No Two Persons Ever Read the Same Book

So this week, I am going to turn 40. Yikes.

On Tuesday, lots and lots of you are going to wish me a happy birthday. I will be grateful for each and every one of them. Truly.

But, instead of just a message, can you tell me your favorite book? The one that you never want to read again because it was so good or the one you read over and over again because it was so good. Tell me the one book that changed your life, your mind, or your heart. Which one made you laugh until you cried, or helped you cry it out so that you were ready to laugh again? Which book do you quote endlessly? Did you name your pets or your kids after a character in a book? Which one? Do you have fond memories of reading this book, or reading it to someone? Let me know.

My goal for this, my 40^th year, is to read all the books you recommend. I’ll keep track and comment along the way. It will be a neat way to reconnect with many of you and to get a little insight into what makes you tick. Tell me the title and author. You can tell me why you love it in great detail, or you can remain silent and let me try to figure it out. I don’t need to know why this book sings to you above all others, and hopefully, you won’t be too upset if it doesn’t sing to me.

I just feel like going into such an important year that I should have a project. I want to connect with all of my friends, both near and far, in a meaningful way. Tell me your favorite book and I promise I will read it (if I haven’t already). As I finish each book, I’ll blog about it. It will be my way of saying thanks for your friendship, for your thoughts, and for sharing something you loved.

Take a few days and think about it. Then, on Tuesday, post on my wall, send me a message, e-mail me, leave me a voice mail, e-mail, or text message. Send me a card. Hell, send me a copy of the book (used, new, borrowed, blue, I’m not picky) if you are really feeling generous. I’m hoping to collect 40 recommendations to read during my 40^th year.

“It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it.” 
― Oscar Wilde

Boycott the Boycott

I saw a news story today about the number of stores and malls that will remain open on Thanksgiving to cater to shoppers. Many of them are no longer waiting until the butt-crack of dawn on Friday morning, or even the dark of midnight on Thursday. Nope, now you can start shopping as early as 6pm on Thursday at many malls, outlets, and retailers near you.

And?

The comments on the article basically cry out in agony for those poor retail workers ripped from the bosom of their family to stand behind a register and ring up the unwashed masses buying things they don’t need with money they don’t have. I have been there, done that, and worn the corporate-issued apron. It sucked, sure, but it was a sacrifice I had to make for a paycheck I needed. I could have quit. But then I wouldn’t have had a job or a paycheck. No one who gets into retail does so blindly. If you don’t realize that it may mean working on a holiday, then shame on you.

I’ve seen other articles applauding certain retail stores for refusing to open on Thanksgiving. Those stores publicly declared that they would remain closed so that their employees could enjoy the day with family. Well isn’t that nice. It is a noble statement, but if you follow the money you will see that the stores that are staying closed are doing so because they don’t benefit from the bump of midnight shopping. They may be unwilling or unable to offer a discount on their items, or their overhead costs are higher than their sales, or their target demographic prefers other incentives to entice them into the store. Business is business. Target is open because Wal-Mart is open because Best Buy is open.

Along those lines, the Internet is ALWAYS open. This is a brave new world and Amazon is always ready for business.  Do you think those retailers who are closed on Thanksgiving aren’t open online? Please. Free Shipping! Online Only Deals! Bonus Gift Cards! Triple Reward Points! You can shop all day long on Thanksgiving without ever leaving the comfort of your living room.

And let’s follow that thread a little further down the line. What are millions upon millions of Americans doing on Thanksgiving (besides shopping)? They are watching football. Do you think the concession stand guy wants to be away from his family? Are the security staff, the maintenance crew, the cameramen, or the parking lot attendants  thrilled to be standing out in the cold watching the pigskin fly? If you work for the Detroit Lions or the Dallas Cowboys (or in their stadiums), then you know you are working. If you work for any number of sports-related TV shows, then you are working. Sure, the above the line guys are well-compensated for missing the holiday and probably have an awesome spread set out in crafts services, but the make-up team who keeps Jimmy Johnson’s hair so poofy? Do you think anyone asked them if they want to work? I don’t. The quarterback is making his millions, but there are literally dozens of people on that field who aren’t. Yet we don’t weep over them being kept from family dinners because we are too busy enjoying the fruits of their labors. 

Lots of people have to work on Thanksgiving. Those in the armed services usually get commercials reminding us of their sacrifice and rightly so. But no one laments the fate of the doctors, nurses, cops, pilots, and countless other professionals that are also stuck working on Thanksgiving. I’ve never heard anyone complain about the Thanksgiving Day parades that take place all over our country, even though they surely require people to be away from family on the holiday. Al Roker needs to eat turkey too, you know. However, somewhere in our collective heads, there is a distinction between the people who work due to honor versus those who work for money. Well you know what? There is no distinction. It sucks for everyone, equally. You can do your job with a smile or with a sulk, you can hold a gun with bullets or one loaded with SKU numbers, but we the people shouldn’t feel sorry for you. I will empathize and I will sympathize, but I will not patronize.    

So with all of this in mind, I think it is ridiculous to call for a boycott. You don’t want to shop, stay home. But you should also stay off the Internet and if you are a Nielson family, turn off your television. Don’t buy gas, or milk, or a newspaper from the corner store. Don’t call 911. Don’t go to the hospital or the airport.  But try to remember when you do finally hit the stores to actually smile at the cashier, thank the clerk who helped you find something, and keep your patience when the lines get too long and the stores get too hot. Make eye contact with those behind the counter. Smile. When you say thank you, mean it.  Those same retail workers who you wept about on Thursday are the same ones behind the register on Friday, or Tuesday, and every other day of the week.     

Splish Splash

I moved my chair at the pool today.

This may sound like a relatively minor accomplishment. Pool chairs aren’t known for being heavy. Moving it isn't a crime. I didn’t steal it. It is still in the shade – an absolute requirement to keep the goats at bay, but I moved it nonetheless.

Why is this a blog worthy? Simple. It means my kids have grown up again.

When I joined the town pool, it was during the month of August. My little guy was potty trained so I avoided baby pool jail entirely. Our pool is shaped like the letter L. The short part of the letter never gets deeper than three and a half feet. For the entire month of August, my little guy played on the stairs, splashing in two feet of water, happy as a clam. He brought in toys, played well with others, but he never, ever got off of those steps. I set up my chair directly in front of him and neither of us moved for a month. The pool is empty at that time of year as everyone is finally free of swim team obligations and rushes off to vacations and the shore. We were very happy in our little corner of the world. My daughter, always more adventurous and a far better swimmer, happily frolicked in the rest of that section, never once crossing the rope lines into the longer part of the el, where the pool water deepens to eight feet.

The following year we joined the pool for the entire summer. My daughter earned the ability to cross the barrier and even venture into the diving well. While she still had to tell me when she left one pool to go to the other, she was free to swim by herself. My son moved off the steps, but stayed firmly in the three foot section. Only once did he venture into three and a half foot territory and it scared the bejesus out of him. So that was another summer where I could be found firmly planted in the same chair, under the same tree, enjoying the same shade.

Last year, my daughter earned her green band the first day the pool opened and I pretty much set her free to roam the grounds at will. She checked in from time to time to ask for money for the snack stand or to find out which friends were on their way, but otherwise, she was on her own. My son’s friends were starting to earn the ability to swim in the big pool, but he still needed to be accompanied by an adult. I sent my husband in whenever possible. Nothing amused me more than to see him being attacked by multiple small children at once. On hot days, I even deigned to go in and play with the kids myself. But for the most part, my little guy was still pretty happy in his own little fiefdom in the short el.

Oh, how things have changed. This year, my daughter started sunning herself on a towel on the grassy hill “just like the big girls” and I thought my husband was going to have a heart attack. She has started bringing her own money to the pool and disappears for hours. (Truthfully, I can stand up and see her from anywhere since I make damn sure she has the brightest suits there. She enjoys the illusion of freedom; I enjoy the illusion of proper parenting. It works out well for both of us.) My son decided that it was time to earn his band and move into the longer part of the el. All of his buddies can swim in that section and since I prefer reading and gossiping to actually swimming, his patience has run out. No longer does he want to beg for me to come in with him, or hope that one of the big kids is willing to stay with him while he plays. Oh no. His time is now. So he took the test, swimming two laps and then treading water for a minute. Viola! No child was happier to slip a yellow cord around their ankle than mine. (He still isn’t ready for the diving well, thank God.)

So now, I have to move my chair. No longer can I sit in my corner by the steps and watch him splash happily. No longer can I watch him play in the short section, happy among his peers. Nope, now I have to face the long el, the big pool, the one filled with teenagers taking selfies underwater, and tweens doing cannonballs, and the older folks gamely doing laps. He still isn’t the strongest swimmer and until he gets more comfortable in the deep end, I am going to be keeping a well-trained eye on him because that yellow band doesn’t make him invincible, no matter what he thinks. So if you are looking for me, I’m now facing an entirely different direction. I’ve moved my chair. Care to join me?  

They're HEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Day One: In which I unpacked an entire house and solved a minor medical crisis.

My parents moved this weekend. I swear to God, there are more boxes in my house than in theirs. College kids moving into their first apartment armed with little more than Salvation Army finds and some cast-offs from the family moved in with more boxes. Homeless people have more stuff. It was baffling. They had a big house. It was filled with crap. Liberally. And yet, here we were and there were barely enough boxes to fill one room, let alone one house.

However, since my mom seemed content to sit on the couch and do nothing, and my dad needed to keep taking frequent breaks due to age, I was pretty pleased to have fewer boxes to open. That is right up until I got out the scissors, the box cutter, the Swiss Army Knife, and Grindelwald’s wand to open the damn things. Secret organizations sending ancient artifacts to underground vaults put less tape on boxes than my dad. They also probably wash the relics before they wrap them, and possibly use materials other than gift bags, cardboard cutouts, and oven mitts to wrap breakables in, but maybe that’s why they have the big bucks. As I gingerly handled the various kitchen items, found places for them on the shelves, and tried to put order to chaos, it suddenly occurred to me that this was far too easy. One set of glasses and two mugs after a lifetime of living together? Where were the plates, bowls, and serving items? Where was the cutlery? For God’s sake, why couldn’t I find a spoon?

My mother threw them out, of course. She didn’t want to pack too much stuff.

Meanwhile, I was opening entire boxes filled with paper plates, anther filled with dozens of packets of cheese and crackers, and others filled with, no lie, empty bags. Not just the plastic ones you get at the grocery store, but actual empty dog food bags, and rice bags, etc. When I tossed them onto the garbage pile, I was told that they needed to be saved and used for picking up dog poop. I found a box of Tupperware all jumbled together and a box filled with nothing but plastic wrap and aluminum foil.

My dad literally just shoved everything not nailed down into a box and triple-taped it before my mother could get to it.

As I unpacked, I noticed a trend. My mom would wander by and try to unpack the exact box in which I was already elbow deep. She would move in alongside me, reach in, hand me an item, tell me what the item was, and then watch me put the item away. Yes, I know what a wine glass is, thank you. I would kindly point her toward another box, since many hands make light work, and she would immediately lose interest and drift out again. Over and over and over again.

At one point, I walked her into the master bedroom, told her that I refused to put away her clothes, pointed at the stack of boxes and told her to have at it. Every ten minutes for the next hour, I found her sitting in the living room again, studiously not unpacking. Her excuse – she couldn’t find the box of hangers.

Record scratch.

Wait, what? Why wouldn’t you just put the clothes, WITH hangers, into the boxes? Why would you take the time to take every single item off the hanger, pack the clothes, unpack the clothes, then put everything BACK on the hanger? Do you know how difficult it is to untangle an entire box filled with wire hangers? Jesus!

I spent quite a while unpacking books. I like to unpack books. I like to put them away by genre, in alphabetical order. That is actually fun for me. This was not fun. My mom was really helpful in that room too. She kept interrupting me to tell me that books were on the wrong shelf. I kept telling her that I was simply taking them all out first, and then organizing them after as it was far easier that way. She would nod and then tell me that something was on the wrong shelf again. I unpacked three full shelves of dog training books, one entire shelf of Harlequin romance-esque books, one shelf of books for my dad, and a shelf that had nothing on it except Good in Bed, Memoirs of a Geisha, and the Fifty Shades Trilogy. That one shelf alone might have scarred me for life. Oh, there were also multiple shelves of actual VHS and cassette tapes. If you ever need the soundtrack to Top Gun on cassette, I’m your girl.

Finally, I too, sat down on the couch. My mother turns to me and said, well, I guess your dad isn’t getting his oxygen.

Record scratch, part deux.

My dad has lung issues and needs oxygen to sleep lest he never wake up. He had been without it for a few days during the move and the new tanks had not been delivered. My mom decided to drop this little nugget of information after 5 p.m. on a Saturday, in the summer, in a house with no Internet. When I finally picked my jaw up off the floor, I immediately asked for the paperwork so I could make some calls.

My dad looked at my mom.

My mom looked at me.

“I threw that out too.”

Seriously?

Thankfully, (and after an emergency call to a doctor friend who is always willing to hand out free advice, much to my eternal thanks), with the help of my husband, an excellent customer service center rep, and a game technician who happily popped into her car long after hours to deliver his needed oxygen, the crisis was resolved. After feeding them the third meal of the day, and successfully managing to keep both of them alive one more day, I sent them home.

One point two miles away from mine. 

Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts

My parents are moving in a few weeks. It is like being smothered to death, one cardboard box at a time. They believe that certain things should not be put on a moving truck and instead, should be brought to my house for safekeeping. Their biggest concern is theft. Why anyone would steal some of this stuff is anyone’s guess. They also are taking the opportunity to clean out all the junk accumulated over almost 15 years of living in their current house. Things they always meant for me to have, but somehow never gave to me. Or things they think I should have, no matter whether or not I want them. Or things they bought a million years ago and are now “worth something.” My dad is a true believer that if you paid X for an item 10 years ago, then that item will automatically increase in price instead of decrease. This is doubly true if said item is “collectible.” Let’s be frank, nothing they collect is worth collecting. My husband and I agreed that we would take whatever they bring and either store it, keep it, or dump it. What follows is a list of the completely random items that have made the way from their house to mine.

Things I am storing:

• The past seven years of taxes
• Christmas wrapping paper – My mother didn’t realized that the rectangular storage box in which she already keeps all the damn paper is a perfectly acceptable moving container. She honestly thought everything had to be in a square box.
• Two complete sets of wedding silver – neither of which are from either of her weddings
•  Random tools, tool boxes, and tool sets - that are so laced with rust, they require thick gloves and a tetanus shot
• Family albums – filled with people I have never met, in photos that are all unlabeled
• “Art” – and yes, while I realize that art is subjective, this stuff is just beyond ugly.
•  A white chest freezer – which, I must say, looks mighty white trashy sitting smack dab in the middle of my goddamn living room

Things I am keeping:

• An antique liquor cabinet – which will house first edition and/or signed books
• A steamer trunk – which must be fully refinished to chip away the fossilized cat hair 
•  A giant toy box – It is a standard issue craft fair item, but they insist it is worth a small fortune. It’s not, but they will throw a hissy fit if I dump it.
• 24 rolls of paper towels 
• 12 boxes of mac & cheese
•  A Blair Witch angel – yes, an angel that looks like it came right out of the prop department of your basic low-budget horror movie is taking up permanent residence on my lawn because, sometimes, you need that little jolt of terror to get through your day

Things I am dumping:

• Several pounds of meat so old and freezer-burned they may actually be from a wooly mammoth
• Five pounds of frozen corn and two quarts of fake maple syrup
• A set of champagne glasses – My mom insisted that I needed wine glasses. I don’t. And even if I did, the ones she brought are clearly champagne glasses. Says it right on the package.
• A cornucopia  - because nothing says let’s give thanks for bountiful food than neon red plastic apples
• Multiple Christmas decorations that were broken, bizarre, or just plain terrifying. Carolers should not be screaming in terror.

Things I have killed:

• The mouse that joined the exodus of boxes met death by peanut butter, which, to be fair, isn’t the worst way to go

I can’t wait to see what their truck looks like when it opens up its bounty at the new house. After dumping endless piles of nonsense at my house, basement, and shed, they have also sold or donated at least three rooms worth of furniture. I fully expect a half empty truck to pull up and unload a dozen boxes of dog food and cat litter, a box of bedding, and a teapot. Then my mother will ask where the closest Boscov’s is so that she can go out and buy all the stuff she threw out. 

Neil Says “Hi” By The Way

As always, I blame Rorey for starting this.

A few months ago, she sent me a picture of a little building filled with books in a yard. She pointed out that it would be perfect for me and I should have my husband build one. As I am in the habit of doing exactly what Rorey tells me to do, I am proud to say that my official Little Free Library is now open for business. Let’s get to the specifics.

Who runs it?

I am the official steward of my library. This means that I am completely in charge of stocking it, maintaining it, and spreading the word about it. If that sounds like too much work, then you can always get a whole group of people to rally. But I love books and cultivating my own little patch of reading is heaven on a two-by-four. However, I am always, always, always, looking for donations of books: adult, kids, fiction, non-fiction, board books, comic books, and everything in between.

What is a Little Free Library?

Well, a few years ago, a guy in Wisconsin thought it would be a great idea to build a miniature one room school house (in honor of his mother), fill it with books, put a big sign on it that said FREE, and put it on his lawn. His neighbors loved it. He loved it and started building them and giving them away as gifts. Five years later, there are roughly 15,000 teeny tiny libraries all over the United States. (They are also popular in other countries.) Check out Littlefreelibrary.org for more information.

Where is it?

You can find it right in my own front yard. My brother-in-law would disown me if I put my actual address out into the ether for this, but locals know how to find me. I live on a jogging, dog-walking, bike-riding street, so hopefully I’ll get lots of foot traffic and through social media, lots of word of mouth.

When is it open? 

All the time!

How do you build one? 

Any way you want! I’ve seen birdhouses, lighthouses, magazine racks, newspaper stands, doll houses, miniature houses of all shapes and sizes, and dozens upon dozens of Tardis replicas. Make it sturdy, make it durable, make it water-resistant, but make it accessible. It has to be visible, easy to reach, and not require people to really trespass on your property to get to it. My husband is installing a little spotlight on ours. If you don’t want to build one, you can buy one right off the Little Free website.

Why did I do this?

Because Rorey told me to? Actually, it is because I love books. I am constantly putting books in my mailbox for people to borrow. I love nothing more than talking about books, reading books, and buying books. If you know me at all, you know that I am a bibliophile and a bookworm. I am not precious about it. I haven’t read Proust, or all of Shakespeare’s plays, or every book on the top 100 books of all time. I love comic books, hate the term “chick lit”, and think that if you love it, you should read it. Period. It makes me weep that the year E.L James raked in millions for 50 Shades, there was no Pulitzer given for fiction, but I do realize that 50 brought a lot of people back to reading whereas The Pale King didn’t.

But do your really, really, really want to know why I did it? I did it because books are cool. Last night, I tweeted three authors about my library, telling them that their books were inside. All three responded. Let me be clear – Neil Gaiman, Jennifer Weiner, and Joe Hill all personally responded to tell me that they loved the library. Neil F'ing Gaiman tweeted me. Then retweeted it. So did Joe Hill and Jennifer Weiner. I told them I was giving away their books, for free. I was not buying them as gifts and handing them out. I was not in any way putting a dime in their pocket for their work. And still they loved it. Why? Because they want books to be shared, loved, and discussed. (Erin Morgenstern, author of The Night Circus tweeted that she thinks the library is fantastic. I may just die happy now.)

Books are a great equalizer. When the Apocalypse comes and knocks out all the power, you can still read books. When the zombies come and start eating people, there are lots of books on how to survive. You can get books in prison, on a cruise ship, and everyplace in between. Don’t want to buy a book – borrow one from the millions of free libraries (big or small) throughout the world. All you need is the ability to read or listen. Books can take you anywhere, to any place or time. You can read about anyone, doing anything, anywhere. Books are the gifts that keep on giving. And my husband built me a library so I can share my love of books with you. Don’t let all his work go to waste.

Please, stop on by and pick one up for yourself.
Take a book, leave a book.
Always a gift, never for sale.

Mommy Dearest

A good friend gave me an excellent piece of advice today. 

She said, “Treat your mother the way you want your kids to treat you.”

Well shit.

I may just be heading for an early death smothered under a pillow if that’s the case. 

So long and thanks for all the fish.

In truth, I work very hard to keep my kids in the dark about my feelings toward my parents. All venting is done in private, to my husband, after the kids are in bed. Unfortunately, my eldest has the aural acuity of a bat. Though she tends to ignore us when we use words like clean, laundry, or shower, say the word “cookie” under your breath, in the basement, with your head in a dryer and I assure you, she will, from two floors away and the depths of sleep, come barreling down the stairs in search of the aforementioned treat. She has probably heard more than I want or realize, but I think it is the little ticks that occur whenever my mother calls that might possibly give more away than the occasional “AND THEN” echoing off the walls. Things like not answering the phone, for one. Or the fact that I often have to take a deep breath, close my eyes, count to 10 (“in Greek” quotes my inner Sean Connery), and then answer it, for another. When a visit occurs, I tend to be a bit tightly wound both before and after and as much as I try to hide it, I’m sure they notice. They notice when I change my earrings or my toenail polish, surely they notice the days when I tend to snap at them without reason.

So how can I teach my children to respect and revere me while at the same time, actively disrespecting my mother at every opportunity? It’s a stumper. You may all shake your head at me, upset at the language I use and the tone I take, thinking of how awful it would be to speak of your own beloved mothers in such a voice. I get that. I really do. But you have to give me one vice. I don’t cry. I don’t scream or shout. I tend to calmly describe my emotions instead of actually acting them out. (This has led to some truly odd conversations with my husband.) I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. I’m currently “on a break” from Ben & Jerry. The one thing I do, and I do it really, really well, is make fun of my mother.

And let’s be honest, if you all had such rich material, you would do the same. I have dined out on stories about my mother for years, possibly decades. She is legendary among my friends and acquaintances. She is not abusive, she is not harmful (in large doses), and she is not dangerous. However, she is, completely and utterly batshit crazy. I share her stories in a sane, rational voice to help others enjoy and appreciate their own mothers. I have never exaggerated a story. I have never lied about something she has said or done. I don’t need to. In all instances, the truth is strange than fiction.

As my parents get older, I will take care of them. It’s the right thing to do and I am the only person to do it. I’m okay with that. While I don’t necessarily want them living on my block, living in the next town is perfectly acceptable. I don’t mind being the parent in the relationship; I just wish the actual parent did not dress like a toddler run amok in the Disney store. While it would be nice if my advice was taken as Gospel, I’d be fine with it at least being the Book of Mormon. I don’t mind listening to a seemingly endless play-by-play of last week’s episode of The Amazing Race as long as the same conversation includes an equally detailed accounting of my dad’s last doctor visit. It’s all about moderation. I will help them in their life, but I will not let them take over mine.

So, how will I teach my children to do as I say but not as I do? Simple – by showing them that a sense of humor can get you through just about anything in life - even a visit with my mother. For the time being, I’ll still work blue, but I’ll at least try to stay pastel. Because, let’s be real, when the midden hits the windmill, it will be an important life lesson for them to learn that even when you can’t keep your cool, you can always keep your wit.