Girl Detective

#55 in my movie challenge for the year was Spike Lee’s Inside Man. A solid thriller with a great cast, I found it oddly charming.

#54 in my movie challenge was Anchorman. Will Ferrell is funny, but it is (again) Steve Carell who makes this movie worthwhile. The humor was of the bizarre, often painful kind, but there was enough wacky charm to make me like the movie, in spite of its excesses.

#53 in my movie challenge was Bruce Almighty. Borrowed from the library when I read that a sequel, Evan Almighty, will star Steve Carell, the only reason to watch this fairly awful movie.

#52 in my movie challenge for the year was The Ref. My husband G. Grod chose this Chrismas flick instead of a feel-good holiday classic like It’s a Wonderful Life or The Shop Around the Corner. A thief (Denis Leary) takes a bickering couple hostage on Christmas Eve. Life lessons are learned. Leary is funny, though a bit too nobly wise. I suspect he was trying to emulate Bogart in To Have and Have Not, as a good guy with flexible ethics and a drunk partner.

Funny enough.

(Weird fact about me: I’ve never seen It’s a Wonderful Life. As a child, I watched the Marlo Thomas remake, with Trapper John as her husband. Years later, when a friend described It’s a Wonderful Life, I realized I’d been watching a remake, then never got around to seeing the original.)

#68 in my reading challenge was Strunk and White’s Elements of Style. I don’t know how long this slender volume has been sitting on my shelf. A while, I suspect, since it is a third edition, published in 1979. (A fourth edition was published in 1999, and an illustrated edition in 2005.) More than once, a writing instructor has said it’s worth reading, not only as reference, but also cover to cover. I found it by turns perceptive, funny, and irritating. An example of the latter:

The use of he as pronoun for nouns embracing both genders is a simple, practical convention rooted in the beginning of the English language. He has lost all suggestion of maleness in these circumstances. The word was unquestionably biased to begin with (the dominant male), but after hundreds of years it has become seemingly indispensable. It has no pejorative connotation; it is never incorrect.

I disagree, for reasons detailed in the usage note on he from The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition:

Traditionally the pronouns he, him, and his have been used as generic or gender-neutral singular pronouns, as in A novelist should write about what he knows best and No one seems to take any pride in his work anymore. Since the early 20th century, however, this usage has come under increasing criticism for reflecting and perpetuating gender stereotyping. · Defenders of the traditional usage have argued that the masculine pronouns he, his, and him can be used generically to refer to men and women. This analysis of the generic use of he is linguistically doubtful. If he were truly a gender-neutral form, we would expect that it could be used to refer to the members of any group containing both men and women. But in fact the English masculine form is an odd choice when it refers to a female member of such a group. There is something plainly disconcerting about sentences such as Each of the stars of As Good As It Gets [i.e., Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt] won an Academy Award for his performance. In this case, the use of his forces the reader to envision a single male who stands as the representative member of the group, a picture that is at odds with the image that comes to mind when we picture the stars of As Good As It Gets. Thus he is not really a gender-neutral pronoun; rather, it refers to a male who is to be taken as the representative member of the group referred to by its antecedent. The traditional usage, then, is not simply a grammatical convention; it also suggests a particular pattern of thought. · It is clear that many people now routinely construct their remarks to avoid generic he, usually using one of two strategies: changing to the plural, so they is used (which is often the easiest solution) or using compound and coordinate forms such as he/she or he or she (which can be cumbersome in sustained use). In some cases, the generic pronoun can simply be dropped or changed to an article with no change in meaning. The sentence A writer who draws on personal experience for material should not be surprised if reviewers seize on that fact is complete as it stands and requires no pronoun before the word material. The sentence Every student handed in his assignment is just as clear when written Every student handed in the assignment. · Not surprisingly, the opinion of the Usage Panel in such matters is mixed. While 37 percent actually prefer the generic his in the sentence A taxpayer who fails to disclose the source of ______ income can be prosecuted under the new law, 46 percent prefer a coordinate form like his or her; 7 percent felt that no pronoun was needed in the sentence; 2 percent preferred an article, usually the; and another 2 percent overturned tradition by advocating the use of generic her, a strategy that brings the politics of language to the reader’s notice. Thus a clear majority of the Panel prefers something other than his. The writer who chooses to use generic he and its inflected forms in the face of the strong trend away from that usage may be viewed as deliberately calling attention to traditional gender roles or may simply appear to be insensitive.

The Elements of Style is a classic, and deservedly so. Much of it details the kind of common sense that is easily forgotten or confused. It is limited, though, both in scope and adaptability. I recommend The Chicago Manual of Style for the former, and The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language for the latter.

#67 in my book challenge for the year was Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking. She chronicles the mysterious illness of her daughter and the death of her husband, John Gregory Dunne. It’s beautifully written, and Didion uses repetition masterfully to illustrate the waves of grief. In the end, though, I felt her skill at writing blurred the emotional impact she was purporting to reveal. A hospital worker called her “a pretty cool customer”, and that coolness permeates the book. Her daughter’s serious illness was included primarily as it related to the husband’s death. I was left with many questions about the daughter, though. I kept returning to the image on the dust jacket, in which Didion stands alone, looking sidewise at her husband and daughter. Her narrative echoed the observing isolation of the photo.

#66 in my reading challenge for the year, Diane Setterfield’s Thirteenth Tale rescued me from my reading slump. A friend called it something like a ripping-good read, and I agree. It’s full of juicy passages ripe for quoting about the love of reading and stories. This is a literary mystery that proudly displays its gothic roots. Setterfield isn’t coy about the books to which she’s paying tribute; she mentions Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, and Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White several times. The book is rendered timeless by the sparing use of modern detail, and the complete lack of brand display that many authors use as a shorthand for characterization. I was loath to put it down, and kept telling my husband “I MUST finish my book.” I don’t believe it is in the same class as its forebears, but it is an engaging and compelling book that earned one of my top compliments: I bought it for our home library after returning the library’s copy.

As the surface of our large non-stick surface eroded, my husband G. Grod and I began to use our cast-iron skillet more. Family legend says this skillet belonged to my great grandmother. I’m not sure this is true, though, as one of my sisters has a skillet with the same story. Plus my grandmother is a garage-sale maven, so one or both skillets may have been purchased over the decades. When I first acquired the skillet, I made the classic, wince-inducing mistake of scrubbing off its patina. Since then, we have worked hard to get it back, and it now has a pretty much nonstick surface.

It resides permanently on our stovetop. We use it for eggs, grilled-cheese sandwiches, corn bread, and any recipe that calls for a large skillet. My husband takes care of it properly, by scrubbing it with salt, never using soap, and seasoning it after every use. And it has rewarded us by becoming the most used item in the kitchen.

And it’s done pithily, even. I’m enjoying the mid-season break of the TV shows I watch. Former favorites Veronica Mars and Battlestar Galactica have disappointed. I tried one ep of Friday Night Lights on a friend’s recommendation, but was annoyed. My Name is Earl and House have been pretty good, but the only show I actively miss is The Office. I hadn’t questioned my ennui much until my husband sent me this link from Warren Ellis’ blog. Normally, Warren’s enfant-terrible-morphed-into-grumpy-old-man rants bug me, but this time I think he’s hit it, though his target of Sci Fi TV was too narrow. It’s a much bigger problem that pervades too many shows.

There’s too much fucking crying. Veronica is crying to Logan that he let a house burn down. Logan is crying to Veronica that she wants him to change. Baltar and Caprica cry to torpid piano music. People are crying on Heroes because the waitress died. The cheerleader has tears in her eyes constantly. And the time I watched Friday Night Lights at least FOUR characters cried.

[And yes, for you nitpickers, there has been a smattering of crying on the shows I claim to like. Cuddy cried on House, but only after he was super mean to her. And Michael cries on The Office. But that's funny.]

I’m with Warren on this one. Stop fucking crying.

OK, OK, Athena is allowed to cry when she gets her baby back from the Cylons. But that’s it. I mean it.

For a Halloween party, I bought squash for decoration, they began to go bad, I roasted them, and then had to cook them. I then bought another bunch of squash as decoration for Thanksgiving. Lather, rinse, repeat and I had three batches of roast squashes to deal with.

The pumpkin was obvious. I made Impossible Pumpkin Pie. Even though I accidentally baked it at the roasting temp (400F) instead of the called-for temp (350F), it showed again that pumpkin pie made with real pumpkin is as good or better than that from canned. The higher temp made the top bubbled and a little overbrown, but the good thing about baking is that mistakes often just make the item uglier, not less tasty.

With four cups of Hubbard squash puree, I made a simple squash lasagna from Martha Stewart’s Everyday Food.

Finally, with about 2 cups of Red Kabocha puree, I made up a recipe for squash croquettes. I had good results, and will continue to fiddle with the recipe.

Brown Rice and Winter Squash Croquettes with Horseradish-Dill sauce

1 small bunch beets
1 cup roasted squash
2 cups cooked brown rice (try Lundberg Wehani for stronger flavor)
1/4 bread crumbs, more as needed
1 tsp. finely chopped fresh rosemary
1/2 tsp. finely chopped fresh thyme

1 Tbl. butter
1 tsp. brown rice vinegar

1/4 c. plain yogurt
1/2 tsp. dried dill
1/2 tsp. prepared horseradish

Preheat oven to 400. Trim and wash beet greens. Roast beets with skin on in foil packet for about an hour, or till very soft. Cool. Remove skin and cut into 1/2″ cubes.

Preheat oven to 350. In large bowl, combine beets, squash, brown rice, bread crumbs and herbs. Mix lightly until combined. Add breadcrumbs if mixture is too wet to form patties. Form eight small or four large patties. Place on baking sheet and bake until warmed through and golden brown, about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine yogurt and herbs in small bowl for sauce. Saute beet greens in butter until wilted, then drizzle with brown rice vinegar. Divide among four plates. Place croquette(s) on greens, and drizzle 1 Tbl. sauce over each.

Added later: this recipe keeps evolving in my head. I think apple or cranberry chutney would go nicely with this.

3yo Drake and 10mo Guppy are at two important developmental stages. Unfortunately, these stages are not complementary. About three times a day, I have to decide between unsupervised baby in high chair, or unsupervised three year old in bathroom on different floor.

Guppy is learning to feed himself small pieces of solid food. He needs constant supervision in case of choking.

Drake is learning to use the toilet, but we don’t have a bath on the main floor, so he has to go upstairs. Not only does he insist he needs help, he actually does, to keep things in their proper place and to ensure he washes his hands and doesn’t run the water for fifteen minutes. Also, I don’t like to refuse him help when he asks, to encourage both his communication and his bathroom use.

Unsurprisingly, I mostly stick with Guppy: choking trumps bathroom disaster almost every time.

I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I bought Merry Christmas from the Chipmunks last year. I had a fit of nostalgia, and wanted to share something from my childhood with Drake. He ignored it. Until this year, when he plays it over and over again.

The Chipmunks do not get funnier, or less annoying, with repeated listenings. Mommy madness, indeed.

#65 in my book challenge for the year was this Dickens collection of Christmas stories. I find it interesting how thoroughly the tale has pervaded our lives that it was completely familiar to me though I’d never read it before. I found it well worth reading. The main points of the story are well known, but I was glad to experience the writing and the details. And though I generally avoid them, I found the introduction by the late Frederick Busch–a writer I admire a great deal–to be insightful and helpful. Marley’s ghost starts scary, then becomes sympathetic. A scene from Christmas yet to come echoes Shakespeare’s witches in Macbeth. On the surface, it’s more about the culture of the holiday than its religion. Yet there is a steady tension throughout between the joy of children and the inevitability of death that mirrors the bittersweet note in the joy of Christmas, that the death of Good Friday is not far off.

A friend commented after we returned from a recent get-together, “Wow, there was a lot of inappropriate back fat.” It was a statement, not a judgment. Not only did I agree, but I was also a likely exhibitor. Full-time caring for small children means a lot of bending, squatting and other contortions. And while the current cut of pants may be more flattering than those of the past, it’s not at all forgiving in the coverage arena. Plumber’s butt isn’t so much a risk as a certainty to be minimized by strategically placing one’s back out of sight.

The current trend in jeans is low rise and straight leg or boot cut. A wider cut at the bottom, instead of a tapered one, is almost universally flattering. The low rise gives, but the low rise also takes away. The low rise provides less of a surface area for the bum, so it gives the illusion that the bum is smaller. In the front, it makes the pelvic area look normally sized, rather than something that goes halfway up one’s torso. But what gets added in flattering illusion gets paid for with practical problems. Since the jeans sit below the waist, they fall down more easily since they’re starting at a wider point. Also, they start lower, so there’s less room to fall.

Annoyed by this conundrum, I delved into my closet last night and unearthed the several pairs of Levi’s 560s for juniors that I have been meaning to sell on Ebay for ages. They’re no longer made, because they’re high waisted and tapered leg–anathema to the current fashion vernacular. But I tried them on, and not only do they fit, they give great coverage. The leg isn’t aggressively tapered. They lack spandex, so they don’t give like most jeans these days so, but that also means they don’t cling to every lump of cellulite.

So for now I’m giving these old jeans a try. I’ll see if the freedom from worry about flashing back fat trumps my insecurity about looking large-bummed with tiny ankles.

To me, a Christmas carol is something from a hymnal. This is in contrast to a holiday song, like “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” or “Jingle Bells”. My husband G. Grod wonders if those might be carols, though, because they’re sung by carolers. He suggests that “Santa Baby” is a holiday song, but “Silver Bells” is a carol. I still think that a proper carol is religious, and about the birth of Jesus. I think it’s interesting whenever I see interviews asking people what their favorite holiday music is. Few name carols; most name songs.

I think my favorite Christmas carol is “Gabriel’s Message“. I also like “The Coventry Carol“, (coincidence only that both are covered on A Very Special Christmas) and the alternate tunes for “Away in a Manger” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem”.

My favorite Christmas song, though, is a guilty pleasure that reminds me of the big hair and bad fashion of the 80s–”Do They Know It’s Christmas”. I bought the LP for my sister as a gift that year.

Drake is enamored of our library copy of Tomie DePaola’s Book of Christmas Carols, which I was sad to learn was out of print. It has many carols, lovely illustrations, and music as well. Drake’s favorites, thus far, are the first two in the book, “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and “The First Noel”. He has been delighting relatives by singing these over the phone.

How thrilled was I to find this at my grocery coop today? It’s local; it’s delicious. And now it’s easy to buy. I have thus far managed not to eat it straight, with a spoon. I don’t think I’ll be able to resist much longer.

Why am I so tired today? Because I have a cold, and have been caring for my two sons who also have colds? Because baby Guppy woke before 4 a.m., wanting to be fed?

No, it’s because yesterday was new-comic day, and my husband G. Grod and I stayed up late reading comic books in bed.

No wonder we can’t get Drake to turn out the lights and stop reading. It’s his birthright.

My husband and I have done such a good job of imparting a love of books to our 3yo Drake, we have trouble getting him to put them down. This becomes a problem when he needs to go to sleep. G. Grod and I will turn out the light and leave the room. When we get downstairs, we’ll hear the sound of turning pages, so ten to fifteen minutes later one of us will go up, turn off the light and tell him to get in bed, and we’ll repeat till it works. Kinda like letting him cry it out, but with books. During one of our many recent viruses, though, I decided to lock his book closet again to encourage him to get rest. The books were away, but unfortunately, the Aquaphor was not. I found Drake in his room with petroleum jelly product in his hair, on his chair, and on his bed. He was asleep in his chair, with his hands clutched around the jar of Aquaphor. Since then, the tub of Aquaphor is out of reach, and the books are always available. I’d like to say that if he chooses not to nap, that’s his problem, but of course it’s not. His irritability and meltdowns become all our problems. But I think I’d rather deal with those than with petroleum jelly smeared hither and yon.

As my third cold in three months progresses from bad to worse during this jam-packed holiday season, I am mindful of the advice I’m getting from friends as well as those helping me with my post-partum depression:

1. Rest
2. Make and take time for myself
3. Go easier on myself
4. Ask for help

Why is it the simplest stuff is so often the hardest to do?

Children’s singer Justin Roberts was in town on a recent weekend, and I took my 3yo son, Drake. We knew some of Justin’s songs, but I thought that would be enough to engage Drake. It was, sort of. Drake listened, and enjoyed, but he also insisted on wandering to the lobby, and dancing by himself out there. Justin and his band are energetic performers. They gave suggested hand, finger or body motions for many of the refrains of his songs. I knew that enthusiastically doing the motions was a good example not just for my kid, but also for others. It does signal a kind of death of dignity, though. Any vestige of my teenaged self who was snotty and above all that just packed up and left for good. Drake didn’t feel compelled to follow the body motions, so I felt extra goofy doing them on my own. What he did feel a strong draw to, though, was the green room. He kept sneaking, running, or otherwise sidling back to it and trying to get in. At first, I wondered if it might be an omen that he’d be in a band. Then I realized it was behavior more characteristic of a groupie.

Thankfully, Drake has continued to sing the songs after the show, so the groupie thing wasn’t my final impression. Drake named his toy whale Willy today. And I’ve been getting a lot of mileage out of the refrain of “No” from “Doctor Doctor”, attempting to dispel tension when Drake is being “oppositional”.