Birthday season

We were frustrated.

Love my hat though.

The Son missed his SAT testing date (too much throwing up), lost his retainer ($400), and was not having the baseball season he imagined for himself (a little bit his own fault but not entirely).  I wouldn’t have known most of this except there are so many portals to check, assess and navigate, I really had no choice.  There was a highlight, however:  Mr. Halfstory and I examined our unsatisfactory shower situation – which has the same temperature and pressure as spit – and suddenly remembered: you can adjust the hot water heater.  Amazing!  Years ago we’d set it to a “child-friendly” temperature and had never reassessed.  Our children were never scalded!  We feel good about that.

One particularly irritating day I consumed:

I would recommend these only in moderation.

Of course, we did have five birthdays to celebrate.  The Son’s cake:

None of my kids like frosting (appalling) so I instead decorated it with little signs to remind him of his loving mother.

Then the girls got thumped by a well-coached team in the playoffs.  First round.  As a friend and I often mention, our youth-sports-centered memoirs will be titled The Ride Home.

But enough about all that.

I am almost through with Life After Life, by one of my favorite authors, Kate Atkinson.  I saw her read from One Good Turn years ago and she seemed remarkably normal.  Actually, that day she seemed annoyed and tired; her talk was at 10:00am on a Monday and there were maybe five women in attendance, all of them – including me – looking like sleepy housewives.

I do very much like this book, although – wow – my head is spinning from its structure and complexity.  Ursula is born and reborn again and again (which means she dies repeatedly and in different ways) into the same family, each time living a bit longer and, of course, making different choices, resulting in varied outcomes.  It’s fascinating and inventive stuff and Atkinson is the perfect author to tackle this.  That said, it’s an exhausting journey, and, true to Atkinson form, one that has razor sharp humor and disturbing violence, often in the same paragraph.  I love how she reveals character depth in subtle ways.  Sylvie, Ursula’s mother, is loving and icy (possibly just a product of her generation but I’m not that generous).  Pamela might be an ally or a distant sister and Hugh, Ursula’s father, is her constant star…so far.  I don’t trust Atkinson, but this is a good thing.  A reader does need surprises, and well-written ones are always welcome.

Mr. Halfstory and I recently saw a bit of live theatre (it’s fun to type that), Black Watch, produced by ACT in San Francisco and showing at the Armory on 14th and Mission.  Small detail:  my mom used to drive us by this building when we were misbehaving.  It was abandoned at the time.  (Oddly enough, a few years back it was sold to a porn film company, but I don’t have further details on that.)  We would roll around in the back of the car, fully aware she was mad, and she would slow down and tell us it was an orphanage and she was going to leave us there if we didn’t Knock It Off Immediately.  I encourage you to google it; it’s a medieval torture chamber building.  Good times.  Anyhow, Black Watch is the story of Scotland’s famed Black Watch regiment and the events surrounding its deployment to Iraq.  I can’t pretend to understand why men go to war or want to go to war.  Or, for that matter, why they ever want to fight for their mates, especially when they are often responsible for constructing opposing sides in the first place.  So that part of it was completely foreign to me.  However, the staging, the performances and the timely subject matter shouldn’t be missed.  Plus, you get to go inside what used to be my orphanage home.

 

Mom was a delinquent

My mother opened with:  when she was 16 (somewhere around 1948), she decided to not continue with high school.  Just because.  She took her older sister’s ID and got a job shipping movie posters (among other secretarial duties) to various agents. Only this was before the country was blanketed with zip codes and she often mixed places up, like Novato and Nevada.  She lasted only a few months and everyone kept calling her “Inez,” which, of course, was not her name.   Her scam was revealed and her other older sister retrieved her, returning her to high school.  This story surfaced while we were sitting in Baja Cantina, a non-swanky Mexican restaurant in Carmel Valley.  The girls and I were having a brief respite from ripe softball cleats, unmanageable algebra and the below:

To be fair, Mr. Halfstory is a stellar laundry folder. But he also creates most of it, as does The Son and Heir.

The girls in Carmel, because my mom and I have a monopoly on the unphotogenic gene.

Reconstructing Amelia, by Kimberley McCreight, is yet another disturbing book about mean girls, but because it’s the 21st century, their weapons are more devastating and far-reaching.  Gone are the good old days of spitballs and the wrong pair of jeans; these girls can give you an eating disorder with Instagram.  I liked the book because of the pacing and because I am a sucker for a well-paced thriller.  It’s been thrown in the same beach bag as Gone Girl, but, in my opinion, it doesn’t come close for plot twists and character reversals.  That said, if you want to be truly disturbed by the younger generation’s 24/7 access to each other, go ahead.  There is a mother figure but she barely registers as a character, as I assume most mothers do for teenage girls.  Personally, I believe the younger set has far more going for it than mine ever did, and despite the problems on the horizon involving coming off medications (this includes my generation, unfortunately), I think we’re in decent hands.

Also read an incredible love story, the best one I’ve read in a long while, titled Eleanor  & Park, by Rainbow Rowell.  Yes, it’s a teen book, but the characters are multi-faceted, lovable, annoying, heroic and heartbreaking.  Taking place in the late 80′s, two teens fall reluctantly in love, then try to navigate a relationship complicated by an evil parent, a few bullies, a few unlikely friends, the importance of learning how to drive a stick, and the music of The Smiths.

Finally, Relish, My Life in the Kitchen, by Lucy Knisley, is the chewy memoir you may want to swallow whole.  An adult graphic novel (which sounds kind of edgy but doesn’t have to be), it’s the story of one girl’s upbringing as the daughter of a chef and a gourmet.  I don’t read many graphic novels but, as my friend Aisling observed, a cooking memoir in graphic form is exactly right.  Think of it as brain candy with a twist, and if you don’t want to keep it, you can briefly revisit your long-ago comic book desires, and pass it along to another hungry reader.

Glaswegian alert

I was kind of a weird kid.  Didn’t have a ton of friends, tended to fib a lot, spent far too much time under the church next door.  Yes, I said under.  We lived in Diamond Heights, which, as I’ve mentioned before, was wind-swept, cold and hilly.  There was a lot of ice plant and rocks. My first bike got stolen the day I got it (This was all right.  Too many hills and I probably would have sold it anyway.).  Structures tended to be up on stilts, which afforded plenty of cool hiding areas for raccoons, spiders, delinquent boys and me.  When my tall stories were uncovered I began hangin’ with Matt next door.  We were the same age and he could talk me into any sort of shenanigans (nothing too awful, just your basic boosting Milky Ways and writing-in-wet-cement stuff – we were young).  The only problem with Matt was he blamed me for everything, even if he broke it and I was miles away.  But that’s what I got for lying to potential friends about my famous dad and my mom’s bottomless wealth.  And by this I mean non-existent and, um, non-existent.

So I picked up The Death of Bees, by Lisa O’Donnell.  The prologue is off-putting.  Having read Room, and The Lovely Bones and The Road, and, oh yes, Geek Love ages ago, I have experience with disturbing books.  Come to think of it, it’s a lot like Geek Love, the details of which are still burned into my brain; it’s really not for everyone.  But I believe in the weirdness of family.  And I believe in the extraordinary power of family love, even if it’s ghastly and messy and sweet, all at the same time.   So I finished Bees and ended up liking it quite a bit.  Two sisters find themselves covering up their parents’ death in Glasgow. They (perhaps) have a pedophile neighbor, a sketchy boyfriend, and two friends of the older sister who seem like trouble, but who understand more about loyalty and love than most.  Then there’s the charming grandfather who re-enters their lives.  Plus, they’ve got their own issues, which, because they’re poor, are not responsibly addressed in society.  As with valuable disturbing books (as opposed to gratuitously disturbing books, for which I have NO patience), horrific details are lurking in the shadows between the sentences; the reader will have to extrapolate, but that’s better.  Trust me.  Aside from a grisly opening sequence about moving dead bodies, the characters will steal you away and make you ponder your own weird family, like it or not.   Aside:  all kinds of literary incidents are happening in Glasgow, all of them dark and haunting.  Check out Denise Mina, for one, if you are a mystery fan.

And a few notes on my offspring:

Ramona on Downton Abbey: “It’s really all about silverware and toast.”

Yvette on The Son’s fiction writing talents: “All of your female characters are either going to die or they’re hobos.”

Boys:  Is Axe the new gateway drug?  Seems like every 13-14-year-old boy blankets himself in Axe until every adult feels like they’ve been shellacked.  Here’s what I told several parents of younger boys:  eventually they move onto SpeedStick Sport, with a brief, mom-driven foray into Tom’s Natural, finally arriving at Old Spice Fiji body spray (and then you can assume they’ve discovered someone they’d like to attract, or are covering up a lack of showering).

Viva!

Aisling said: “What you have is not depression.  What you have is lack-of-Hawaii.”

I suppose this is why it’s taken me forever to finish one book, one book with only 288 pages, although I very much liked it.  I have been busy, not being depressed (although that is an excuse sometimes), but I have been:

worrying about 2/3 of my children visiting Cuba.  They survived the ratty hotel, the wandering cannibal chickens in the dining room and almost getting hit by the Cuban bus on the bike tour.  Ramona now has a ten-year-old Cuban boyfriend who thought her glasses were “very beautiful.”  The Son negotiated, in very, very broken Spanish, a trade for a professional Cuban ballplayer’s glove.  Yep, he still lobbed his helmet in the dugout but that’s a playing-time/personality issue.  He paced the stands when his sister was batting and gave her the “spotlight” gesture when she laced one up the middle.

worrying about sacroiliac injuries.  It’s true, even though the last time I heard that word I think Foghorn Leghorn said it.  Mr. Halfstory seems to have this, evidenced by him keeling over in a painful heap early one Monday morning.  Kind of reminded me of childbirth, only without the bonus of a yummy baby.

the drama of junior varsity baseball and beginning the softball season 0-4.  Nothing more to say here, except: when you are 16 and 14, all of this is a VERY BIG DEAL and you have to remind them playing sports is a privilege and if they don’t QUIT complainin’, well, sacroiliac injuries may occur.

driving the van-of-shame, which has morphed into the anger-wagon, rolling down the hill toward Geometry and Social Issues, steam rising from three sets of iPod headphones, knees folded up their ears (it is a Prius after all), incensed that school is a legal obligation.

When I was nine I crammed my two harassed-looking Barbie dolls into my sister’s make-up case, along with some Cheez-Its, and trotted down the hill seeking adventure, or at least some respite from my house.  We called it Hotel California because there were so many people, relatives and non, living there.  I was sleeping on the couch at the time, although I was destined for my own room pretty soon.  But until that happened I was subject to musical loops of Led Zeppelin, Santana and Tower of Power, and the ruckus of three older brothers and an older sister trying to get away with all sorts of stuff while my mom pretended to sleep.  Point is, I learned to take my brain away even if I couldn’t get physically far enough away.

Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore, by Robin Sloan, gives us the secret of immortality.  It is the 13th sentence from the end of the book, or maybe it’s sooner, or maybe you knew it all along.  You won’t see it coming, or, if you do, you’re a better person than I.  Written in breezy, youthful lingo, it’s a fun romp, with characters that sneak up on you until suddenly, you’re rooting for them.  Clay is young, hip, smart, and aimless, in that understandable but irritating way of anyone under 30.  Basically, though, he’s a nice guy with a heck of a lot of incredible technology at his disposal.  I must admit: I understood the “coding” portions of the book very little.  It didn’t matter.  Robin Sloan is a clever writer with a good grasp on pace.  And somehow, he gives us a hopeful slant on the digitized future.  As someone who doesn’t understand Twitter or Instagram or how my Facebook page changes every 12 seconds without me doing it, I appreciate this.

Here are a few Cuba photos, courtesy of Ramona, who brought back thoughtful gifts for all of us, and even at her outraged age, seemed to appreciate Cuban hospitality. Viva!

On marriage and rickshaws

It took me so long to read The Newlyweds, by Nell Freudenberger, I figured I would witness this couple’s fifth anniversary.  I carried that book around with me, mentally adding up my library fines, until I thought I was part of the family.  I decided, however, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Amina and George, the newlyweds, grew on me, as did their strange little lives and crazy little families, right down to a cousin romance and acid throwing in Bangladesh.  Freudenberger weaves a complex story of identity, love and family; all the characters struggle with some aspect of these issues, or all. By the end, you’re not sure where anyone belongs or whom anyone should love.  I liked noting the differences between Amina worrying about her job at a Rochester Starbucks and Amina riding around in a ‘Desh rickshaw (that’s what us locals call Bangladesh).  Not a lot of joy or excitement awaits the reader here, but if you want a quiet story of ordinary dreams, it’s a good choice, and one that will make you contemplate your own.

Speaking of library fines, Mr. Halfstory, having racked up $6.70 for The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, jumped right into the newest Jack Reacher and plowed through like a starving man on a meatball sandwich.  I think Roger’s murder, controversial though it was in the 40′s, was not the conversation piece I was hoping for when I suggested he read it.  I clip many things for Halfstory to read and often just read stuff out loud because I grow weary of watching old magazine articles pile up on the mini-fridge.  The trick is to read it to him while he’s reading the sports section because it’s really fun to watch him turn his head slowly toward me, veiling the irritation while feigning interest.  It’s an art and I respect it.  It’s probably why he makes fun of the way I eat potato chips (I have no idea) and why he says things like “what can I safely say to your mother?”  Currently he is downstairs watching a Brosnan Bond film, the one with Denise Richards as a nuclear scientist, for the love of god, because the last three movies I’ve chosen have “all been about crazy people and it’s torture.”  As a couple, they cannot make Jason Bourne films fast enough; our love of Matt Damon has added a certain dimension to our marriage.  That, and anything on Masterpiece Mystery or something with Tina Fey.  Hey, what about Tina on Masterpiece?!

I shouldn’t dog him too hastily.  I took the girls to see the Dutch Masters at the deYoung Museum last week and, as we were leaving, he said without breaking his eyes away from the six-hour pre-Super Bowl coverage, “their use of light is incredible.”  There was no one in the room to impress; actually, at the time,, he was sitting on the laundry.  But it made me think we might get to our 20-year mark.  That is, if he keeps quiet about the potato chip issue.

Battlegrounds

Billy Lynn is an infantryman, a 19-year-old being celebrated, along with his other Bravo soldiers, for their recent wartime heroism.  Trouble is, he can’t quite get his young mind around why none of it makes any sense, although, by the end, it’s Billy’s maturity and clarity (even if a bit alcohol-soggy) that makes the most sense.  Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk, by Ben Fountain, is a heartbreaking book, one that takes place during a single, long day in Texas, specifically during a Dallas Cowboys football game.  Like the L. E. said, it should be required reading for all politicians.   (Horton Hears a Who should be, too, but that’s a different tangent.)  Fountain brings us into Billy’s head as he reconciles a fellow soldier’s death, an intoxicating redhead who will either break his heart or save it, a loving but polarizing family and one very large and amoral businessman, not to mention the constant stinging attention of well-meaning people who shout “thank you” at every juncture.  I think it’s Shakespearean at its core, given its time span and the universal themes Fountain tackles, together with some relevant – and modern – cynicism.  But I loved it for its sweet and gutsy hero and his buddies, all of whom are in an impossibly horrific situation…because after all the celebrations they have to go back to Iraq.  And they know they are already shattered.  And so, what we really have here is not a support-the-troops party, but a way to foster more support for a war that should never have happened.  Fountain has a great ear for male dialogue (one would hope) and the urgency of youth.  Read it.

My friend Teresa is a voracious reader, although she was anxious over my last recommendation: “Woman, on page 234 and still no action for the Major” her last text read.  She’s been taking very good care of my girls’ sparkly nails while absorbing and weighing in on those particularly intense complaints vibes that are a teenage girl’s mood swings.

Commiserating with Ramona that, yes, her mother never understands anything.

We met 12 years ago while passing each other on the street, each of us holding a black-eyed twin (my mom and her friend were holding the other black-eyed twins next to us), and became fast friends based on our distinct and rare dumbfoundedness at how we landed in such an affluent and weird town.  She and her husband gave great parties – everyone in 6-inch heels and tailored shirts, tireless, moving from room to room, until the last diehards finally met in the center of the house, the window-free “party room.”  Teresa maintained there was money hidden there by the previous owner but they hadn’t been able to locate it yet.  Mr. Halfstory and I would just leave, overwhelmed by platters of Persian and Mexican food and good wine (the kind we get for gifts!), my natural social awkwardness finally exposing itself.  ”Woman, why are you running away?”  she would ask me, appearing at my side, sparkly and bejeweled.  I would try and  explain our version of a night out:  sitting in the newer car clutching bottles of cold Red Hook, maybe squeezing in a short nap.  Hey, it was the only space unconquered by dog hair, cheese sticks and Playmobil weapons.  We knew where the kids were because they were pressing their faces against the living room window and we were parked in the driveway.  There are several women I would want near me in a battle (Annette, Jenn, Marcie, to name a few, mostly to keep me from poor decision-making tactics and uncontrollable emotions), and Teresa would most assuredly be among them.  ”Woman, don’t even get me started on J. Lo.”

Tell the clowns I’m gone

Clowns were never really my thing.  Truthfully, when I was a child they scared the beejezus out of me.  So when we took the kids to see my dad after 14 years of not seeing him, I had to warn them.  He has collected clowns all his life, something I discovered when I visited his office 32 or so years ago and discovered dozens of sad-faced clowns staring at me.  Shot glass collections I understand.  Spoons?  Sure, but unlikely we will be buddies!  Sea glass, I applaud.  Clowns.  Hmmm.  Anyway, his house – and maybe this is a generational thing – was a bit like staying overnight in a really clean thrift store.  He lives in a very small town in southern Oregon, where the population is pretty darn old and working families can’t see a future.  I have to say it’s unnerving to not see youth walking around with that particular immortal attitude they should have.  But then the drive up the coast was startlingly beautiful and startlingly sad: too many towns without employment.  Lots of people hanging out looking “sketch,” as the kids say.   Not my dad’s house, though.  ”Share with me your sadness and I’ll share with you my joy,” the bathroom doorstop clown head proclaimed.  This was next to the life-sized Schnauzer figurine display.

That’s Birdie the dog on his lap, chewing on a towel.

The Son and I took the above Birdie on a little sojourn around the block where we encountered many  - wait for it – Pomeranians barking at us from steamy picture windows while their owners parted the drapes and (probably) wondered if we were stealing mail.  I respect neighbors like this.  I consider myself the Mrs. Kravitz of my block and it made me think they had my dad’s back.  We turned the corner only to encounter more of the Pomeranian Mafia further down the block; stomping their paws like fists.  Birdie was freaked; we picked her up and scuttled back to Dad’s.

Around 3:30 a.m. I finished Carol Rifka Brunt’s Tell the Wolves I’m Home and Caitlin Moran’s How To Be A Woman.   Dad gets up anywhere from 3:30 to 5:00 and he was displaced from his ESPN-watching lounger by Mr. Halfstory and Ramona, curled into sleeping bags by the fireplace.  The bedrooms were not heated and at night it drops to a clown-friendly 30 degrees.  Wolves isn’t considered a teen book, although it has a teen protagonist.  It’s the early 80′s  and June’s uncle Finn has died from AIDS.  No one understood the disease then; it had insinuated itself, brutal and heartless, into an unsuspecting world.  Growing up in San Francisco, I remember listening to people – normal people, people I liked and respected – say they were afraid to be in the same room as someone with AIDS.  June deals with all this, an older sister who spends her time both torturing June and depending on her.  Finn was an acclaimed artist and the painting he leaves them – of June and her sister Greta – becomes a conduit for communication, for treachery and for redemption.  Along the way June has to face her own fringe-dwelling self, and she does this in and around New York City.  The setting is important, I think; no other City could absorb or consume all this and spit a person back out, intact.

I would very much like to have my girls read How to be a Woman, because I can describe it as both raunchy and intellectual, but they are probably still too young.  Two or three years from now it will make for some laugh-until-you-snort discussions.  The book is one of the better series of essays on feminism, and all it’s adjacent issues, right down to ruminations on correct underwear, childbirth and porn (not necessarily in the same essay; don’t be scared!)  It was an interesting book to think about while driving down the gorgeous Oregon and Northern California coast, myrtle wood bear sculptures and plaid jackets aside.  I concluded I would happily take a road trip with Ms. Moran; she would have juicy opinions about the 100-foot-tall Paul Bunyan and Babe statues we had the pleasure to see.