Once again, I've failed to complete a novel. I had such hopes too, charging $9.99 to my Amazon account. So yes. I am referring to A Friend of the Family by Lauren Grodstein.
Great premise, told from the first person voice of a Jewish father, Pete, a doctor, a lover of the suburbs who wants nothing more then to watch his only son, Alec, flourish. Pete has risen in social status alongside his friends, Joe and Iris, who experienced a family tragedy when their eldest daughter, at seventeen years old, hid her pregnancy, killed the baby when it was born, and spent two years in a mental hospital. Alec was eight at the time. Now Alec is twenty, and Laura is thirty, and they meet. Alec is smitten. Peter is horrified. The story is potent, the language smart and crisp, the characters in full bloom.
However, while I started off the book liking the narrator Pete, my sympathy for him faded when he wouldn't give Laura any chance. On the other hand, I didn't like Laura's growing manipulations and self-centered attitude. And I didn't like Peter, who seemed spoiled and self-righteous. They were all given valid reasons for their points of view, and the author didn't let you easily take sides, mirroring the complexity of life. But it left me feeling a bit empty, with no character to love. (I did like Pete's wife until she, perhaps too easily, disbelieved her husband at the end.)
Some might find my issue ironic and say that my characters aren't the easiest people to admire -- Tess was filled with rage, and Shannon disconnected from her own baby. But I truly love them. I think of Shannon, from Mother Prowls, and I smile with affection. They are just my kind of people. They see life as a swamp, yet they keep trudging through.
The righteous opinions of the characters in A Friend of the Family seemed humorous at first. Then the humor faded and left little for me to hang onto. I read about a third of the book. I skipped to the end and read backward another third, leaving the middle third alone.
Which is not to say I would not recommend this novel. I would! It's well written. A different reader might find Pete reminiscent of a father or grandfather or mother for that matter. He is a man who lives and breathes. And Alec is a son of the upwardly mobile. Readers just need to be interested in the people (young and old) who think they know how we SHOULD conduct our lives.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Run! Bitch Run!
I kid you not. This is a title of an action movie newly available to watch at Netflix.com. Run! Bitch Run!. The title and rape-driven plot of this "exploitation flick" sucked me back to one of my most traumatizing movie experiences.
Somewhere between the age of five and ten years old, I played at our classy neighbors' house where Hustler magazines were piled high next to the toilet. And they put on a fun little movie titled I Spit On Your Grave. In the era of Friday the Thirteenth and Chainsaw Massacre, this type of horror film was standard viewing for the Clarkson family. But for this Quaker kid, watching the longest gang rape in film history gave me the shakes.
I broke down and telephoned my mother to pick us up. Or perhaps one of my siblings called. I clearly remember my fear -- wanting out of that house. (Years later I learned the rest of the movie focused on vengeance.) I left as she was dragging her beaten body through a forest, only to be found by the rapists again.
When I saw the title Run! Bitch Run!, I snorted with dry amusement -- imagining the director was a total asshole or like over-the-top humor. Then the plot summary mentioned rape, and I stopped laughing.
Because it's not funny. Rape isn't funny. Me watching that shit wasn't funny.
The first ten minutes of Psycho -- I saw it the age of nine at my aunt's house -- made me scared to shower for years!
So the moral is -- don't show horrifying films to kids!!! (And thoroughly inspect any house they play in.)
Somewhere between the age of five and ten years old, I played at our classy neighbors' house where Hustler magazines were piled high next to the toilet. And they put on a fun little movie titled I Spit On Your Grave. In the era of Friday the Thirteenth and Chainsaw Massacre, this type of horror film was standard viewing for the Clarkson family. But for this Quaker kid, watching the longest gang rape in film history gave me the shakes.
I broke down and telephoned my mother to pick us up. Or perhaps one of my siblings called. I clearly remember my fear -- wanting out of that house. (Years later I learned the rest of the movie focused on vengeance.) I left as she was dragging her beaten body through a forest, only to be found by the rapists again.
When I saw the title Run! Bitch Run!, I snorted with dry amusement -- imagining the director was a total asshole or like over-the-top humor. Then the plot summary mentioned rape, and I stopped laughing.
Because it's not funny. Rape isn't funny. Me watching that shit wasn't funny.
The first ten minutes of Psycho -- I saw it the age of nine at my aunt's house -- made me scared to shower for years!
So the moral is -- don't show horrifying films to kids!!! (And thoroughly inspect any house they play in.)
Monday, June 21, 2010
Invaders in the attic
Yesterday afternoon, my husband discovered two baby birds stumbling down our attic steps. The children rejoiced -- we have quite a history of rescuing birds from the jaws of our deadly feline -- Snowman. These two must have fallen from a nest I cannot locate.
I rushed off to buy them worms from our local 7-11, only to find that dry dog food soaked in water is much more appropriate. They are pitiful little things, throwing open their beaks and thrusting their heads high for me to feed them. Yellow beaks clamping shut when they are full.
I've called animal friends, rehab experts and others who say the comical yellow beak identifies them as starlings, and therefore, invaders. They terrorize the natives. Puffs of feathers on their heads. Pink skin under their scraggly wings. Junk birds. The twists of conservation rear their head in my household.
One rehab person tells me that only 1% of wildlife survives to reach adulthood. Loki, my seven years old, mulls over that number, as do I.
Loki is passionate about animals. He wants to be the next Charles Darwin, but he worries about giving up afternoons at the pool to feed the birds every 45 minutes. He admits this with tears in his eyes and the statement that no one ever really dies. I say they'll live on in us, in what they taught us. He says, if we release in them in the woods, there's a chance they'll live. I look skeptical. He says, we'll never know -- a small, small chance, and I have to agree.
I cry for help on Craigslist and Freecycle. Many amateurs offer assistance. A woman calls. She's insistent. Her mother rehabbed birds. She'll find us a professional. A wildlife center an hour and a half away. She could manage it, but will I take them?
Traffic, three kids. I'd rather feed them here for several days. I grew up in the country where animals rapidly lived and died.
I tell her that I can't take them to the center. She'll have to pick them up. And perhaps a better person then me, less daunted by road trips, she's agrees to fetch them in the morning. So the babies might one day fly.
Loki associates wildlife centers with television, and imagines that our birds will be in a nature video, our family hailed as heroes.
Another job well done by the good guys -- rescuing the bad guys.
I rushed off to buy them worms from our local 7-11, only to find that dry dog food soaked in water is much more appropriate. They are pitiful little things, throwing open their beaks and thrusting their heads high for me to feed them. Yellow beaks clamping shut when they are full.
I've called animal friends, rehab experts and others who say the comical yellow beak identifies them as starlings, and therefore, invaders. They terrorize the natives. Puffs of feathers on their heads. Pink skin under their scraggly wings. Junk birds. The twists of conservation rear their head in my household.
One rehab person tells me that only 1% of wildlife survives to reach adulthood. Loki, my seven years old, mulls over that number, as do I.
Loki is passionate about animals. He wants to be the next Charles Darwin, but he worries about giving up afternoons at the pool to feed the birds every 45 minutes. He admits this with tears in his eyes and the statement that no one ever really dies. I say they'll live on in us, in what they taught us. He says, if we release in them in the woods, there's a chance they'll live. I look skeptical. He says, we'll never know -- a small, small chance, and I have to agree.
I cry for help on Craigslist and Freecycle. Many amateurs offer assistance. A woman calls. She's insistent. Her mother rehabbed birds. She'll find us a professional. A wildlife center an hour and a half away. She could manage it, but will I take them?
Traffic, three kids. I'd rather feed them here for several days. I grew up in the country where animals rapidly lived and died.
I tell her that I can't take them to the center. She'll have to pick them up. And perhaps a better person then me, less daunted by road trips, she's agrees to fetch them in the morning. So the babies might one day fly.
Loki associates wildlife centers with television, and imagines that our birds will be in a nature video, our family hailed as heroes.
Another job well done by the good guys -- rescuing the bad guys.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Kindle purchases
I bought myself a classy Kindle case from eBigValue, and it works fine, though the design is flawed, snapping shut in the back instead of the front -- but hey, I'm strutting because a fellow mother in my son's karate class paid $60 for hers and mine cost $15. Cha-ching.
Beyond this, I committed to a literary novel for the extraordinary sum of $9.99. The first chapter of A Friend of the Family pulled me in with the unsentimental voice and dark humor. It's about a man whose aspirations for his son cause him to try and subvert his son's romantic relationship, and in the process, the father destroys the family he worked so hard to establish. The unraveling of his life is over by the time the narrator tells his story, which allows for a wise, self-deprecating point of view.
I'll keep you updated on my reading progress, whether I actually finish the novel. But I suspect that I will. I wouldn't have shelled out the cash if I didn't.
Whoever expected life to be so much about money? Not me, working in a strip club at eighteen, easily earning the money I needed to eat, pay rent, and buy the occasional Victoria's Secret underwear.
It's not that I care much about material things -- but bills sneak into the stack on my desk. Doctor co-pays. Karate class. Netflix payments. Two car loans (killer, but maybe better then the unexpected repairs of a junker.) Car insurance. Mortgage payments. And don't get me started about the cost of heroine these days.
Beyond this, I committed to a literary novel for the extraordinary sum of $9.99. The first chapter of A Friend of the Family pulled me in with the unsentimental voice and dark humor. It's about a man whose aspirations for his son cause him to try and subvert his son's romantic relationship, and in the process, the father destroys the family he worked so hard to establish. The unraveling of his life is over by the time the narrator tells his story, which allows for a wise, self-deprecating point of view.
I'll keep you updated on my reading progress, whether I actually finish the novel. But I suspect that I will. I wouldn't have shelled out the cash if I didn't.
Whoever expected life to be so much about money? Not me, working in a strip club at eighteen, easily earning the money I needed to eat, pay rent, and buy the occasional Victoria's Secret underwear.
It's not that I care much about material things -- but bills sneak into the stack on my desk. Doctor co-pays. Karate class. Netflix payments. Two car loans (killer, but maybe better then the unexpected repairs of a junker.) Car insurance. Mortgage payments. And don't get me started about the cost of heroine these days.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The thrill of prescription drugs
Cardiologists diagnosed me with heart failure resulting from or related to the birth of my third child -- peripartum cardiomyopathy. A rare condition that not many doctors know how to treat, I visited a local cardiologists who gave me a low dose of Coreg. My symptoms -- heart palpitations, dizzy spells, breathlessness -- continued to worsen, so I switched to a hot shot in DC who practically threw pills down my throat. And I improved -- slowly, very slowly.
Two years later, I still throw back a handful of drugs every morning and evening with no end in sight. Maybe a handful is an exaggeration. I swallow four pills in the morning, chew one vitamin, and swallow three in the evening. This is a recent drop in number because I'm spurning my fish oil capsules and their gaseous impact, but I know I won't be able to rebel for long as my father is a persistent and eloquent advocate on their benefit.
Generally, I hate medication. I was raised to distrust doctors by a mother who cured us with tablespoons of molasses and comfrey leaves boiled and then plastered over the puncture left by a rusty nail. We gargled sludgy salt water and used moss as maxi pads. One time my siblings and I raged with fevers, so my mother ordered my father to build a sweat lodge out of the usual bent saplings, blankets, a plastic tarp, clumps of hay on the floor, and well-cooked rocks placed in the center. My father splashed water and steamed the hut until we nearly passed out, shoving aside the flapping door to trip into the creek that ran by our house. We thrived. Drugs were for pussies.
But, here I am, a forced consumer of prescription medicine. A forgetful patient who suffers the consequences if she does not take her dose -- fatigue, a tight chest -- eight hours into a lapse, I'll recognize my failure and run to the medicine cabinet, lecturing myself on how I need to take medicine today if I EVER want to be free. I need to be a good patient for my family, if not for me. I'm incredibly lucky, no doubt.
I know this even when I'm pissed. Pissed off at the orange bottles that demand my attention twice day. Irritated by the larger than average defibrillator that makes it uncomfortable for my children to rest their heads on my chest when I read bedtime stories.
Can't I just be done? I wonder. Can't I jump in an ice bath and be cured? Maybe if I dove off a hundred foot bridge my heart would jolt back to normal. Maybe someone should scare the shit out of me -- hit me with a car?
No? Just swallow these tasteless pieces of chalk for years and years?
A family sent me a card after the diagnosis, writing "welcome to the world of chronic illness."
Thanks. I'm so excited to be here. What a thrill.
Two years later, I still throw back a handful of drugs every morning and evening with no end in sight. Maybe a handful is an exaggeration. I swallow four pills in the morning, chew one vitamin, and swallow three in the evening. This is a recent drop in number because I'm spurning my fish oil capsules and their gaseous impact, but I know I won't be able to rebel for long as my father is a persistent and eloquent advocate on their benefit.
Generally, I hate medication. I was raised to distrust doctors by a mother who cured us with tablespoons of molasses and comfrey leaves boiled and then plastered over the puncture left by a rusty nail. We gargled sludgy salt water and used moss as maxi pads. One time my siblings and I raged with fevers, so my mother ordered my father to build a sweat lodge out of the usual bent saplings, blankets, a plastic tarp, clumps of hay on the floor, and well-cooked rocks placed in the center. My father splashed water and steamed the hut until we nearly passed out, shoving aside the flapping door to trip into the creek that ran by our house. We thrived. Drugs were for pussies.
But, here I am, a forced consumer of prescription medicine. A forgetful patient who suffers the consequences if she does not take her dose -- fatigue, a tight chest -- eight hours into a lapse, I'll recognize my failure and run to the medicine cabinet, lecturing myself on how I need to take medicine today if I EVER want to be free. I need to be a good patient for my family, if not for me. I'm incredibly lucky, no doubt.
I know this even when I'm pissed. Pissed off at the orange bottles that demand my attention twice day. Irritated by the larger than average defibrillator that makes it uncomfortable for my children to rest their heads on my chest when I read bedtime stories.
Can't I just be done? I wonder. Can't I jump in an ice bath and be cured? Maybe if I dove off a hundred foot bridge my heart would jolt back to normal. Maybe someone should scare the shit out of me -- hit me with a car?
No? Just swallow these tasteless pieces of chalk for years and years?
A family sent me a card after the diagnosis, writing "welcome to the world of chronic illness."
Thanks. I'm so excited to be here. What a thrill.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy [video] Album Version
Long, tired day recovering from forgetting to take my heart medication. Goddamn drugs.
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