Podcast-A-Palooza (Part 2)

I'm back with more of my favorite podcasts, even though I'm feeling a touch bitter about the iPhone podcast app redesign.  Seriously, it's enough to make to me look for a new podcast catcher.  It went from being easy (both to see and navigate -- my eyes are getting old, people), to being some complicated format better suited to a tablet or laptop-sized screen.  So find these podcasts however you prefer; just be sure that if you really enjoy a specific podcast, you subscribe to it and rate it on iTunes, as it makes it more visible for other iTunes listeners/podcast news.  You don't want your new favorite podcast getting cancelled, now do you? (All Hail, King Apple!) On an unrelated note, auto-correct really wants me to call these posts, "Podcast-a-Palooka," which seems a very different post altogether.  

Let's get started.

History/Educational Podcasts (aka Learning CAN be fun!)

You Must Remember This

Do you love old movies as much as I do?  Do you think Turner Classic Movies is the only cable station that really matters?  Do you geek out over the dudes that give the background/history chats before and after the films on TCM?  (Ben Mankiewicz fangirl in the house!)  This is your podcast.  Karina Longworth hosts and writes this heavily researched (and generally themed) series of programs about "the forgotten history" of old Hollywood.  Really, the only downside of this podcast is the weirdly emphasized diction and pronunciations of the host. (Think an American Eliza Doolittle before she quite got the hang of the King's English.)  Currently, she's doing a series on the Hollywood Blacklist, which is fascinating, with the stories of such actors as Lena Horne, Jane Russell, and Charlie Chaplin, not to mention a whole lot of Howard Hughes.  Her previous seasons/series have also been stellar.  Don't miss her past episodes on Bogie and Baby and Hepburn and Tracy, two of my favorite Hollywood power couples.

**Not safe with kids in the car.  There are direct quotes from the subjects with the occasional F-bomb.

Stuff Mom Never Told You

This informative and well-researched podcast, hosted by Cristin Conger and Caroline Ervin, covers everything from the histories of birth control and women's suffrage to a breakdown of the women's pay gap or the history of Japan's comfort women, from the perspective of two smart and well-informed feminists.  This program may delve into history and politics, but there's nothing dry or dusty about the fascinating facts these two ladies dig up.  This program also has a fabulous YouTube channel, which I'll talk about more in an upcoming post on my YouTube/BookTube favorites.

(Important note: Make sure you download the SMNTY audio podcast.  The other podcast downloads the videos from the YouTube channel.)

**Safe with kids in the car as long as the topic itself is kid-friendly.

Invisibilia

This is another podcast that's been on hiatus for awhile.  Good news is that new episodes will be back June 17th!  And don't forget there's all of season one to be discovered.  If you're interested in how the brain works and what makes us do and think what we do and think, this is the podcast for you.  A killer combination of science and story, this is another one of those can't-get-out-of-the-car-yet kind of listens.

**Unless the subject is specifically inappropriate, this one is kid-safe. (Though it's been awhile so don't hold me to that.)


More Bookish Podcasts

Beeks and Geeks

This is the publisher, Penguin Random House's, weekly author interview podcast.  It's a relatively recent discovery for me, that is a little hit-or-miss depending not the author being interviewed.  Don't get me wrong.  The interviews are solid, so long as it's an author you care about, or at least one that has something interesting to say.  I recommend listening to Emily St. John Mandel's interview, and Faith Salie's recent episode was also excellent.

**Should be safe for kids in the car (or at least it has been so far.)

The New Yorker: Fiction

Love the fiction that makes it into The New Yorker?  Want to hear it read by famous authors who are fangirling/fanboy-ing (is that last one a word?) as much as you?  This is your podcast.  My recommendations are: David Sedaris reading Miranda July's "Roy Spivey." Salman Rushdie reading Donald Barthelme's "Concerning the Bodyguard." And last but not least, Monica Ali reading Joshua Ferris' "The Dinner Party."  If you enjoy this podcast, they also have one called The Author's Voice, where the writers read their own work.

**Usually not kid-friendly, a fun fact that I learned when I accidentally let play a Denis Johnson story about a character named, "Fuckhead," with my then four-year old in the car.


So it looks like there's going to be a part 3 because I still have no many awesome podcasts to recommend.  Until then, happy listening.

Out of Sorts Launch Team - Sarah Bessey

Last Wednesday was a bad day.  Actually, last week was a bad week.  I'm not going to break down every gory detail, but let's just say it was one of those weeks that we all have and would like to pretend don't happen.  But it did, and Wednesday was exceptionally bad.  Like lemon juice on a paper cut bad.  

Before I slip into some serious hyperbole, however, let me tell you something GOOD that happened on Wednesday.  I got an email saying that I was on the launch team for Sarah Bessey's upcoming book, Out of Sorts!!!!  What does this mean, you ask?  Well, let me tell you.  I get to read Out of Sorts NOW instead of having to wait until the release date, November 3.  As I read (and after), I will be posting and tweeting and talking about and promoting this amazing book every chance I get, and I am honored by this opportunity.  In addition, all of the launch team folks (from all over the world) have a secret group page on Facebook (secret probably isn't the right word, but it just sounded so important and mysterious) where we can chat and share and just generally soak up all the good vibes of fellow Bessey readers.  So all in all, a great deal and a much-needed positive in an otherwise horrible week.

So your next question: Who is Sarah Bessey, and why should I care?  If you know me even distantly, or have read my blog, you have probably heard me talk about Sarah Bessey's first book Jesus Feminist, a book so amazing I read it twice, and I can already tell that Out of Sorts will definitely require re-reading.  Sarah Bessey is a Canadian author who grew up in church, took a step or two away from organized religion, then came back with a changed perspective.  She writes about all the questions and doubts that make so many evangelical fundamentalists uncomfortable.  She doesn't shy away from uncomfortable; in fact, she rejoices in it.  Her first book was full of joy and insight and humor, and at just past the halfway mark in the new title, I would have to say that #2 is following the same pattern.  

I will be writing more (and in more depth) about this book both here and in my various social media accounts.  But for now, more time writing means less time reading this amazing book.  So I'm going to back to it!

Needing All the Stuff, or Hurry Up Birthday

I'm working from Barnes & Noble today while Kiddo bounces her little heart out at summer day camp.  When I dropped her off this morning, there was nary a backward glance after she spotted the bouncy castle and inflatable bouncy slide.  There will be one dirty, sweaty little girl in my backseat come one o'clock.

I've set up camp in the BN cafe, but I'm managing to do everything but the work that I actually need to do.  So much procrastination.  But it's not my fault.  It's difficult to concentrate when you want all the things.

Especially the Wonder Woman mug.  I NEED the Wonder Woman mug.

Also in my current Must Have Now list are:

Stone Mattress, Margaret Atwood

Saint Maize, Jami Attenberg

In the Country, Mia Alvar

Summerlong, Dean Bakopoulos

Born with Teeth, Kate Mulgrew

Too bad that I'm all out of gift receiving opportunities until October.  Anyone for a second Mother's Day?

What I'm Reading

When people know you are a writer who also reads voraciously (is there another kind?), you gets lots of requests for recommendations.  This can be challenging when you don't know the person or their tastes or can't remember which books you've read lately that might be a good fit.  Enter the reading diary:

It's mostly just a list of books, authors, and start/finish dates (though there are occasional notes on especially good favorites), but it's something that never occurred to me to do until the beginning of 2014 (year of the #readwomen2014 movement).  I found that I loved keeping a list of what/who I read, and because I read acquisitionally (yes, that is a made-up word -- I read a book to absorb its powers and move on to the next), it's a great way to track the number of titles read in a year/month.  So here are a few of my recent reads:

How to Build a Girl, Caitlin Moran

This is not a book I would recommend to everyone.  I really enjoyed it.  I mean, really couldn't put it down.  The voice of the main character is funny and smart and a complete idiot, all the things we are as adolescents and young adults.  The subject matter is not a good fit for more conservative readers, however.  There is sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll, but mostly sex and drugs.  Great feminist read.

Raised Right, Alisa Harris

This memoir is written by a woman who is -- as she freely admits -- awfully young to be writing a memoir.  Her exploration of finding her way through her transition from conservative to progressive politics is heartfelt and true, if not particularly broad or innovative.  It was still worth reading, especially if you're a young person still sorting out your own personal beliefs.

The Yiddish Policemen's Union, Michael Chabon

I am a HUGE fan of Chabon.  I liked Wonder Boys and Telegraph Avenue, and I LOVED The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (one of my all time favorites.)  And this was another of his titles that had been recommended to me in the past.  The concept behind this story is so so interesting.  I love the alternate world where the book is set.  The main characters are wonderfully flawed and intriguing.  My only real problem with this book is that parts of it seemed really slow.  Still I finished it, and it had a satisfying ending.

Gilead, Marilynne Robinson

This is the most beautiful book I ever didn't enjoy.  I feel really bad that I didn't love this more.  The writing and story are so lovely, and I think part of the problem for me was that I just wasn't in the mood for this kind of book at the time.  So chalk this one up as something I was able to appreciate but wouldn't recommend unless you're in the mood for a meandering meditation on God, religion, and rural life.

Area X (The Southern Reach Trilogy), Jeff Vandermeer

This is actually three books: Annihilation, Authority, and Acceptance re-released in one volume.  I am presently about halfway through the second section (Authority).  So far, I am absolutely loving this book.  It's sci-fi.  It's dystopian (a particular weakness of mine).  It's written as well as any literary fiction you find on the New Releases shelf at your local bookstore.  So much creepiness and mystery and character study.  I find myself not wanting to put this book down, but also trying to pace myself so it doesn't end too quickly.  A must read for nerdy types who like good writing.

Reading Crazy

It's Sunday night, and I'm holed up grading papers while my husband watches TV and my books languish on my night stand.  Of course after over two weeks of prednisone, it's probably safer for everyone concerned that I be kept under lock and key.  I was so keyed up yesterday that the smallest annoyance took on epic proportions, and sitting still and following an hour-long television program was impossible.  The good news is that today was the last of that hateful drug, and so tomorrow I should begin to come back down from my steroid mania.  I'm certain everyone in this house will be glad to see the back of Crazy Sarah.

It's going to be another hectic week, full of appointments and classes and general life maintenance.  Here's hoping that I don't crash from prednisone withdrawal as I have in the past, or the week could get a whole lot trickier.  After all the chaos from my illness, I'm constantly feeling a step or three behind, and I realized late Friday afternoon that I double-booked myself for tomorrow morning (doctor's appointment and Kiddo's preschool field trip.)  So now, I'm crossing my fingers that the rain nixes the field trip (they have an alternate date -- I'm not that terrible), so I can make it to my appointment.  Meanwhile, I feel more like a flake than I have since I was pregnant.  I'm still not sure what happened to that organized, no-nonsense, never procrastinating woman who used to live here.  I miss that chick sometimes.  Okay, all the time.

While I haven't been able to watch anything on tv more complicated than episodes of Bob's Burgers (which is AWESOME, by the way), I can, for some reason, read like a fiend while in the midst of my prednisone insanity.  It's so weird because you'd think that would be harder to do than watching television when your brain is on fast forward.  Nevertheless, I've been powering through my TBR list like a boss.  Recently finished:

The Buried Giant, Kazuo Ishiguro.  Not quite the fantasy revelation I'd seen in reviews, but okay.

The Paying Guests, Sarah Waters.  This made so many lists in 2014, but basically it was just a happy-ending lesbian love story/implausible crime novel -- and not that great of one at that.  it was kind of like if Jodi Picoult were British and wrote historical fiction.

Yes, Please, Amy Poehler.  This was entertaining.  If you like Tina Fey's Bossypants, you'll love this too.  The structure is pretty random, and I wasn't personally interested in most of the Parks and Rec stuff, but overall it was a good read.  Also, she and Fey are the only two memoir writers I've read who were like, "Hey, our parents were so great and supportive and wonderful."  It was kind of refreshing.

Currently in-progress:

All the Light We Cannot See, Anthony Doerr.  I'm only a few pages into this.  I tried to start it over a week ago, and then library books came in that needed to be read, so now I'm starting over.  But I like it so far -- even if it does have these little mini-chapters that I'm not completely sold on yet.

Searching for Sunday, Rachel Held Evans.  This one isn't even supposed to be out till Tuesday, but apparently Barnes & Noble stores across the country started shelving it on Friday night, so I swooped in and snagged a copy.  So so good thus far.  Beautiful writing about faith and doubt.  Plus I get to be one of the cook kids and read it before everybody else.

Next up in the queue are some used book store finds that are about as dissimilar as you can get:

Wild, Cheryl Strayed.  I've been listening to her Dear Sugar podcast.

Lady Chatterley's Lover, D.H. Lawrence. Because I've never read it.

House of Sand and Fog, Andre Dubus III.  It was $2.

So Over It (or Everyone Should Just Shut Up and Eat Their Own Burger)

This is me being so over talking about women's bodies.  About my body.  This is me begging you to wear whatever it is you want to wear without worrying about sagging skin or cellulite or knobby knees.  This is me after a harrowing weekend of clothes shopping (one of my least favorite things ever) and that fresh hell they call the ladies' fitting room.  After two years of nearly constant sickness and a year of significant weight loss, this is me being over the way almost-strangers feel entitled to pass judgment on other women's health, weight, eating habits, or medical treatments.  Right now, I am closing the curtains, shutting the door, locking it down.  I can't change others, but I can make sure that I never again make those kinds of statements or judgments.

It starts nearly at birth.  Of course, I don't remember those days, but I have a little girl now.  I've seen it in action.  The comments about her appearance above all else, her "prettiness."  I know I've done it myself to others.  To her.  I find myself looking at her and thinking, "I hope she doesn't inherit my pancake butt" or "I'm so glad she got her daddy's nose."  And then I catch myself and feel a little sick. This is a child who was reading at age four, who never meets a stranger, who has the biggest heart.  So what does it matter if she has two heads and a prehensile tail?

Except it does.  It matters when you start school and your body isn't shaped exactly like the majority of the other little girls.  It matters when clothes aren't made or marketed for petite/tall/skinny/fat girls or women, and you're left facing that fluorescent-lit dressing room mirror in ill-fitting clothes that make you feel isolated and different and not at all like the happy-looking women plastered all over the shop walls.  It matters when puberty hits and you're the only one who gains fifty pounds or still looks like a nine-year old.  Girls get labeled "late bloomers" or "very developed." Boys get called, uh, wait a minute.  They don't get labeled anything.

If only it were a matter of getting through childhood and adolescence, it might be manageable.  But it doesn't get better.  Finish college -- hell, be the valedictorian -- what's the next question? When are you getting married?  And this from people who don't know your telephone number or your taste in movies.  When are you "starting a family"? (Because you can't call two people a family, apparently.) When are you having another?  You're too thin.  You look anorexic.  You should eat more.  You're doing too much.  STOP!

I am married to kind, loving, attractive man.  We are the same age, have similar levels of education, similar temperaments, etc.  I have never once heard him debate a piece of clothing because he didn't like a certain part of his body.  Nobody cares what he eats.  No relative strangers ever suggest that any of his problems might be a result of his own ignorance, neglect, or inability to care for himself.  Doctors and other professionals never treat him like he's hysterical or over-wrought.  In fact, most doctors and the like are the same gender as he, so he isn't some mysterious other to them.  People don't suggest that he should do less before he wrecks his health. When we were expecting our daughter, no one felt entitled to touch him or ask personal questions and offer comments about our chosen delivery method or feeding choices.

So what does all this rambling rage have to do with anything?  Simply this.  It doesn't matter to me what your "body-type" is.  I couldn't care less if you are a vegetarian, a paleo devotee, or die-hard burger aficionado.  I don't care what you choose to wear.  If it makes you feel strong and confident, you should be able to wear it.  Whatever it is.  Regardless of whether or not you have breasts and hips.  I want you to be in charge of your own health and well-being, communicating with your doctors and ignoring the incessant babble of pseudo-medical advice that is constantly on offer from every talk-show-watching, internet browsing, random person you meet.  Make retailers offer women's clothes that are sized by actual measurements, not arbitrary number sizes meant to inflate the egos of upper-middle class women facing the middle age spread.  Refuse to answer probing questions about your relationship status or procreative plans.  Praise your little girls for their brains, their kindness, their ability to climb or dance.  But most of all, just stop talking about weight, about most hated body parts, about genetic "flaws."  Stop analyzing the bodies of celebrity women, or even women who pass you in the street.  There are so many more interesting (and important) things out there to discuss.  This little rant is for me too.  I'm just as guilty as everyone else of obsessing about my appearance and making mindless comments to others.  So, here's what I'm going to try.  If I wouldn't say it to (or about) a man (or a boy), I shouldn't say it.

And also, the next person who tells me to eat something, is getting force-fed my copy of The Feminine Mystique.

[Get Out of My] Cabin Fever

I officially have "Get Out of My Cabin" Fever.  This particular illness differs from the more traditional, Cabin Fever, in that it requires every else in the house to leave and enjoy the outside world, whilst I remain home in my cozy nest, alone.  Except for the dog.  He can stay.

He's the strong, silent type.

We've been hit hard the past two weeks.  First there was the scourge of mothers everywhere....head lice.  There was treating and combing and laundry.  Lots of laundry.  And then there was more treating and more combing and more laundry.  If you see a kid at preschool running around in a swimming cap, that's going to be my kid.  We are NOT risking this madness again.  Also, I had to go three days without washing my hair or using any kind of hair product.  Yeah, there won't be any pictures of that.  Or maybe that's not really a photo of Sam above.  Needless to say, there has been quite a bit of homebound time during the Lice Debacle of 2015.

Everything but the Xanax

And then, just when I thought we couldn't have any more togetherness, there was the ice storm.  And no, it was nothing like the movie.  Here in the South, the world shuts down whenever any sort of frozen precipitation falls from the heavens, so we've been home now for three days with no preschool (Presidents' Day was thrown in just for fun.)  I have taken to hiding in the back of the house as soon as my husband gets home and takes over as Chief Question Answerer/Admirer/Edifier/Entertainer.  We say things like, "Mommy is taking a bath," which is code for, "Don't bother Mommy while she watches Star Trek:Voyager in peace."

Lest I sound like the biggest villain since whoever cancelled Arrested Development, allow to me clarify that we did celebrate Valentine's Day as best we could as a family, and I made pancakes with Kiddo this morning just because.  I also allowed my husband to join me in the back of the house to watch the mid-season premiere of The Walking Dead (yes, we're an episode behind.)  So I have my moments of soft-heartedness.  Only moments though.

Back to zombies, however.  What is the deal with the second halves of seasons on this show?  Last year we had to wade through at least six episodes of the separated group whining, I mean, wandering through the woods and a whole lot of not much else.  The first half of the current season was action-packed and ended with a BANG (literally.)  And now, here we are again in the Slough of Despair, directionless, whiny, and killing off one of the only currently interesting characters.  I am so sick of Conflicted Rick with his Furrowed Brow, and now it seems (at least as far as the mid-season premiere went) that he has passed this disease on to the perpetually hopeful Glenn.  Anyway, fingers crossed that the second episode is better tonight.  Also, on a side note, there is a special place reserved in hell for people who post spoilers on Facebook.  Ever heard of a DVR?  Or a ROKU?  Official Facebook pages for shows, this goes for you too!  (You'll notice that I was VERY careful to word my complaints about the show in very non-specific language above.)

While I'm in such a sunny mood, I'll also post a mini-review of Lena Dunham's Not That Kind of Girl, which finally came in on my reserve at the library.  (There were something like thirty people ahead of me.  This is not hyperbole.)  I added my name to the list, pretty much as soon as it came out -- you know, somewhere between the release announcement and the shitstorm of accusations that followed.  I've seen Dunham called all kinds of unrepeatable things -- not the least of which were that she was a child predator -- online and in print by a whole herd of angry people.  So when the title finally came in to my little library with my name on it, my excitement was tinged with curiosity from reading so much negative press.  I read the book in two days, so obviously, it was entertaining.  Reading this book convinced me of two things: #1 - Lena Dunham is awesomeamazingsupercoolsmartfunnycleverkindredspirit.  #2 - All those KneeJerks (as I am henceforth dubbing them) didn't actually read the book.  Now there's a shock.  

So what is their (the KneeJerks) problem with Lena Dunham?  Is it really that she was curious about what the human body looked like when she was very little?  Is it the fact that she talks about what she actually thought and felt as a young person in a completely honest, open, and straightforward way?  Or is that she is a woman who is comfortable in her own skin, at ease with own thoughts, and unapologetic about her personality and temperament? Perhaps if she showed some sort of shame about her not-so-Hollywood body they could forgive her being smart, funny, and a woman.  I am so over the dismissal of powerful women as bitches or perverts, as if being a woman in charge is somehow unnatural. 

Ok, I'm getting riled up, and this isn't the day to risk that.  So we'll move on.  Before we do, though, on a semi-related note, here's a link to a great Salon article on the power of female nudity. Do yourself a favor and read it with an open mind.

Well, Kiddo has had all the alone time she can muster, and there is a little face at my door every couple of minutes now with some manufactured reason why I need to be interrupted.  And I just used the words "unless you're on fire or dying" in a sentence to her, so yeah, I'd better go.  Plus, there are still papers to grade (only five, so that's not too bad.)  Tomorrow it's back to school.  FOR EVERYONE!

Books, Bugs, and a Busted Weekend

Greetings on a Wednesday, aka the first time this week I've had any one-on-one time with my MacBook in a week.  Life has been hairy the past week or two, and I am ready for a breather that's probably not on the horizon.  I've really been feeling the mommy squeeze lately.  Apparently, Kiddo's fifth birthday flipped some sort of I-need-your-undivided-attention-ever-waking-moment switch that has left me feeling frayed and frazzled, and I've lost some of my downtime/writing time to my class schedule (not that I'm complaining about teaching, but more about that later.)  So the weekend was looking promising with a church-planned Daddy-Daughter Dance on Friday evening, a lie-in on Saturday morning, and drinks and books with my best friend on Saturday night.  The solitude and adult companionship was soothing, but I was still feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated come Sunday morning.  A quiet morning alone was required if my sanity was to remain intact, and my husband was very accommodating, not returning from church and lunch and shopping until late, but any ground I might have gained in the sanity department was about to slip away come evening.

We are officially the scourge of preschool.  Kiddo got lice somewhere, and we discovered this lovely fact Sunday night.  Cue hours of frantic cleaning, laundry, treating, and combing.  Somehow, my husband and I managed to avoid the infestation, but Kiddo was not so lucky.  She's been a trooper through all the bad smelling shampoo and hours of combing, but I am so totally over the whole drama.  I did somewhere between eight and ten loads of laundry in twenty-four hours, all while still running the household, making meals, and helping Kiddo handmake fifteen Valentine's for her preschool party.  I am so over being Mommy at this point that after one too many pokes and prods and tugs Monday afternoon, something snapped and I actually said, "Stop touching me!"  Of course, Kiddo thought this was hilarious and a game of Poke Mommy ensued.

Okay, not really, but it felt good to say it.

Not all is bleak and buggy, however.  I am now halfway through week two of my Comp 101 class, and it is going so well.  I have eighteen wonderfully smart and engaged students that make me happy every class period.  Their first outlines were due yesterday, and I was so pleased with their work that I feel nothing but anticipation for reading their first papers (due tomorrow.)  I imagine this enthusiasm will flag a few papers in as nobody WANTS to grade eighteen freshman comp essays, but nevertheless I remain optimistic and grateful for such a respectful, well-prepared class.

Gold stars for everyone! (Except you.)

All of this drama and hard work has seriously cut into my reading time.  I'm still only, like 300 pages into 1Q84 despite it being an amazing read.  I did, however, manage to finish A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband Master.  (As a library book, it got priority.  It's .20 a DAY now for late charges. Yikes.)  I really, really loved this book.  I recommend this book.  Read this book.

Rachel Held Evans writes books about faith and doubts and women and equality and all those things I find so important and interesting and some other "i" words that I haven't thought of yet.  She does write from a progressive perspective, so don't go into her work expecting Donna-Reed-Joins-the-Women's-Ministry.  I love what she has to say about so many things (here's her blog) but I have to admit that after reading the introduction to this book, I was a little skeptical.  Sure I agree with what she has say and how she views women and their roles in the Church, but that doesn't mean I want to read an entire book mocking the beliefs of more conservative women.  The idea of someone outside of the evangelical tradition (though she grew up in it) participating in all of kinds of ultra-conservative practices and roles seemed problematic at best, and cruel and mean-spirited at its worst. Yet, she somehow manages to avoid having any of those issues.  She honestly and openly explores fundamentalist (and even some Orthodox Jewish, Mormon, and Catholic) definitions of "Biblical Womanhood" and spent a year trying to live these different principles, whether she agreed with them or not.

Honestly, I'm not sure how she managed to write about calling her husband, "Master," or refusing speaking engagements, or many of the other things she tried while still managing a mostly neutral (and definitely respectful) tone.  The book was definitely funny as she attempts things like cooking her way through a Martha Stewart cookbook and making her own clothes, but her humor is always self-directed.  With the exception of the cooking, she's just so bad at most of the things she tries.  Her self-deprecating tone lightens what would otherwise be a very serious book.  (If you are a fan of Half the Sky -- the book or the film series -- this book is for you, as well.)  Women are suffering.  Women are being told they are second-class citizens.  Women are being kept out of positions of leadership in the church and undervalued.  Women are being abused and killed and sold.  But throughout the book, Evans just keeps emphasizing that women are not the problem.  Women are the solution.  How can you not love that?  

So, overall, I'd put this title right up there with my favorite, Jesus Feminist.  Okay, Jesus Feminist is still my favorite, but this one is a close second.  Now, I just have to find copies of some of Evans' other books as our library system only has this one book.  In the county-wide whole system.  Don't get me started.

Here's hoping this week calms down and gets better (and quieter.)  I've managed to get caught up on my Downton episodes (I was two behind), and we watched the new The Walking Dead last night, so I should be free to read my little heart out tonight after Kiddo goes down.  Tomorrow is going to be a big day, so I must rest up for the sugar-induced frenzy that Kiddo will be in when I pick her up from her Valentine's Day party at preschool in the afternoon.  But for now, my dryer has beeped, which means Kiddo's sheets are clean and ready to be put back on her bed (again.)  After that it's on to lesson plans, errands, and just being mom.  If you need me, just DON'T.

Good News, Bad News #LikeaWriter

Good news first, okay?  Yesterday was my first meeting with my new class of freshman comp, and it was great.  Sixteen really wonderful ladies who seemed engaged and eager.  What more could I ask for?  Also on the good news front, I got two more sections lined up for the fall semester.  Really excited about all the time to work once Kiddo is doing the kindergarten thing.  Just have to get her registered on Friday (also exciting.)

On the not-exactly-bad-news-but-not-so-great-either side of things?  I got my hair trimmed yesterday.  (Yay!) Unfortunately, I wasn't very specific about how much I wanted off, and it came out a little shorter than I imagined.  (Bummer.)  Oh, well.  Hair grows.  At least she cut it the way that I like it.

This is as much of my face as anyone is allowed to see today.  Made for an awkward morning.

Now for the actual bad news.  Like much of the bad news out there, this little doozie started as good news.  Sunday night on the testosterone fest that is the SuperBowl, Always aired a shortened version of their #likeagirl campaign commercial.  One commercial about the female empowerment in a sea of beer, trucks, and sex.  One.  Now, allow me to preface my impending rant with this little qualification: I am not a fan of retail companies using things like feminism/girl power/whatever-you-want-to-call-it to shill a product.  (I'm looking at you, Dove.)  But as far as girl power commercials go, this one was pretty good.  The only reference to the brand at all was at the very end of the spot and was simply a flash of the name Always.  And the message was spot on.  From doing things "like a girl" to more R-rated insults like, "pussy," being told you do things like you have two X chromosomes is almost never intended as a compliment.  Where as phrases like, "Man up" and "Grow a pair" imply a need for testicles in order to be brave or assertive, or even skilled.

So what I'm about to say now, is nothing that you can't read elsewhere.  There are lots of writers/reporters/bloggers/pissed-off-women out there writing their fingers to the bone about the Twitter backlash to Sunday night's commercial, the super-original #likeaboy.  Yes, from sofas and recliners everywhere, hordes of brave men went online to demand a menstrual product commercial of their own, one that demands that we all stop using the insult "like a boy."  Oh wait.  You've never heard anyone say that in a derogatory fashion? (Or seen a man menstruate for that matter.)  The closest you've ever come is the old chestnut, "Boys will be boys," always said with a wink and a nod to their charming rascality?  Yeah, me too.

Here's the thing.  There is nothing I can do about the basement dwellers and frat bros who participate in Twitter trends like, #likeaboy and #NotAllMen.  Arguing with them, pointing out the inequities between men and women's status in this country is an exercise in futility.  What I can do is plead with the men I know and love to stop and think before posting another mindless rejoinder to Twitter with one of these hashtags.  Does what you're about to type build up women?  (Or humans in general, for that matter.)  If not, then don't post it.  A television commercial that celebrates being female is not an assault on men or manhood.  In fact, it has NOTHING to do with manhood, and until men start making less than women for the same work, struggling with advancement because they are perceived as baby machines, objectified in every form of media (including ads for products marketed to them), harassed on the street and told to smile about it, published less, had their bodies criticized and analyzed more, mocked by pundits for their hairstyle and makeup, and basically told to go home where they belong, I'm not worried about you being marginalized by some smart little girls with confidence.

My suggestion to all the men out there who have amazing girls and women in their lives?  Go to Twitter and post about that.  Tell the world how your daughter won the science fair #likeagirl.  Your wife kicked ass in a marathon #likeagirl.  Your mother fought cancer valiantly #likeagirl.  If you don't know any women or girls out there doing things #likeagirl, then I suggest you leave your house/office/men's-only-club/panic room/fallout bunker and mingle with the other half of the world's population.  But be warned.  We take no prisoners, just #likeagirl.

Heavy Thoughts for a Tuesday Morning

These days it seems like I have so many thoughts and questions and concerns playing on a loop in my head that it's difficult to narrow them down to something reader-worthy.  I don't believe that the world is any more of a scary place than it was thirty years ago, but it sure feels like it recently.  And with the advent of social media, we now know everybody's opinion on said horrors, which is sometimes even more scary than the events themselves.  Some days, a quick glance at my newsfeed turns into a spiral of despair over violence, hatred, apathy, and the approval of these things by people I actually know.  Certainly we are not the first generation to fear what the future holds for their children, but it doesn't make the fear any less potent.

I wish that I had something new or relevant or important to say about those fears, but I'm afraid my thoughts settle into the same track as many other parents.  I've been on a bit of a dystopian reading kick of late, and suddenly, with conservatives desperately trying to chip away at a woman's right to birth control, books like Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale don't seem so far-fetched.  I fear for my daughter's future as a woman in a country where more and more it seems like to call yourself a Christian woman, you must also label yourself a second class citizen.  I realize that we are meant to be in-the-world-but-not-of-it, but that doesn't mean we are supposed to be different just for the sake of difference, which is what most of the anti-feminist vitriol feels like.  When did a woman having the same rights and status and pay as a man become a sinful, worldly idea?  And how do I teach my little girl to navigate these ignorant prejudices without becoming bitter and resentful toward her fellow believers?

These are heavy thoughts for a Tuesday morning sans caffeine.  I want to write about funny things, interesting writer things, amazing books I've read, but alas, my mind is stuck in this frustrating web of thoughts that just won't release me.  With all that's happened in the past week (yes, I know the loss of a cat seems small in comparison to world-sized issues, but just deal with it, ok) to me personally and add in horrors like what's been going on in Paris, the inadequate Ebola response, and the slaughter of hundreds and maybe thousands in Nigeria, it's difficult to focus on my reading and writing.  I must pray more.  For those around me, yes.  For those who are far away and unknown to me, yes.  For those who make our country seem small and ignorant, yes.  For those who work tirelessly to make America a better place for everyone, yes.  For my precious little girl who has not yet learned to edit herself or doubt herself or fear, yes.

2014 - The Year of Reading Women and Keeping Track of It

Christmas, New Year's, family, presents, decorations, baking, and here we are two weeks later with Kiddo back in preschool and my husband back to work (though thanks to car trouble, I had to drive him there) and I'm finally back to writing.  Even my reading slowed down during the holidays (unheard of, I know.)  But I'm back, and I'm finally ready to crank out my 2014 reading log post and maybe even mention some of the things I'm excited to read in 2015.

Despite being a prolific reader for my entire life, I've don't think I've kept any sort of reading log/journal since I was a kid trying to work my way to the top of my local library's summer reading program incentives.  Certainly in grad school I made lists of books to be read, but I can't remember making any lists of my reading acquisitions -- and make no mistake, I am very aquisition-minded when it comes to powering through as many books as possible.

My parents mark the dates read on the inside covers of their books, but that didn't seem very satisfying to me as I don't usually re-read, and it wouldn't give me an overall picture of my reading year.  Also, unless it's a textbook (and even then I struggle), I find it nearly impossible to write in a book.  It's right up there with dog-earing or breaking spines.  I just can't do it.

One of my favorite professors from grad school mentioned her reading journal in her blog one day, and for some reason that was a total revelation for me.  I have no idea why it didn't occur to me before.  Also, I took an online survey (I believe it was for Book Riot) about how many books I read in a year, and I had no idea what kind of numbers to even ballpark.  On top of everything else, 2014 was the year of reading women writers, #readwomen2014, and so what better time to track my reading habits? [Edit: Just realized that I didn't include a total count/list of women writers I read.  Will have to write about that in another post.]

So here's a summary of 2014:

Total # of books completed (not counting books started, but not finished): 56 (this counts Station Eleven, which I technically didn't finish until after the first of the year.)

Total # of books started but not completed: 9 (Technically, one of these is still in progress.  The rest are abandoned.)

Overall, I don't think this is a terrible record.  I have a real compulsion to finish books, even if I'm not enjoying them, so I look on those nine books as a bit of an accomplishment.

Some standouts in non-fiction:

The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion - How had I never read this?

Jesus Feminist, Sarah Bessey - Absolutely life-changing.  I want to read this again.

Pastrix, Nadia Bolz-Weber - Church of Christ girl becomes outrageously liberal/progressive church founder/minister.  A must read.

Brain on Fire, Susanna Cahalan - Because if you were ever foolish enough to trust our medical system, you won't after reading this.

Fiction favorites:

The Secret History, Donna Tartt - Why did The Goldfinch win the Pulitzer instead of this?  Such an amazing book.

The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood - How had I never read any of her fiction before this?  Dystopian masterpiece. (Also read Alias Grace and Blind Assassins this year, and they were equally amazing.)

Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - I cannot say enough about this book.  I read it, and then immediately made my friends read it.  And then I read everything else she's ever written.  And watched her TedX talk and her interview on Tavis Smiley and... Can you tell I'm obsessed?

Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro - My first Ishiguro (I've since plowed through most of his books.)  This one blew my mind.  So beautiful.  So original.  So perfect from beginning to end.

An Unnecessary Woman, Rabin Alameddine - Just an amazing book that you should go buy immediately.

And last, but certainly not least...

The Signature of All Things, Elizabeth Gilbert - Loved this book so much.  It was a whopper, but I flew through it like a novella.  Most wonderful/amazing/flawed/perfect/powerful female protagonist I've read in a long time.  I want to read this book again for the first time.

Looking forward to this year?

J by Howard Jacobson

The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters

The Maddaddam Trilogy by Margaret Atwood

And here's my current read:

So, there you have it, folks.  Go forth and read!

Facebook Fights, or a Few of My Least Favorite Things

I love Facebook.  You will never see a post from me on the evils of social media and the joys of "unplugging."  I use my newsfeed to get my daily dose of world events, political commentary, pop culture and literary reading, and updates on my friends' cute kids.  I don't understand everyone's obsession with Facebook not being the "real world."  I see more of my friends in the real world now that I have Facebook to make plans and keep in touch than I ever did before.  I'm just never going to be that person who picks up the phone and checks in.  I don't like to talk on the phone, but for some reason, Facebook, Google+, and even texting are far less intimidating to me.  (**Note: I am not on Twitter.  I'm not against it.  I don't know why I've never gotten on board.  Maybe one day.)

My favorite part of social media, however, isn't really the social part.  It's the media.  I love reading about people's thoughts on politics and social issues, author's writing about their process, a mother's spiritual journey, an outsider's path to acceptance.  Through social media, I have learned so much about others and myself and the WORLD around me.  New music, obscure writers, information regarding my chronic health issues, indie films -- all of these are things I have discovered via social media.  I have read and encountered people and ideas that have changed the way I thought, or at least broadened my perspective on some things I thought I already understood.  Maybe it's because I'm a writer, but I'd like to think there are other people out there with open minds hoping to make discoveries, not just go on a never-ending search for self-affirmation.

Back to my love for Facebook.  Since opening an account back in 2008, I've been extremely careful what I shared on my homepage.  Too politically divisive?  Not going up.  Too much profanity?  No dice.  Daring to have an opinion on the prevalence of racism in our culture or the legality of gay marriage? Not in a million years.  I saved those gems for my Google+ account.  For some reason, Facebook lends itself to incendiary comment wars.  I like to post articles or links without comment or commentary.  Just food for thought.  You cannot do that on Facebook.  Everything rapidly becomes personal.  You disagree with me so you are evil, and I am the paragon of righteousness and intelligence.  Yes, it seems like almost everyone on Facebook has very strong opinions on nearly every topic imaginable and spends all of their time online scanning for article titles that seem to contradict their fragile worldview.  (Don't even get me started on their inability to actually read the entire article.)

This constant carefulness that I have maintained over the past six years has started to wear thin.  Why when there is so much wrong in this world do I need to worry about being offensive in my desire to see it change?  When did being "nice" become more important than being challenging, innovative, or heaven forbid, provocative?  I'm not talking about being mean or disrespectful.  But is it so much to ask of people to simply look at or listen to another viewpoint?  We each have such a limited perspective.  How can we not benefit from hearing from others?

So twice in the past week I did it.  It wasn't easy.  I've seen the shit storms other friends have endured when they posted something that went against their friends' beliefs or views.  I took a deep breath and posted a video and brief article about one of the beatings of a young African American man in New York by a police officer.  I know, maybe you're thinking what I was: How could my belief that all lives matter and deserve justice and fair treatment be considered controversial or offensive?  But deep down I also knew I was going to get the righty-rants about respecting the police and not resisting arrest.  Because my belief that no one should be beaten by the police apparently puts me one step above an anarchist.  And yeah, it happened.  My hope that humanity would surprise me this time did not pan out.  So I tried it again today.  Different topic, similar result.  Apparently, I am intolerant and ignorant and just plain wrong.  Here's the thing, I have never posted opposing rants on any of their links.  I don't even argue with them when they make absurd comments on my posts.  I'm not out to change minds here.  This is SOCIAL media, you know, like, sharing and stuff?  You share stuff that's important to you, and I do the same, and we all have a good time.  Or not.

What makes me saddest about all this (or really, sad at all, because otherwise I'm not sure I would care) is that so much of the arguing and downright hate gets blamed on Christianity.  Speaking as a Christian, this makes me unspeakably sad.  I am so tired of reading about people who call themselves Christians blaming Scripture for their intolerance and lack of caring.  Some days, I'd just like to sit all of these people I'm "friends" with (many of whom I know from religious circles) and explain to them that Jesus was not a Republican.  And the Constitution was not a God-inspired document on par with the Bible.  And our founding-fathers (at this point even that term gives me the willies) were not additional apostles.  When did loving Jesus become about being right (in either sense of the word)?  When did it come to equal financial prosperity and an inability to imagine the lives of others who are different or less fortunate?  Why do we damn everyone who interprets Scripture differently?  Why are we so worried about what everyone else is doing?  Why are Christians so obsessed with sex in all its permutations and controlling/policing women's bodies?  When did we become so fixated on policing the thoughts and behavior of others? 

I, for one, am so very tired of the whole thing.  It's so disheartening and discouraging to only see Christians portrayed in the media as preachy, judgy pharisees, but I certainly understand why it's all the media shows. Because in America, it has become S.O.P for evangelicals to think and act in this way.  We've forgotten the message of the New Testament, of Jesus, to love one another.  That's it.  If we screw up everything else, that's what Jesus wanted us to do.  So, how is being adamantly against our government providing food for hungry families or health care for people too sick and poor to afford it showing love for others?  Showing love to others means all others -- regardless of race, class, or sexual orientation.  And by love, Jesus means not some theoretical goodwill toward our fellow man, but real, actual compassion.  We can do nothing less and still call ourselves followers of Christ.

So, I guess I said all of that to say this: Today, I hate Facebook just a little bit.  There won't be a status/post declaring this to my friends or a veiled or oblique reference to "some people" in a post.  Here's what I will do: If you like what I post, great.  Say it or don't.  I'm not necessarily looking for affirmation.  If you disagree with what I post, great.  Say it or don't.  I'll even discuss it with you if you like.  But if you slip in to a self-righteous rant that invalidates others' viewpoints, I'm going to put you on the restricted list.  Because life is short, and I don't have time for hate and ignorance.

R.B.F

Here I sit in my other favorite place to write -- the local B&N cafe.  I'm such a cliche.  Between my location, my MacBook, and my black nail polish, my husband would be making lots of hipster jokes at this point (he's got a million of them.)  I think he's in denial, though.  If anybody in this family has hipster tendencies, it's him.  I love him anyway.

So, my other favorite place to write is my little nook in the guest room.  I have a sprawling desk upstairs, but it's a room I share with my husband and every piece of junk that doesn't have a home elsewhere.  I simply can't work in that kind of chaos.  It's really kind of crazy because B&N isn't exactly the quietest or most visually soothing place these days, but it's different somehow.  It's somebody else's chaos.  In my strange little mind, that makes a huge difference.  I can block it all out (with the assistance of my earbuds) and crank out work like a machine.  And sometimes the change of venue makes a real difference in how I write.

Of course, when you write in public -- especially as a woman -- you risk inviting the attention of others (a benefit of the home workspace -- it has a door.)  This is where my spectacular case of Resting Bitch Face comes in handy.  I can repel others subconsciously just by looking like myself.  Actually, this particular affliction has served me well over the years.  For the most part when I'm out in public, I want to be left alone.  I don't want to chat. I don't want to hear about your grandchildren or complain about the long wait at the doctor's office, and I especially don't want to explain what I'm reading or writing.  Enter the snarling bitterness that is my natural expression.

You know what cancels out Resting Bitch Face, though?  Having a four year old.  A gregarious four year old.  A cute one.  And just like that,  her inability to pass a stranger without speaking becomes my problem.  If I have an adorably friendly child, I must be a charming extrovert regardless of my facial expression, right?

Ummm, no.

Kiddo has killed my anonymity, my invisibility.  So it's been a learning process, a season of growth, as the touchy-feelys would say.  I'm learning not to stare blankly at people who speak to me in grocery store lines.  I paint that smile on my face that I fear mostly looks like a grimace of excruciating pain, but oh well.  Turns out I'm not a hipster so much as I am just a misanthrope. Or maybe I just don't like idle conversation.  I suck at it, and I have no desire to master that particular skill.  You know those people who only speak when they have something meaningful to say?  I love those people.  I aspire to be those people.  In the meantime, you can talk to my child...she has enough to say for both of us.

Reading Lolita in the US

So today is probably a good day to work on editing my most recent short story as it's set on a cold night, and it is FREEZING here this morning.  We keep the heat set very low in our house because of my breathing issues and our giant dog (who LOVES the cooler temps) and, let's be honest, the savings.  But now I can put my shivering and layering down to suffering for my art, like "The Method" for writers.  I feel so meta.

Speaking of meta, what could be more meta than reading a book about reading books?  A few weeks ago, I read the memoir, Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi.  (Yes, I know I'm seriously late to that party.  It came out in 2003.)  The book explores the plight of women (and in particular, academic women) in Iran.  I admit that it's a tough read for a feminist (or I'm hoping, for anyone.)  These women endure such violence and oppression just for lacking a Y chromosome.  Never mind that they are trying to get an education and learn something about the world outside their narrow existences.  Professor Nafisi writes about a secret book club/class that she taught for women she'd encountered before she was ousted from her university jobs for "subversive" behavior.

The memoir is made even more powerful by its structure. It is divided into sections named after the individual books they studied, western books that are forbidden in Iran.  Remembrances and commentary are interspersed between literary analysis in a construction that is so seamless as to be nearly invisible.  Because Nafisi is something of a Nabakov expert (she's written a book about him), much of her most passionate and detailed writing is in the "Lolita" chapter.  There are so many parallels between these women's experiences and those of the title character, and Nafisi seems to feel the resonance deeply.

Because I recently read this book (and another) that referenced Lolita heavily, I felt it was finally time to read this much maligned and praised novel.  I'd been warned many times that it is a difficult read, but I was undaunted.  It seemed like a big gap in my reading, and I was determined to fill it quickly.  So this weekend, I purchased Lolita (the 50th anniversary edition, not the annotated one which was really pricey.) I began it late Saturday night after finishing an admittedly frothy Amy Tan novel, so the transition was a little tricky.  Nevertheless, I'm plodding forward.

At first the most challenging part was all the French that the narrator uses.  (I knew I should have taken French and not Spanish in high school and college.)  Also there is the rather convoluted language that H.H. uses in his narration.  At least he admits it: "You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style."  So there is humor.  And the narrator is highly educated and well-read.  I was making progress.  Then I reached the point where H.H. encounters the titular character, and all bets were off.  I am still chipping away at his attempted seduction of the twelve year old.

First let me say, I get it.  I realize that this isn't a book about pedophilia.  I understand that Nabakov is making far bigger points here.  This doesn't make it any easier to read about a grown man drooling over a child.  And I haven't even gotten to the point where he does more than pine from a distance. I may need a drink or two to get through that part.

Of course, this is not the first time I've read a difficult book (difficult in terms of stomach-churning content.)  Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin was not an easy read, and getting through the last hundred pages was almost untenable.  But there's something so much more repellant about Nabakov's unreliable narrator.  Maybe it's the perversion.  But maybe, some of it is the self-delusion.  Self-delusion is frightening to anyone who is even remotely self-aware because we know we all do it but by very definition are not able to see it in ourselves.  What are any of us capable of doing, of justifying in our own minds?  Sure, it may not be assaulting a child (at least I hope that's a rarity), but it's something.  We're all capable of doing something truly terrible.  And perhaps that's the most stomach churning part of all.