mirror and I was able to see, really see, in a dressing room. See more than just my flaws. And I took off the awful bathing suit I was trying on and I put my clothes back on and I said, “I will never in my life look better than I do right now, and I am not going to settle for a bathing suit that doesn’t make me look and feel incredible.” I think maybe I learned a little bit of that from Anne Lamott, though it’s taken a few years for it to sink in. She treads some of that ground again in this book: beauty and losing self-consciousness. Looking at pictures of herself from different decades of her life and appreciating her past self in ways that she wasn’t able to at the time. I don’t want to waste all these prime years wishing I looked like something else instead of appreciating who I am. I think maybe I learned some of that from everything that happened in the past year, too. We don’t have that long here, and I do want to exercise and be healthy and feed myself well. But I also want to eat the dark chocolate, and I’d rather eat it than starve myself for a couple of pounds that no one on the beach is going to notice anyway.

(I do not remember this all the time. But I’m writing it down as evidence that I have at least thought it at some point.)

She also talks about forgiveness, and here is what I think about forgiveness. When you’re small and someone apologizes and you say, “I forgive you,” you maybe come to think that it’s a one-time deal. And, in those situations, that’s probably exactly what it is. I don’t feel the need to have a heart-to-heart with Little Billy about that time he pushed me off the swing. But, for most of life, it’s really really not a one-time deal. It’s a process, a state of mind. I will probably be forgiving some people for the rest of my life, because the experiences I have for the rest of my life will continue to illuminate the ways in which I have been hurt and am experiencing loss because of these people. So, to hear Anne Lamott talking about forgiveness again could be considered a retread, but I see it as another step in the journey, to return to the issue with new insight, with new experience, ready to try again in a different way. We have to keep talking about it because we have to keep learning how to do it. (Maybe that’s just me.)

Grace (Eventually) was also about the other things that Anne Lamott books are about: peace and caring for our planet and life and death and parenting and addiction. There was even a very special chapter that I’m sure she wrote just for me that was all about raising money for libraries in which she said things like, “We were there to celebrate some of the rare intelligence capabilities that our country can actually be proud of–those of librarians. I see them as healers and magicians.” Yep. Shout-out to me, definitely.

As with her other nonfiction, the story of Grace (Eventually) is that she’s getting there. By God’s grace, with a community of church and friends, and with a little bit of black humor, she’s getting there. And this book, taken in conjunction with the others, reminds me that I am, too.

(So, I read two books I haven’t posted about: The Other Boleyn Girl and The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. I might get back to them or not. I just . . . really wanted to write about this one.)

Mike and I would never have a conversation like this:

KARI: Remember the time we came back from vacation and we had turned the heat off and our apartment was so cold and it took forever for the baseboards to heat up and we put on our warmest clothes and drank hot chocolate and put every blanket we owned on the bed and went to sleep and when we woke up it was wonderfully, blessedly warm in our house?

MIKE: That was so funny.

—

Instead, our conversation might be like this:

KARI: Remember that time it was so cold when we came back from vacation?

MIKE: Heh. Yes. It was so cold!

And, if we were in a novel (a novel based on us would be very boring, it seems), now might be the time for me, the narrator, to explain to you, the reader, more of the story. How we were trying to save money on electricity, so we turned the baseboards off when we left for vacation, and how we returned to a frigid apartment. How baseboards aren’t the most effective heating system, and how we thought our apartment would never be warm again (until July, at which time we knew it wouldn’t cool down). How we laughed so hard as we got into bed, because, to newlyweds, things like this are hilarious. But I don’t need to tell Mike the story. Because he was there. (Well, maybe that’s a bad example, because men don’t seem to remember details as well as women, but Mike remembers this story, at least, so I don’t have to explain it to him.)

The first half of Cassandra King’s new book, Queen of Broken Hearts, was full of the first kind of conversation. And I just found myself thinking, over and over, “If these characters have really known each other as long as they say, why are their conversations full of exposition about the past?” I mean, I know why, but it was annoying. And I think it’s a terrible thing to do. It’s clunky. It made me think of one of my favorite Muppet quotes:

MISS PIGGY: Why are you telling me all this?

LADY HOLIDAY: It’s plot exposition. It has to go somewhere.

(Full disclosure: I have never seen The Great Muppet Caper. Does anyone have a copy I can borrow?)

I keep thinking that maybe I like Cassandra King, but . . . maybe that’s not true after all. I liked The Sunday Wife pretty well (though I read most of it after my first eye surgery, so I was slightly impaired), but The Same Sweet Girls and Queen of Broken Hearts both felt forced to me. The Southern stuff didn’t ring true - it was so over the top, and the characters weren’t very nice people. I gave this one a try because people talk about her so much. What I liked the least about this one was how forced so much of the plot was. Something terrible happened to our main character’s husband, and in the end, she finally deals with it. I have read books where the main character refused to think about something tragic that happened, and then, in the end, she is forced to tell someone or admit it to herself. And that is often when the reader finds out what is going on as well. That was the case in this book. Except . . . I didn’t feel like the “big revelation” felt organic to the story. There were all these hints about it, but it honestly just felt like I was being strung along, like she wasn’t telling me simply so I would keep reading. I think she tried to set up that our main character had blocked it out, but other things that were said didn’t really indicate that to be true. Basically, the ambiguity was forced, as I said before. And it didn’t intrigue me. I just found it irritating.

So, I find I don’t really want to discuss the plot of this book. You can read about it yourself on Amazon or Barnes and Noble if you are interested. Suffice it to say that . . . I think I won’t read another one of hers.

I read most of Amazing Grace while listening to the Pan’s Labyrinth soundtrack: a big chunk on the beach and another chunk while sitting in my car on my lunch break. I didn’t do that on purpose, but I realized later that the soundtrack of a “fairy tale for grownups” is, in many ways, a suitable accompaniment for this book, which focuses on the wonder and mystery of the language of Christianity.

When Kathleen Norris returned to church after a long absence, she found that much of the vocabulary was intimidating and frightening. As she reclaimed many of these words for herself, she used her background in poetry to help her embrace the mystery rather than forcing her faith into rigid black-and-white definitions. Amazing Grace is comprised of those definitions, each one a short essay on a topic or word that seemed impenetrable to her when she found herself in the faith environment.

I appreciated this book because, while there are things I do think are fundamental for Christian belief, the idea that we can cross every t and dot every i is very unappealing to me. I am not interested in having every tenet of my faith wrapped up in a neat little box, or having everything completely defined in terms of right and wrong. For crying out loud, I believe in a virgin birth and in the bodily resurrection of Jesus. We’re treading some pretty mysterious ground. At the same time, this book was not anti-intellectual. It doesn’t force a false dichotomy between God and reason, looking instead at the bigger picture of the mystery of our relationship with God and what it looks like in a broken world.

I said I’d been doing a lot of reading on community – it was a focus of this book as well. This time around, Kathleen Norris has experienced most of her Christianity in two different communities – the small church she attends (in the small community where she lives) and in the monastery where she served as an oblate. In both of those situations, she has been forced to share life with people as she worships and serves with them. She talked honestly about the challenges and difficulties of that, but also spoke with a lot of joy about how refining it is.

I read Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris last year on our trip to Florida, so I was excited to find a used copy of this one to take with me on this year’s trip. This is a book that you could read over and over, finding new insight to savor, and I definitely plan to read it again, this time with a notebook.

I wish I had taken a picture of The Greatest Fruit Salad of All Time, which included strawberries, grapes, bananas, pineapple, raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, kiwi, and eventually even oranges. But not a honeydew or cantaloupe in sight. So much deliciousness. So little melon. Just how I like it. Because melon is the fruit of the devil. So just imagine it, all that fruit in a red plastic bowl. Eaten with homemade cinnamon rolls and French toast and quiche and parmesan shrimp baskets and snacked on with crackers and cheese and just generally enjoyed. And you’ll know what my weekend was like. Delicious food, fun games, walks on the beach, movies galore. Girl time at its finest.

Let me just get back to the food for a second. Did you even know there is such a thing as a parmesan basket? You guys. They aren’t even hard to make. And if you put shrimp and greens in them, I promise I will be your friend forever.

After the death of Mary’s five-year-old daughter, Stella, her mother encourages her to learn how to knit. And so Mary finds herself at Big Alice’s Sit and Knit, where, with the help of the women in the group, she learns about knitting as well as about life and grief and friendship.

This is a pretty straightforward book about a community of women supporting each other – of course each woman has not only knitting secrets but also a story to share that will help Mary learn about grieving and overcoming loss. It didn’t feel . . . cheesy or smarmy to me, though. It was a warm book that felt very friendly and real, and read very quickly. One review, from The Washington Post, said, “In the end, there is something where there once was nothing: a scarf, a pair of socks, solace where there once was pain. Little by little, by knit and by purl, Mary’s empty hands are once again full.” I like that, how it echoes Naomi. The friendships and lessons that Mary is given don’t replace what she has lost, but she learns how to live again.

One of the themes is the belief that each stitch that a knitter knits is a prayer. As the book unfolds, the repetition of knitting gives Mary something to focus on as she learns how to live again. That reminded me of something I wrote early last summer about prayer, how praying a repetitive prayer helps me feel anchored to God, repeating words that millions of others have also said. For Mary, knitting provides that same sort of anchor – learning stitches that others before her have learned, grounding her simultaneously in the past and the present.

What I liked best about The Knitting Circle was how sharing in other people’s grief gave Mary perspective and courage. When you are caught up in your own life, you aren’t able to think about what other people are thinking and feeling. In sharing their own personal sorrows with Mary, her new friends were giving her a very important gift – the ability to look past herself. And in learning how to put words to her own loss, Mary learns how to fill her hands and her life with the people around her.

While I was reading this book, I got a lot of strange looks. Mostly, I think, people thought I was being morbid. “It’s like HAMLET,” I said. “The ghost of his father tells him that his uncle had him killed. I’m not being morbid!” Nobody seemed to care.

The Dead Fathers Club is about Philip, an eleven-year-old boy whose father recently died in a car accident. If that isn’t challenging enough, soon Philip is seeing the ghost of his father, who informs him that it wasn’t just an accident – he was killed by his brother Alan, Philip’s uncle. If Philip doesn’t seek revenge and kill Alan by his dad’s next birthday, his dad will live as a ghost in the land of the Terrors forever.

While Philip is trying to figure out what to do, Alan is taking over his father’s pub and wooing his mother. Not only that, but Philip is also having to deal with bullies and girls . . . it’s a lot for an eleven-year-old to have to deal with.

Many reviewers compared this to The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and that was the only thing I could think of, too, that was remotely close. It’s written in first-person, which takes a bit of getting used to, since Philip doesn’t always use correct punctuation. He sounds, in short, like an eleven-year-old.

In addition, much like The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, there is an air of unreliability about Philip, just as there was with Christopher. You have to decide for yourself whether you believe that Philip is actually seeing the ghost of his father, or if he’s simply losing it.

In the end, this book didn’t totally work for me. It was funny and interesting, if (as expected) a little dark. I don’t think it’s necessary to know Hamlet well, but in reading the author’s website, I think I would have enjoyed it better if I’d brushed up on Hamlet first (it’s been a while). It’s an ambiguous book, and it did that very very well – the book I am currently reading has a lot of forced ambiguity, where the author is deliberately choosing not to reveal certain things in order to build suspense. The Dead Fathers Club, though, has ambiguity because it’s from the perspective of a very confused eleven-year-old, which is organic to the story, not forced. I think the reason it didn’t work for me is that the ending was a little bit more ambiguous than I had hoped for, though I think that it worked for the book.

Basically, what it boils down to is that this isn’t my favorite kind of book, though what it did, it did very well. I wasn’t completely enamored of The Curious Incident, either – I could see why people liked it, but it didn’t do all that much for me. So, if you’re a Hamlet buff and you liked The Curious Incident, you might give this a try – it’s an interesting concept that kept me guessing until the end.

Between the time change and bracketology (and checking scores), this is probably one of the least productive weeks America’s had in a while. I just can’t seem to wind down at night in time to get enough sleep.

The daffodils, however, are lovely.

This year’s Newbery winner, The Higher Power of Lucky, has caused quite a stir. If you aren’t familiar with the controversy, this New York Times article will help you catch up. To sum up: the book uses the word “scrotum” to describe where a rattlesnake bit a dog, and it does it on the first page, which has offended a lot of people.

As a librarian, I feel strongly that a book should be judged on its overall merit and not rejected because of a word. And, in my opinion, The Higher Power of Lucky is a very good book. I’m not an educator, I’m not trained in children’s literature (though I have read a lot, does that count?), but I think Lucky’s story is one that would be helpful and powerful for a lot of children.

Lucky, you see, has lost her mother. As her father never really wanted children, Lucky is being raised by a guardian, and Lucky is always aware that her guardian doesn’t have to stay and could leave at any time. Latching on to the terminology of AA (whose meetings she often overhears), she searches for a “Higher Power” to help her get control of her life. Lucky is supported by a memorable cast of characters including Lincoln (who ties knots), Miles (who mooches cookies), and Brigitte (her French guardian). When Lucky finds something that leads her to believe that Brigitte is planning to return to France, she takes action, dragging her backpack/survival kit and her mother’s ashes into a sandstorm to run away rather than being forced to go to an orphanage.

While the AA metaphor and concept of what a Higher Power is will probably evade children as much as it evades Lucky, I think many children these days can relate to her feelings of abandonment and hitting “rock bottom.” They will also enjoy the quirky town and its characters as Lucky learns to accept her mother’s death and trust the people around her. Lucky herself is a very realistic character, and children will, I think, be drawn to her as much as I was.

As far as using the word “scrotum,” I think part of growing up is learning that there are appropriate times and places to use words like that, and I appreciate that the book handles Lucky’s questions in a mature way. I think it’s important that we talk to children in appropriate ways about sex, and I think it’s important that we teach them what the correct words are (because, let’s face it, many of them already know the slang). Before I left for vacation, we had a discussion at work about some local middle schoolers who are pregnant. I am not saying that a book is going to dramatically keep kids from getting pregnant, but I do believe that talking to kids in responsible ways about sex should be something our culture values. Using correct words in a mature way is part of that. I understand that time and the threat of parents’ complaints and the general culture of education in this country might make teachers and librarians hesitant about defining the word in a classroom setting, but . . . I think they are ultimately worrying about the wrong things. And, in doing so, are keeping kids from reading a wonderful book.

The whole time I was reading this, I had Smalltown Poets’ song in my head: Take this bread / drink this cup / know this price has pardoned you / from all that’s hardened you / but it’s going to take some trust. It didn’t surprise me when I picked it up and Mike started singing it, too. It’s the obvious choice.

I considered not writing about this book, to be honest, because a left-wing, lesbian Episcopalian doesn’t necessarily match up with everyone’s idea of what a Christian looks like. In that way, she reminded me of Anne Lamott (without the biting sarcasm), though I feel that’s almost an cheap, easy parallel to make since they are liberal Christian women who live in California. It’s their unconvential stories more than anything that caused me to make that comparison. Sara Miles approaches and expresses her faith in a much different way than Anne Lamott. In the end, really enjoyed Take This Bread and found I had some things to say, so, here goes.

One Sunday, Sara Miles walked into a church, took communion, and found her life transformed. The symbol of communion, of God as food, resonated with her. When she worked in a restaurant, she noticed how sharing food created a kind of . . . community among people. When she worked as a war correspondent, she had meals with all different kinds of people who shared with her what they had. All of that came together for her in communion, being fed by Christ, which also happens in community. As she grew in faith, she felt led to help her church start a food pantry, which led to eleven other pantries that now serve thousands of families each week. Take This Bread tells the story of her conversion to Christianity and how the food pantry at St. Gregory’s came to be.

What resonated with me in this book was the concept of sharing food in community. Having just taken some small steps to be more active in serving the poor in my own community, I appreciated Sara’s passion (is it okay to call her Sara? Is that pretentious?) as she worked to transform her faith into action.

But what I liked best about the book was how her faith was closely tied to tangible food. I eat too fast. I always have. Mom says I am just like Dad in that way. I love food and eating, but I approach food as a task to accomplish rather than lingering over it. I am always the first one finished at our house and when I go out to eat with my friends, and I am embarrassed about it. Last week, I tried (and often failed) to be more intentional about making the meals we shared with my aunt and uncle a kind of . . . worship, for lack of a better word. Not eating to fill up, but eating as a way to enjoy God’s gifts on earth. Not ignoring conversation in favor of food, but appreciating the whole experience. This book reminded me that too often I sell myself short when it comes to experiencing God in community outside of the four walls of my church, and I hope that it opened my eyes to take advantage of those opportunities more in the future.

Come, every soul by sin oppressed / There’s mercy with the Lord / And he will surely give you rest / By trusting in his word

Last year I went on a bit of a Marie Antoinette kick after seeing the movie, and read Antonia Fraser’s Marie Antoinette: The Journey. I enjoyed it so much that I also tried The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette by Carolly Erickson, which was a huge mistake. Fraser’s book was excellent, humanizing a woman who has been unfairly vilified over the years. Erickson’s book was nothing more than a silly romance novel. I was very disappointed. Marie Antoinette’s life was interesting enough without having to cheapen it. However, the idea of using a novel to flesh out a historical character remained very interesting to me, though I wouldn’t read another of Erickson’s.

I suppose that’s why I decided to pick up Innocent Traitor, a novel based on the life of Lady Jane Grey. I think I read an interview with Alison Weir that talked about this recent trend (biographers who write novels) and compared her book favorably to Erickson’s effort. Innocent Traitor also got good reviews across the board. So I decided to give it a try, though I had not the slightest idea who Lady Jane Grey was. Wikipedia filled in the details: After Henry VIII died, his son Edward became king. When Edward became ill and died, some people did not want his half-sister Mary, a Catholic (whose legitimacy was questionable after Henry VIII had his marriage to her mother annulled), to take the throne. Edward’s cousin, Lady Jane Grey, who was a Protestant, was their alternative. She served as queen for nine days before Mary claimed power and ultimately had her beheaded. Lady Jane Grey was only 16 when she died in the Tower of London, paying the price for people who used her to gain political power.

Alison Weir, who has written about the royal family in such books as The Six Wives of Henry VIII and The Life of Elizabeth I, was much more accurate than Erickson seemed to be in her novel, at least from the bit of researching I have done. The inaccuracies and sensationalizing were my main objections to Erickson’s book, so I was much happier with Innocent Traitor on a very basic level. In telling the story, Weir gave us both Jane’s point of view and the perspective of people around her. One review I read mentioned that many of the characters seemed a little bit too aware of exactly what they felt and exactly why they felt that way at all times, and I can’t disagree with that point, but I think it worked as a tool to help the reader understand what was going on.

In the end, I thought that this was an entertaining and informative read – I didn’t know much of anything about this time period or the politics that surrounded the throne, and I couldn’t put the book down. In a purely coincidental move, I have in my queue The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory , which is set just before this book took place. I had been kind of hesitant about starting it (it’s HUGE), but now, knowing more about Henry VIII, I am really looking forward to it.

Just as the final minute of the ACC Championship game was ticking down, the delivery man rang the doorbell with our luggage. So Mike and I celebrated the victory by jumping around with our bag - the three of us are very happy to be reunited and to see Carolina win. Mike, who only started watching college basketball in the fall of ‘98, had never seen Carolina win an ACC tournament.

I don’t want to harp on this US Air thing, but last night on TV, they were saying that US Air is asking customers to arrive at least two hours before their flights and, if possible, not to check any luggage. Yeah. That’s totally a reasonable request when you’re going on vacation for a week. I’ll just pretend I’m on The Amazing Race and plan to wear the same clothes all week long. Thanks, US Air. How about you GET YOUR COMPUTERS FIXED INSTEAD?

Not only did we get to dance around - we also got to celebrate the Carolina win by brushing our teeth. It’s the little things in life. Clean teeth. Good times.

(Lest you think I’m playing the martyr, sure, we could have gone to buy toothbrushes, but last night I was told that our bag would be delivered by midnight. This morning I was told that it would be . . . sometime this morning. I had no idea that it wouldn’t be until almost 3:00 this afternoon. So Listerine it was.)

For a long time, my friendships were relationships in which the other person pursued me first. If they liked me enough to pursue me, we could be friends. This wasn’t because I saw myself as some great prize, but because I am basically, in many ways, a shy person, and also because I struggled/still struggle with a lot of insecurities which make it hard for me to put myself out there and face (soul-crushing) rejection. For many years, I have seen myself as much lower on the social ladder than most other people, and I wouldn’t want to presume to be on their level, so I have to let them be the ones to make the first move. It’s something I’ve been working on, but I’m never going to be as welcoming and gregarious as many people are, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to pursue other people without worrying at all about rejection.

This is, I think, the reason that one relationship never took off. I have been told that I share a lot of interests with this woman, and that we would get along. When we have been places together, I tried to make a bit of conversation, but when she didn’t seem engaged, I let it go, afraid of either being a bother or of putting myself out there and being rebuffed. So, what I am wondering is whether she is also the type that likes to be pursued and I quit too soon, or whether she simply wasn’t interested. And if she wasn’t interested, why do I care so much? Why does it hurt me?

In thinking about this, I articulated to Mike that I think I have wasted a lot of time worrying about being included by people who don’t really care about me. I have, in the past, thought a lot about “inner circles” and how I might find myself in one. I probably hurt people by being so focused on the people who were “above” me instead of cultivating the relationships that were already around me. I know I hurt myself, selling myself short by desiring relationships with people who weren’t interested in me just so I could be cooler by association.

It’s better these days, partly because I am more comfortable with who I am and partly because social circles change. I guess that’s something I’d like to say to my former self: “Yes, you will come to a place where you are able to let people like you for who you are instead of feeling the need to perform for them.” But it’s something I need to say to my current self, too, since thinking about some of that rejection can still bring me to tears.

This is a tangentially related thought, but, in thinking of old relationships, it’s come up as well. I have wondered lately about forgiveness in terms of letting people change. If someone behaved inappropriately, made me extremely uncomfortable, and hurt a lot of people around me, what is my obligation now, years later, when that person appears to have changed? I say I believe in a God who brings about change, I believe that, through God’s grace, I have changed, but I don’t know what it looks like to believe that for someone else. Can I believe that this man, a commitment-phobe, has finally settled down? Can this womanizer really change his spots and have healthy relationships with women? Has this woman actually learned that other people have valid perspectives?

I guess all of this is tied up together in my mind because being an open and welcoming person in general probably means being open and welcome in other ways, too - second and third and fourth chances, things that are hard for me. This Lenten season, I have, quite unintentionally, been reading and thinking and praying a lot about community and relationships. I hope that reflecting on the ways that I have changed and grown will help me allow others that same space to have learned from their mistakes.

Dear Florida,

All that “Sunshine State” stuff is no joke! Thanks for the lovely weather, the nice day at the beach, and the general splendor. I got to float around in the pool and read! Does life get any better than that? I do not think so. Also, I really loved all the fresh fruits and vegetables. I am all full of fantastic vitamins and minerals. I just can’t thank you enough.

Sunnily yours,
Kari

—

Dear US Air,

I HATE YOU.

I can’t even think of a closing that is hateful enough,
Kari

—

Dear Librarians,

I read The Higher Power of Lucky, and, seriously? Did you even read the book? You’re that upset about the word “scrotum”? Bunch of city slickers. Those of us who are from rural areas know that: 1. Kids who are ages 9-11 should already know that word and 2. There are way bigger problems in the world. I have heard kids use slang that is much much worse, and I’d rather that they know what the actual words are for body parts. It was a sweet book that’s perfectly appropriate for that age group.

Sigh.

My full review will come at some point,
Kari

—

Dear US Air,

I HATE YOU AND YOUR STUPID BROKEN COMPUTERS THAT MADE TODAY MISERABLE, WHAT WITH THE LONG LINES AND THE STANDING AND THE CONFUSION THAT ALL YOUR EMPLOYEES SEEMED TO HAVE.

I will crush you with my anger,
Kari

—

Dear ESPN,

Why do you have to make things so difficult for me? We go away on vacation and watch basketball and Sportscenter for a solid week, and then we have to come home and be without you. And then Mike says things like, “I miss ESPN,” and then we argue about whether we should have cable. Why do you hate me, ESPN? Why?

I secretly miss you, too, but please don’t tell Mike,
Kari

—

Dear US Air,

I HATE YOU AND IF YOU DON’T FIND MY BAG, I AM GOING TO OPEN UP A CAN OF YOU-KNOW-WHAT. BUT GOODNESS ONLY KNOWS WHERE MY BAG COULD POSSIBLY BE SINCE YOUR COMPUTERS ARE ALL BROKEN. I HATE YOU.

I hate you.
-Kari

—

Dear Hugh Grant,

You make me laugh, with your silly 80s hair and your awful dance moves. I just can’t help myself. I loved Music and Lyrics, and I don’t even care who knows it.

Pop goes my heart,
Kari

—

Dear US Air,

If it’s up to me, I will never fly you ever again. Heck, I may never fly anywhere ever again, after today.

Keeping my feet on the ground,
Kari

PS. Why are you reading this? Why are you not FINDING MY BAG?

—

Dear Ralph Lauren,

I love my new bathing suit. Thank you for designing it. And while we’re at it, I’d like to have a word with the other bathing suit designers. That thing you are doing, with tankinis? Where the top is all flared out? That’s cute in a shirt, but who looks good in a bathing suit like that? Certainly not me. I look PREGNANT in a bathing suit like that. This is why I had to say things like, “There must be rings of hell that are nothing but trying on bathing suits,” when I talked to Dawn this week. Also, Isaac Mizrahi, I liked you on The Apprentice, but not so much as a bathing suit designer. Just FYI.

But Ralph, he is still tops on my list,
Kari

—

Dear US Air,

We haven’t heard from you, but I hope that is because you are out FINDING MY BAG.

HATE.
-Kari

—

Gentle reader,

As you may or may not have been able to tell, we had a great vacation but an awful day of travel today. I promise to update you on the books I read and the other things I pondered this week. After I get done bringing down US Air.

Sincerely,
Kari

—

Dear Aunt and Uncle,

Thank you for a lovely week. What with all the sun and the Sportscenter and the lounging in the pool. So nice. Thanks.

With love,
Kari and Mike

—

Dear US Air,

I WILL CUT YOU. DON’T QUESTION IT.

THAT IS ALL,
Kari

I don’t think I can improve on the first line of Gods in Alabama, so I’ll just let it set the story for you:

There are gods in Alabama: Jack Daniel’s, high school quarterbacks, trucks, big tits, and also Jesus. I left one back there myself, back in Possett. I kicked it under the kudzu and left it to the roaches.

Right, so, there you have it. You should know from reading that whether you are interested. (And, you should be.)

Lena, our narrator, now lives in Chicago, and made a deal with God: If he would keep anybody from finding the body of the high school quarterback she hit over the head with a bottle of tequila, she promised to stop fornicating, stop lying, and never return to Alabama. But when an old high school classmate shows up at her house, she realizes that God has not kept his end of the deal, and she’s going to have to return to Alabama to deal with her past.

To complicate things, her boyfriend, an African-American man who was by far my favorite character in the book, has given her an ultimatum: he wants to meet her family or their two-year relationship is over. She reluctantly decides to take him with her to Alabama, knowing that her family may reject him simply because he’s not white, knowing that he may reject her when he finds out the things she’s been keeping from him.

I raced through this book, starting it Tuesday night and finishing it Wednesday night. It was funny, though not as funny as Joshilyn Jackson’s other book, Between, Georgia. This one was a little bit more dark, a little bit more Southern Gothic. I preferred this one to Between, Georgia, no question. It kept me on the edge of my seat, wondering how these relationships were going to resolve. In the end, it was both satisfying and sweet.

Sometimes I read books about the South that are over-the-top in an attempt to be humorous. This one edged up to that line, but the humanity of the characters kept it from being caricature. Her second book was more caricature than I like, wacky humor at the expense of character development, but I’d still try another one by this author based on the strength of this book alone.

As we are in “clean out the refrigerator before vacation” mode, I have been eating bits and pieces of things this week. Yesterday and today for breakfast, I had celery and feta dip, because I need to finish up both the celery and the feta dip before we go. And also because the feta dip recipe is so delicious I will use any excuse to eat it.

Here is the recipe for feta dip – it is always a crowd-pleaser.

½ lb. feta cheese
12 oz. cream cheese at room temperature
½ c. mayonnaise
6 dashes tabasco sauce
1 t. minced fresh garlic
2 t. chopped fresh basil or 1 t. dried
2 t. chopped fresh dill or 1 t. dried
2 t. chopped fresh thyme or 1 t. dried
freshly ground black pepper

Combine the feta, cream cheese, and mayo in a food processor and blend well, scraping down the sides with a rubber spatula as needed. Add the tabasco, garlis, basil, dill, and thyme and pulse to blend. Add pepper to taste. Serve at room temperature.

In order to use up some chicken and because I am still trying to use up the celery, I had planned to make chicken salad yesterday. (Also, I am out of cheese, and I needed something with protein to eat with half an apple for lunch.) I ran across this recipe, which is full of delicious things and good fats, but has no mayonnaise. Mike and I give it a thumbs-up. Plus, I finished the jar of roasted red peppers, an added bonus.

Chicken Salad with Roasted Red Peppers

2 t. Dijon mustard
1 t. white wine or sherry vinegar
½ garlic clove, minced
2 T. extra virgin olive oil
½ roasted chicken, skinned, removed from bone, chopped (1 ½ c. meat)
1 stalk celery, chopped
3 T. chopped roasted red bell peppers
1 T. chopped chives
Sea salt or kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. To make the vinaigrette, in a small bowl whisk together the mustard, vinegar, and garlic. Whisking constantly, slowly add the olive oil until fully incorporated.

2. In a medium bowl, combine the chicken, celery, red peppers, and chives. Fold in the vinaigrette. Season with salt and black pepper and serve.

Good in a sandwich or over salad greens tossed with olive oil and sprinkled with salt.

So those are my two scrounging around recipes for the day. Aren’t you impressed with how well I am eating for someone who is scrounging? Seriously, this chicken salad makes me feel positively gourmet.

Spoilers for “Will You Be My Lorelai Gilmore?”

If it weren’t for the fact that it wasn’t as speedy as it used to be, I’d hardly have been able to tell that this week’s episode wasn’t old-school Gilmore. And that, my friends, is quite a compliment.

One of the things that made it feel old-school was the Lorelai/Mrs. Kim interaction. I am always a fan of Lorelai and Mrs. Kim hanging out. While Lorelai intervenes on Lane’s behalf. So sweet. This show has always, at the core, been about mother/daughter relationships, and I like that that includes Mrs. Kim and Lane.

I found Luke’s story to be somewhat less old-school. I’m not sure that previous seasons of GG would have Luke making such a big decision about his boat in one episode. I do appreciate the sentiment, that Luke is making an effort to change his life, but I also miss curmudgeon Luke just a little bit. Not like he was last season, not by any means. But sarcastic Luke, grumpy Luke from earlier seasons, I miss him. And maybe we haven’t seen him because Lorelai hasn’t been in the diner. When will Lorelai go back to the diner?

Luke and Lorelai’s scene was nice – I like that, not only is he changing, but Lorelai is seeing him change. He even went to the baby shower. The first part of last season (aka “The Good Parts” version) showed Lorelai letting Luke in on what was most important to her – her relationship with Rory. I honestly thought the second half of last season would be the parallel – Luke learning how to let Lorelai in on this new relationship with his daughter. But we all know it didn’t go that way at all. The second half of this season, though, perhaps Luke is finally learning that lesson, though maybe not limited to Lorelai. While of course I want everything to be focused on Luke and Lorelai’s relationship, I like the fact that Luke’s relationship with April has been a catalyst for him letting other people in his life. It’s a redemption of sorts for that crappy storyline.

So, didn’t Lane have the greatest baby shower of all time? I liked Lane and Rory’s moments in this one. I miss that, and I liked seeing Rory doing something with/for Lane in Miss Patty’s studio. My question is . . . who’s the godfather going to be? Please oh please let it be Sebastian Bach. Please. So awesome.

And I guess that just leaves Logan. I can never figure out what the show wants me to think about Logan. They want me to like him, right? Right? Because I think the reason I can’t tell how I feel is because they don’t seem to know how THEY feel. I’m fine with him not being perfect – Luke, my favorite character, is far from perfect. But the way all of that went down was fairly unappealing to me. I just don’t get it. How am I supposed to feel, show? What do you want from me? I am never going to be a Logan fan, but this kind of thing is the reason I often actively oppose him.

I think this show has had that problem more of late. On one hand, it’s true that in real life, people aren’t just good or bad. So in that sense, I appreciated the ambiguity of having Christopher be more than just simply a jerk (though they didn’t manage that enough to be convincing) and having Lorelai talking herself into her relationship with him. But I think it’s hard to be invested in the characters if we don’t know what they are thinking. A lot of people couldn’t tell what Lorelai was thinking earlier this season (and I include myself in that – I was saying that she wasn’t happy with Christopher mostly because I was willing it to be true), and that made it hard to know what we were supposed to be thinking about what was happening. I feel like Logan is that way a lot. When he doesn’t talk to Rory about his business deal failing and goes and hangs out with Colin and Finn, what does he think about his relationship with Rory? Maybe it’s clear to some people, and maybe the writers think it’s clear, but it always seems to leave this possibility that he’s not as reformed as she thinks, and he’s going to hurt her in the end. So I don’t invest in that storyline. That’s where I am with the Logan thing. Still unsure what the show is trying to do. Even after Logan being around since season 5. :sigh:

But, overall, great episode. Fun to watch. It’s nice to feel that way again.