Catchup Is Delicious

I returned recently from a quick weekend trip to San Francisco, where I met up with my parents, aunts Barbara and Marjorie, cousins, and good friends Steve and Amy. The time with them really made me thankful that despite its assorted weirdnesses (Aunt Barbara's collection of seasonally attired Barbie dolls, for example, and my dad's trunk full of glow-in-the-dark ephemera), my family and its extensions have really good juju.

Besides traipsing around Chinatown, Haight, and NorthBeach, I also read a lot. On the plane, on BART during an extended tour of Oakland (I took the wrong train at one point), and at SeaTac during my three-hour layover waiting for a flight home to Bellingham (and yes, I realize I could practically walk home in that amount of time. Thanks, Horizon!) At any rate, here's a wrap-up of some of the best I've read recently:

This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper

Quite possibly the funniest book I've read this year, Tropper's novel features a family with a little more baggage than mine. The four adult siblings gather to sit shiva for their recently dead father, and bring a load of issues, resentments, and current FUBAR life scenarios with them. Narrated by thirty-something Judd (whose wife has recently left him for his boss), this novel brims with spot-on dialogue, loads of physical comedy, a simple plot that nevertheless twists and surprises, and intelligent insights that had me folding down corners. "You can sit up here," Judd muses, "feeling above it all while knowing you're not, coming to the lonely conclusion that the only thing you can ever really know about anyone is that you don't know anything about them at all." Amen.

Songs for the Missing by Stewart O'Nan

If you're a regular reader of this blog (and who isn't, really?), you may be familiar with my appreciation for missing person stories. I love the intrigue and the tension of stories about people who've vanished, and Stewart O'Nan's latest novel, Songs for the Missing, has both, plus a whole lot more. The plot revolves around the disappearance of Kim Larsen during the summer before she's about to leave home for college. Like The Lovely Bones, the story focuses on the impact of the mystery on Kim's family and friends, and their struggle to cope with their bewilderment, grief, and (for some) sense of guilt. Could not put down. Gripping, with a satisfying ending.

Accidentally on Purpose by Mary Pols (Memoir)

Mary Pols, at 39, gets pregnant after a one-night stand with a much-younger guy, decides to write a book about it, the book gets optioned for a TV show and she probably has way more money now. As much as I liked the story and Pols' writing, I couldn't help but feel a little sad throughout, because even though her adorable and sexy baby-daddy carries through on his promise to stick around and help raise their son, he isn't a partner in every respect, and despite his love for their boy, he doesn't love Mary, and that emptiness echoes throughout the story. It's enough to make a person rush out to Fred Meyer and buy condoms.

Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby

The protagonists of Hornby's novel, Annie and Duncan, have been together for fifteen years, but their relationship is ending, in part because of Duncan's obsession with a reclusive musician named Tucker Crowe who hasn't recorded an album in 20 years.

When Annie intercepts a recording that has been sent to Duncan by a fan of his Tucker Crowe fansite, she discovers it is a raw recording of the songs on Crowe's most famous album, Juliet. In listening to it before Duncan does, she violates his trust, angers him, and their relationship ends--not entirely to Annie's disappointent. She's grown weary of Duncan's obsession, wants to have a baby, and is ready to move on with her life. So she contacts Tucker Crowe herself, and the two strike up an email friendship...and that's when things really get interesting.

This is what planes, trains and airports are good for: getting me caught up on the towering pile of bedside table books...and now I am. Almost. Honest.

Born to Pun (Sorry)

Runners are in the headlines lately, what with Usain Bolt's record-setting time and the recent investigation into the sexuality of South African phenom Caster Semenya. Also, since Mayor Pike has offered Jon Stewart a key to the city, it seemed like a good time to recommend a book about running that I learned about from watching The Daily Show. (On a totally unrelated tangent, how many books do they recommend on Fox "News"?)

Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World has Never Seen grew out of an article Christopher McDougall wrote for Outside magazine about the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico. The Tarahumara, who live deep in the isolated Copper Canyons, have developed an amazing talent for running extreme distances--over a hundred miles a day, in some cases.In addition, they have escaped major diseases that afflict others in the Western world, such as cancer, diabetes, and obesity.

Intrigued by stories of these runners, and curious about what they could teach him about running and living healthfully, McDougall ventured into the Copper Canyons to seek El Caballo Blanco, a mysterious white man rumored to live among the Tarahumara and know their secrets.

What follows is part mystery story, part adventure, part history lesson, part physiology 101, and altogether absorbing story of the Tarahumara, the history of ultramarathoning and the obscure and unusual group of people who train for and compete in these incredible tests of endurance.

What I Did This Summer by Cathy B.

Summer for me, is partially officially over, since I signed up to teach a three-week summer school program for incoming ninth-graders who need a little extra boost before beginning their regular high school courses. Lest you think I’ve completely lost my whole entire mind, know that 1) I’m getting paid for this gig; 2) it’s only 4 hours a day, 4 days a week; 3) it’s kinda fun, and 4) frankly, I wasn’t doing anything else anyway.

I define my existance, in large part, by how I spend my summers. Referring to “the summer I_______” helps place my life’s trajectory in a timeline. “The summer I was in L.A.,” “The summer I went to school in San Diego,” “The summer I nannied Wyatt,” these are all statements that allow me to pinpoint where/when/what I was at a given point in time. This summer, ’09, is notable for the following (and I am NOT bragging): it is, in no particular order: the summer I joined Facebook, the summer I nearly wore a dent in the chaise on my front porch, the summer I….frak. I can’t think of anything else. This summer may be notable only because it is the first summer I did typical summer stuff: laid around in the sun, slept in, avoided responsibility and read 8 billion books. Dreamlike in its simplicity and yet somehow unfulfilling. Teaching summer school is a welcome break from a life of relentless leisure. Seriously, one more nap and I was going to have to get prescription Neosporin for the bedsores.

I did manage to get a couple of projects done, and again, I’m not bragging, I’m just saying. One day I touched up all the divots in the paint around the house. Very satisfying. I washed the baseboards. I finally labeled that row of perplexing light switches in the living room. I put up towel-hooks and a bottle opener next to the hot tub. I planted lavender, basil, rosemary, and mint (only the mint died). I made serious progress on the soda-can art thingy (undefinable) I’ve been working on since 2004 and hung window frames for “privacy” in front of the hot tub. I bogarted the neighbors’ sewing machine and sewed pockets in the roommate’s sweatpants. I made a few greeting cards that also involved sewing. I did not make any more wine gift-bags from the sleeves of the shirts of a now-forgotten ex-boyfriend. I did not make any voodoo dolls. Honest.

Knowing that I'll have less time to do it later, I also spent some of my summer making some of my Christmas gifts. I got a little help from my most recent favorite craft book, The Big Ass Book of Crafts by Mark Montano. I can't tell you the specifics on the projects I completed, because you might be among the eventual recipients, but let's just say that Montano has 150+ ideas, some of which will remind you of the 1970's (think macrame and glued-on pasta), but most of them are creative, fun, and not too time-consuming. Most don't require any special tools, skill, or artistic flair, and many can be adapted for kids, which, if you're at the end of summer and you have children, will probably come as a blessed relief. Something to occupy them...and use up all those popsicle sticks. Craft on!

Stories from the Chaise...

Since school’s been out, I’ve read a bunch of fiction that’s definitely worth recommending, and I’m never going to get around to writing an individual entry on each book, what with all the napping and existentialism. So here’s a summary:

Best Book for Your Book Club
I live with a houseload of outdoorsy guys who are forever hiking off into the wilderness to test the superpower capabilities of testosterone, otherwise I might forget that people can and do survive happily in the sticks and dirt. Some of them live their whole lives between backpacks of Top Ramen and Belly Timber, seemingly ignorant of wonders such as the pillow-top mattress and take-out Thai.

In My Abandonment by Peter Rock, a father and his 13-year-old daughter, Caroline, live for 4 years undetected in the Portland, Oregon’s Forest Park. Completely self-sufficient, they grow their own vegetables, forage for other food and materials to use in maintaining their hidden shelter, and exist peacefully until a chance encounter reveals their situation to the public and their lives are irreversibly altered.

As the story progresses, you’ll become slightly, almost imperceptibly suspicious of Caroline and her father, of their past and the how and why of their isolation and partnership. And that's why you'll want to read it with a friend--there are profound questions about the story, the characters, and it what it means to have a home. Based on a true story, this fascinating account of survival and escape will appeal to anyone who liked Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

Best Book for Anyone Who Likes House, Grey’s Anatomy, or Any Other of the Billion Medical Dramas on TV
A writer for Salon once called Grey’s Anatomy “soft-core porn for women,” an apt description of the show that doesn’t really fit Oxygen by Carol Cassella, but I’m sitting in a bar writing book reviews and I needed a segue, so there you have it. Like Grey’s, Oxygen takes place in a Seattle hospital, but without nearly as much sex. The story revolves around a compelling ethical dilemma that’s far more serious than anything that whiny Meredith Grey has ever had to deal with.

Marie Heaton is an anesthesiologist whose career is in turmoil after a child dies in her care. Accused of malpractice, Marie finds herself questioning all that she has come to believe about her abilities and role as a doctor. Legal drama, medical mysteries, and a series of unpredictable twists make this novel the perfect excuse to turn off the TV.

A Missing Person Novel That’s Not Really About a Missing Person
Really! It’s not! But I wasn’t disappointed. Precious by Sandra Novack begins with the disappearance of 10-year-old Vicki Anderson in the summer of 1978. Vicki is the daughter of single mother, Ginny, an alcoholic widow, and the classmate and of Sissy Kisch, and it's the impact of the disappearance on Sissy that forms the core of the story. Sissy's mother, Natalia, has also disappeared, although under less mysterious circumstances--she's left her husband to be with another man, and has left Sissy and her sadistic older sister, Eva, in the care of their father Frank. Eva responds to her mother's abandonment by throwing herself into an affair with a married teacher, and Sissy copes by immersing herself in a fantasy world...or is it? An absorbing story about families, couples, and being present...or not.

Best Book for People Who Like Books about Books
I pick what to read based on reviews I read in Booklist (the ALA's official book review journal), the Indie Next list, which is distributed at independent booksellers and available online; People magazine (gotta keep up with the pop!), and Entertainment Weekly (ditto). I rarely read the list of New York Times Bestsellers because I'm not interested in what's selling well--I want to know what's written well.

The Indie Next list is my favorite source, because the recommendations come directly from other booklovers and are often reviews of books that are from smaller presses or new writers--work I might not hear about otherwise. Such is the case with How I Became a Famous Novelist, by Steve Hely, a completely original and hilarious skewering of the American book publishing world and the financial engine that drives it. Hely's character, Pete, studies the trends in best-sellers and then writes his own--a book that he himself recognizes as crap, but nevertheless one likely to appeal to readers who like everything else that becomes popular. Hely's voice is unique, funny, and memorable.

It may seem as though I've spent the summer (so far) lounging on my front porch, reading and sipping cool beverages. And that's pretty much exactly right. But it's work, people, work I do for you, so you won't have to pluck a crappy paperback from the grocery store check out line in a moment of panic before you board your next flight. It's a sacrifice, and you can thank me later. Hi-ho, hi-ho.

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Just Pretend It's a Swimsuit!

Joseph Campbell has written that we "must be willing to give up the life we had planned, in order to have the life that is waiting for us," and it seems as though many days of my life have required that I reconcile with this bit of wisdom. Thirty years ago, Amy and I maneuvered our little plastic cars (she swallowed the white one, long story) around the board game of LIFE, landing happily on the squares that announced IT'S A BOY or IT'S TWINS. We assigned our favorite names to these tiny plastic children and somehow never even considered that having three or four children, no matter how well-considered their names, would be a crapload of work and really interefere with who we really were.

Don't get me wrong--I think both Amy and I would be fabulous moms (albeit a bit bizarre--heavy on the costuming and themed parties) but for myriad reasons, that life isn't the one that we've ended up living. And while there are days that I wonder what it would be like to escort little William Benjamin Belben (Bill Ben Belben) up the street to kindergarten at Larrabee Elementary, mostly I live a satisfying life without Pull-Ups and Pirate-themed birthday parties. The arrangement here at the Nap Castle is not one I imagined even a year ago, but it's turning out to be a happy one, even if it doesn't match the plan I concocted for myself when I was eleven. There are no children here named Laurie Louise (my favorite name in 1979) or husbands, or weird floorplans involving indoor pools and grand pianos suspended from chains, a la the home designs I drew in 4th grade.

Here's what I have instead: a houseful of people whose lives have taken untraditional directions and who, through Craigslist or the Food Pavilion parking lot (long story) have ended up sharing space with me. Chris, Mark (pictured), Ethan, Phil, Amy, and Cynthia (and their accompanying friends and partners: Chris, Ashley, Julia, Joanna, Jay & Laurie, Gabe, etc.), have become, over the last 8 months, my erstwhile family. And despite the temporary nature of having people living in my extra bedrooms, on my sofa, and in my garage, I wouldn't trade their companionship, intelligence, and humor for the Other Life I might have had if I had driven my little plastic car on the road more traveled. Also, I don't have to cook dinner every night, thanks to our casually organized Community Meals, and I'd frankly rather attend a Guac-Off any night than go to Open House with a school full of intense parents.

In Waveland, Frederick Barthelme's latest novel, characters are involved in a similarly unconventional living arrangement. Following Hurricane Katrina, professor Vaughn Williams' marriage ends, and he becomes involved with his new landlady, Greta, whose own marriage ended under mysterious circumstances. Vaughn's world changes even more dramatically when his ex-wife, Gail, is abused by her boyfriend, and asks Vaughn and Greta to move into her house as protection. As absurd as the arrangement sounds, the three somehow make it work for a time, and all gain perspective into the complex nature of relationships of friends and lovers.

Like life at the Nap Castle, things at Gail's house aren't always ideal: Vaughn must confront his animosity towards his brother, Newton, who reappears and plays a pivotal role in Gail's life, and he must contend with Greta's complicated past, as well. But they make it work, somehow, which is the best we can all do, whatever our situation. Whether we have a traditional, nuclear family, or a family we've cobbled together through less conventional means, ultimately, our goal is the same: to connect, to find community, to be less alone in a huge and often scary world.

"If you were lucky in the world," according to Barthelme's protagonist, "you built yourself a new life as an adult, complete with friends, lovers, partners, rivals, enemies. You replaced the old people with new people, and your party moved along effortlessly." It might not be, as this character notes, the pleasures you'd dreamed of, or the life you'd dreamed of, nor sought, nor even imagined...but facing it, finally, you might find it is a life for which you are now well prepared.

Roadtrip Reads

Of the many things I am thankful for, possibly the highest on my list is my ability to read in a moving car without puking, a gift that has saved me countless hours of boredom on long family trips and other adventures that might otherwise be mind-numbingly dull. This past weekend, I had the opportunity exercise my skill again on a 3-day journey from Bellingham to San Diego with pal Amy and her brother Steve. Once I finally convinced Amy that no, she did not need to bring a giant bag of hangers, a Chinese lantern, and a milk crate full of incense, there was actually room in the car for me to tote along a backpack of clean clothes and, of course, a few books.

Between my naps in the backseat and my management of the sing-along playlist (if I never hear "C'Mon Get Happy" again it'll be too soon), I read three books, all of which are recommendable. Let's start with The Vast Fields of Ordinary by Nick Burd, which focuses on the last summer Dade Hamilton spends at home before going to college. During these three months, he contends with his parents' crumbling marriage, his abusive boyfriend, and the local mystery of a missing eight-year-old girl. He also falls in love, and that element of the story is what makes this a particularly sweet summer read. Marketed to teens, but the elegant, witty writing and intelligent insights make it a great read for anyone.

I also read Elinor Lipman's latest novel, The Family Man. Lipman is known for her humorous portrayals of family life, couplehood, and friendship. In The Family Man, Henry Archer finds his life complicated by a phone call from his distraught ex-wife, Denise, as well as the re-appearance of her grown daughter, Thalia. Henry and Thalia were close when he was married to her mother, but lost contact after the divorce. Now that she's back, she and Henry refresh their bonds and help each other navigate the odd, humorous details of their professional lives, their personal lives, and their ever-unpredictable relationship with Denise. Like all of Lipman's novels, the dialogue is phenomenal--fresh, witty, and fast--and the plot, while pretty goofy and even a tad unbelievable, nevertheless transport readers through some amusing and unique territory. A beach read with smarts.

And because a backseat isn't a backseat without a little, umm, spice, I also read essays from Behind the Bedroom Door:Getting It, Giving, Loving It, Missing It, which while about sex, was more smart than salacious, satsifying my intellectual curiosity about what other people think/feel/do/hope for/regret without being a pornographic journey into other people's lives. Which was a good thing, cuz porn+best friend+backseat of best friend's car+best friend's brother=ewww.

Finally, on the plane ride home, I mostly dozed off listening to my iPod, but during conscious moments, concentrated on trying to balance my in-flight snack pack, my Bloody Mary, and my book on the teeny-tiny table tray. The book in question was A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers by Xiaolu Guo (if anyone knows how to pronounce that name, let me know and I will take care of your dog for free on weekends). In the novel, a young Chinese woman (she goes by the name Z) spends a year abroad in London, where she learns the language (sort of) and has a complicated relationship with a lover who is at first charmed, and later exasperated by, her naivete, innocence, and struggles to speak English.

I felt a little bit like Z in San Diego amidst the skinny surfers and tanned beach bodies. At least I had the books to distract me, not only from the perpetually youthful culture of Sunshine, but from saying good-bye to Amy. I look forward to seeing her soon. I'll be saving up some great books for the next trip south.

HAIR!

Thirty-one years ago, on the squareball court at Roosevelt Elementary, Amy Baklund called me (the new kid at the school) "little girl," and shortly thereafter, became not my tormentor, but my closest friend. Over three-quarters of my life are comprised of memories of her: the summers we spent at Camp Don Bosco, the time I put her underpants in her flute case before school, the "classes" we conducted we conducted as teachers with a roomful of stuffed animals (little Ralphie the beat-up black and white teddy bear was especially badly behaved), the time she spilled her Bunsen Burner in 8^th grade science, the billion notes we wrote under our assumed identities, Wanda Teetlebound (Amy) and Elouise Latink (me), the summer days we conducted Camp Kiddie Joy in my back yard, and the many, many times we costumed ourselves, laughed uncontrollably, and seized, together, the joy and the journey of life in Bellingham and on this planet.
In January of 2005, Amy was diagnosed with Stage 1 Breast Cancer, and for a horrible, terrifying time, there was a chance that these stories, these memories, this life that we had shared, would become anecdotes that I told at gatherings with our amazing group of friends: "Remember that time when Amy...." "Remember how Amy used to...." "I wish Amy were here to..." But Amy received excellent treatment at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance (in her words, "the juice bar") survived her cancer, and continues to be one of the most charismatic, vibrant, life-affirming people I am honored to know.

Amy says that one of the worst days of her cancer diagnosis was when her doctor gave her a prescription for a wig. Fortunately, she never had to fill it, because she didn't lose her hair, but lots of people with cancer aren't so lucky. And if you read, Hair: Public, Political, Extremely Personal by Diane Simon, you'll appreciate even more how our tresses not only frame our faces, but define who we are. As someone who has spent the past twenty years growing, caring for, wrestling with, and cleaning up after long, curly, hair, I know exactly what it means to be defined, at least in part, by the dead stuff hanging from my head.

Every year at my school, a cancer-awareness week is followed by an assembly in which students buy raffle tickets to shave the head of a dozen or so teachers. Many students also volunteer to have their heads shaved to show solidarity to those fighting cancer, and the funds raised are donated to Children's Hospital. This year, I joined in, following the example set last year by my principal Beth, my friend Laural, and a half-dozen courageous students who chopped their locks. This past Friday, Amy came to the assembly at BEHS to cut my hair. I shared her story with the students and then she carefully sheared off my two 8-inch ponytails, which I sent to Pantene's Beautiful Lengths, an organization that makes and donates wigs to women who’ve lost their hair due to cancer treatment. Later that afternoon, my other buddy Jill accompanied me for a touch-up haircut, which my regular stylist, Heather, donated to the cause.

I’d tell you that I went home, looked in the mirror at the curly cupcake that is now my head, and broke into tears. But the truth is, as much as I love having long hair, I love having Amy in my life more. Every day that I spend waiting for my hair to grow out is a day that I might not have spent with her, had her treatment not been successful, and I'd rather be completely bald than imagine a single day without her humor, spunk, intelligence, and friendship. I am so thankful, every morning, when I wake up, that her zest for adventure, our shared history, and a future of fun await. No amount of hair on earth would ever be an adequate exchange for that. When you see me, and my not-so-Carrie-Bradshaw-mushroom-head, I hope you'll agree.