Girl Detective

To celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Booker Prize, now the “Man Booker”, six books were shortlisted earlier this month for a Best of the Booker special prize. A similar prize, The Booker of Bookers, was given for the 25th anniversary in 1993, and awarded to Salman Rushdie for his first novel, Midnight’s Children. That book is the odds on favorite for Best of the Booker as well.

You can vote here. The six shortlisted books, chosen from the list of 41 Booker Prize and Man Booker Prize winners, are:

Pat Barker’s The Ghost Road (1995)

Peter Carey’s Oscar and Lucinda (1988)

JM Coetzee’s Disgrace (1999)

JG Farrell’s The Siege of Krishnapur (1973)

Nadine Gordimer’s The Conservationist (1974)

Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children (1981)

My sister Ruthie sent me a card with this message for Mothers Day, and it’s so true. Today I’ve cleaned up vomit, diarrhea, and snot, none of which was mine. This is not a glamour gig.

But there are compensations, however brief, like the snuggling of a small, warm head against my shoulder while we read three new finds from the used bookstore:

The Guest by James Marshall
Fox, Outfoxed by James Marshall
Minnie and Moo: Night of the Living Bed by Denys Cazet

For myself, I was delighted to find a slipcased set of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights by the Misses Charlotte and Emily Bronte, with engravings by Fritz Eichenberg. From 1945, they’re fragile, but lovely to look at. They’ll display nicely on my recently created Bronte/Austen shelf, and bring me much bookish geekjoy.

I first saw Blast of Silence, a neonoir film recently released by the Criterion Collection, praised in the back pages of the excellent comic book Criminal. I next saw a good review in Entertainment Weekly:

Director-star Allen Baron’s hitman takes on one last job – can you guess how it ends? But this wintry noir is a trove of unexpected delights, from the sumptuously shot NYC locations and proto-Scorsese touches (several street scenes look like Taxi Driver outtakes; the opening voice-over could be a dry run for Mean Streets) to a mesmerizing performance (as a gun-dealing slob) by Larry Tucker, who would go on to co-create…the Monkees?!?

Alas, though it came with impressive credentials, Blast of Silence left me mostly cold. Its glacial pace meant that its mere 77 minutes felt much longer, and I struggled to stay awake through it. Still, there were good things, like the scene where Baron discovers a girl he’s interested in with another man, when he walks away from a wad of money clearly lying in front of him, and when he finally connects with the man who’s his target. The packaging of the dvd, with Sean Phillips’ art, is also very nice. I think this one is more for noir completists, though, than the general viewing public.

the war hadn’t been only and exclusively terrible. It had delivered a sense, at first dreadful, eventually intoxicating, that something wild, magical, stunning might come from the next moment, death itself might erupt from the fabric of this very breath, unmasked as a friend

Denis Johnson’s Tree of Smoke wasn’t high on my to-read list. I’d read mixed reviews and didn’t feel much like a novel about the Vietnam war. Yet when it was selected as one of the favorites at The Morning New Tournament of Books, and a friend lent me her copy, I decided to give it a go. I was surprised when I quickly made it past the 50-page mark, and continued on. Johnson is a strong writer, and he crafts memorable characters, following them over twenty years, from 1963 to 1983.

My experience reading it was probably similar to that of the people Johnson writes about: I’m going to Vietnam; I’m worried this is going to get gruesome; hey it’s going ok; still ok; OH NO SOMEONE JUST GOT HORRIBLY TORTURED; whew it’s over; going ok; going ok; AUGH SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAPPENED TO A WOMAN; going ok; going ok; OH NO ONE OF MY FAVORITE CHARACTERS JUST DIED!

At 600+ pages, it’s a wrist-strainer that shifts between stories of spies, military men, soldiers, Vietnamese, and a missionary. The plot is murky and convoluted, but representing the mood of the times. The book ended about as happily and satisfactorily as the war itself, but the people, and how the war changed them, are what stands out.

While I didn’t love the book, it provoked me to want to read more: Graham Green’s Quiet American, Tim O’Brien’s Things They Carried, Johnson’s Jesus’s Son, Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and the Apocalypse Now dvd. Though this is a qualified recommendation of the book, I am interested in how strongly I’ve reacted to it.

I Could Never Be Your Woman, a direct-to-dvd directed by Amy Heckerling (Clueless, Fast Times at Ridgmont High) is that rare movie that I know isn’t great, yet I liked anyway, sometimes a great deal. Behold the power of Paul Rudd, at least on me.

Michelle Pfeiffer is a 40yo tv producer of a show for teens who are played mostly by adult actors. Jon Lovitz is her ex-husband and Saoirse Ronan her middle-school-aged daughter. Rudd is a 29yo actor who asks her out. Tracey Ullman narrates as Mother Nature. It attempts to skewer Hollywood specifically, and biology in general, for the veneration of young women.

What was not-so-good: The soundtrack of 80’s music for no apparent reason; Ullman’s shrill and unfunny turn; Pfeiffer and Rudd playing a decade younger than they are/were; Ronan playing dumb with a boy so he’ll like her. Also, Pfeiffer could use a sandwich or twelve, and she’s shot with a fog filter plus has likely had some of the type of “enhancement” that the movie purports to ridicule.

What worked, in spite of all that: Pfeiffer had some genuinely touching and funny moments; Lovitz was endearing as the ex; Ronan charmed as the insecure daughter; and Paul Rudd stole the movie. He’s good looking, has a good sense for physical comedy, and was believable as the younger guy who was seriously interested in Pfeiffer. And she’s gorgeous, if skinny, so it’s not much of a stretch.

I read about the recent reissue of Payday on dvd from Entertainment Weekly, which called it corrosive and uproarious.

The review in the Time Out film guide praises it for its portrayal of the music industry:

it remains one of those welcome movies made by people with genuine knowledge of their subject, on the assumption that their audience is going to be reasonably knowledgeable and interested in the first place.

70’s movies have an element of cool that defines them as surely as the wardrobe and the slang do. Rip Torn is a medium successful country star, and the film follows him and his shifting entourage through 36 hours. The pace was leisurely, but certain moments, and the seedy atmosphere, lingered after the film was done.

How is it that it took most of my life to learn that window washing is difficult? Perhaps because I was doing a crappy job of it and never noticed. But now that I’m a homeowner with two small boys, dirty windows are a fact of life.

It’s cloudy today, so I tried to clean the interior windows. I used a squeegee. I used vinegar and water. And I wound up with windows both still dirty in areas, and streaky in others. And that’s not even taking into account that the outsides of the windows are so dirty that it’s hard to tell whether I’ve cleaned the insides or not.

There are lots of websites with lots of recipes for nontoxic, home cleaning recipes that include vinegar, cornstarch, dishwashing liquid and more. I am not without resources.

Now I understand that commercial from my childhood, “I don’t do windows.” I understand why cleaning services don’t do windows. THEY’RE IMPOSSIBLE.

From the Foo Fighter’s tour rider at the Smoking Gun, via ALoTT5MA. It is, not surprisingly, very funny and worth a look:

Bacon. I call it “god’s currency.” Hell, if it could be breathed, I would.
Bacon in any form is great. Not as an entree, but just in general.

Have other Top Chef viewers noted that bacon is like a secret power? Include it (well) in a dish, and you will win. And be thanked, more than once, for using bacon.

Minnesota Governor Pawlenty vetoed the Safe Baby Products & Deca Flame retardant bills yesterday.

I try not to think what they coat those flame-retardent kid pajamas with. I mostly buy the snug fitting ones for Drake and Guppy. My mom and sister call them “sausage suits”; they are, indeed, snug.

Seriously, how can he veto something called Safe Baby Products and sleep at night?

1. 2yo Guppy demands something impossible, like mac and cheese that isn’t cooked, or complains when he’s given something he asked for, like milk, since what he really wanted was orange juice.

2. I say no; Guppy begins to scream and tears spurt from his eyes.

3. 4yo Drake covers his ears and yells, “Ow, ow, he’s hurting my ears!”

4. I calmly tell Drake to leave the room. He refuses and begins screaming to drown out Guppy.

5. I lose my mind. Then _I_ leave the room till I can think again.

6. Lather, rinse, repeat.

People tell me that ages 5/7 are when it gets easier. I can but hope.

Last week, another mom and I were congratulating each other on making/taking time for a shower.

“I have to remind myself,” she said, “a shower is not a privilege. It’s a SOCIAL CONTRACT.”

Amen, sister.

Former City Pages food critic Dara Moskowitz Grumdahl now writes for Minnesota Monthly. She had a great article on fish in the April issue. At current rates, most fished species will be extinct by 2048, and many fish contain unhealthy levels of toxic mercury. She uncovers a handful of fish, both wild and farmed, for guilt-free fish eating. Here’s a recap.

Local Stars:

Star Prairie trout from Wisconsin
Live tilapia from central Minnesota
Lake herring from Lake Superior

The Good Gulf:

Domestic catfish from southeast US
Crayfish from Louisiana and Oregon
Mussels Clams and Oysters from US and Canada
Domestic Crabs from US

Glamour Fish:

Wild Halibut and Salmon from Alaska and Pacific Northwest
Striped Bass from Atlantic Coast
Arctic Char from Iceland, Canada, Scandinavia
Barramundi, an Australian species farmed in the US

Jarred and Canned:

Lake herring caviar from MN
Domestic caviar
Sardines
Anchovies
Wild Alaskan salmon
Kippers
Herring

As for tuna, she recommends canned light and dolphin safe as the best bet for lower mercury.

This seems like a no brainer, right? Yet I challenge any parent to maintain 24/7 supervision of their child, especially when there’s more than one of them and only one of you.

Here are a few recent adventures in brief, unsupervised time:

“Butt Machine” 4yo Drake found this music video on Youtube when G. Grod left the room. And continues to repeat the phrase at random.

Water, water, everywhere: I chose to fold the laundry, since the boys sounded as if they were playing happily upstairs. They were indeed happy, having gotten water on all four bathroom walls and 1/8″ deep on floor. They were given timeouts and told to never play in the sink again. Yeah, right. Silver lining: the bathroom floor got a wet mop that it otherwise wouldn’t have.

Wha’ happened? I left the boys on the backyard swingset while I went inside to start dinner. Next time I checked, they were gone–out the yard and down the street. We now have padlocks on two of the three backyard gates.

and sisters, and aunts, and grandmothers, and all those who will be, or want to be, and anyone who has ever taken care of another:

May this day bring moments of peace and joy, as well as a cessation, however brief, in the neediness of others.

From a friend, via Clean Water Action

Minnesotans, please give Governor Pawlenty’s office a quick call and let him know you want him to support the SAFE BABY PRODUCTS legislation. His number is: 651-296-3391.

It has safely made it out of conference committee with the phthalates language intact. Unfortunately, the Bis-Phenol A language was removed as a compromise. We expect the legislation to be on the Governor’s desk by Thursday or Friday. The American Chemistry Council has been lobbying hard so we are concerned the Governor may oppose all or some of the bill — so your support really matters.

You can simply say, “Please ask Governor Pawlenty to support the Safe Baby Products Bill for the well-being of Minnesota’s children. Thank you for your consideration.”

Mother’s Day in the USA is this Sunday. Mothering Day started in England as a day off for servants to visit their mothers/see their kids. In America, it was transformed to celebrate the homemaker/nanny, perhaps just putting a gloss over Sisyphean attempts to stem the tides of snot, poop, and dirt.

So here are a few ideas, in case you haven’t gotten something for the mothers in your life.

Spring flowers. Narcissus are pretty and have a lovely, delicate scent.

Treats. Raspberry-flavored cherries taste like red Swedish fish! And _good_ chocolate, from near (Legacy) or far (Maison du Chocolat’s plain truffles), is always in good taste.

A spring bag. Candy-colored, croc (mock or not), and black/white bags are in.

Unguents. It’s been a long, hard winter. Good lotion, like Golden Door Eucalyptus, is a soothing, smoothing indulgence.

Rest, peace and quiet. Good luck with this one.

Related reading: This article from the Atlantic on mother-centered architecture. We live in a four-square bungalow similar to those described in the article.

4yo Drake had mastered his trike, riding it back and forth to preschool (a mile round trip) several times. We ordered a bike, and he and G. Grod went to pick it up tonight. They returned with a green bike, a tyrannosaurus-headed horn, and a race-car helmet in youth size, because the child size was too small. (Large heads run in the family.)

The first time out, Drake was nervous with the training wheels, since only one is on the ground at a time. But G. Grod took him out again, and he got the hang of it, and ended up doing four loops of our street block.

By Guppy, age 2 as told to the family at dinner

There were ants outside!
I saw ants and they were crawling
I love ants, Daddy

I vet my books pretty carefully. I read reviews. I listen to advice from like-minded readers. I usually know a thing or two about them before I begin. I try not to recommend a book till I’m finished, because the ending can make a difference–consider Smilla’s Sense of Snow, or the books of Neal Stephenson. I only read one book at a time. So I rarely don’t finish a book. I try only to start books I’m likely to want to finish.

But a few years ago, after slogging resentfully through about two thirds of Life of Pi, one of my librarian friends, Rock Hack, told me about Nancy Pearl’s Rule of Fifty. If a book didn’t “have” me by page fifty, put it down. Life is short; books are plentiful. There is little reason to read without enjoyment.

And so it was with Bolano’s Savage Detectives, a novel about poets in 70’s era Mexico City. The main character was passive and uninteresting to me. He was surrounded by a throng of characters I could barely keep track of. I realized that reading it was work, and unrewarding. So at page 81 I put it down.

The book was on many of last year’s best-of lists. I’ve read more than one review that says it’s not only a good book, but an important one. All those could be true. What I know is that I wasn’t enjoying it, or learning from it. I put it down, and started something else. I feel much better now.

Cat’s Eye is another one of my shelf-sitter books that made the move west with me ten years ago from Philadelphia. My book group of fond memory had read Handmaid’s Tale, and at least one member recommended Cat’s Eye. I bought it on sale, and have since read Alias Grace, and left the older book to gather dust.

It’s good to know that good books will wait for me. Once I began, it was if the narrator reached out of the pages, grabbed my hand, and wouldn’t let go till the end. It’s a small paperback, so I could take it with me, and I read little bits whenever possible. It’s the story of an established painter of a certain age, Elaine, who becomes immersed in painful memories when she returns to Toronto for a retrospective of her work. The story unspools both in the past and the present, but Atwood pulls off time shifts in the narrative seamlessly. Around the age of ten, Elaine had three friends. Bad things ensued, in the manner of young girls. I had forgotten, until this book, how cruel young girls could be. The teen years were nothing compared with the pre-pubescent ones. Atwood captures the power and potential horror of younger girls’ behavior with skill.

Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life-sized.

I found this book powerful, moving and even frightening. Set in the everyday world of the forties through the eighties, it was more emotionally frightening, perhaps, even than the dystopian Handmaid’s Tale.