Monday, May 14, 2018

TTT: Books I Hated. Fight Me.



With the delightful bloggers at The Broke and the Bookish moving on to other things, TTT is now hosted by just one of their contingent, That Artsy Reader Girl .  If you want to quadruple the size of your TBR AND find a bunch of great book blogs to follow head on over and check it out!

The topic this week is: Books I Disliked/Hated but Am Really Glad I Read


I tried, but I just can't be glad I read a book I disliked. So I'm going to rebelliously ignore that part of the directions and just complain about some books. I'm thinking  this will be a sort of unpopular opinion post. We'll see--let me know if I insult any of your favorites!

The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss.
I know it's a classic. And I know there's a lot of push-back about venerating Seuss these days. But my reason for disliking this is simple: the Cat freaked me the fuck out when I was a kid. I was Not Interested in that level of chaos. 

but on the opposite end we have:

The Berenstain Bears (series) by the Berenstain People. 
OH MY GOD SO PREACHY AND BORING. And what is with naming your bear family after yourselves? And the mom's flowered dress? And the extreme gender roles? And why are there so many of them? And why do they show up in dentist office waiting rooms? So many issues.





Moving on, we have a few books I hated in school. 

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton
Grim, grim, depressing,  ray of hope, DENIED, even worse off than before. What a great plotline, Edith. Thanks so much.

Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Dude, seriously? 




I was in a book club for a few years with some good friends. We read a lot of good books, but there was one we all 100% detested. 

The Blue Flower by Penelope Fitzgerald
Why did we hate it? I don't even remember, so thoroughly have I blocked it from my mind. But it's become a running joke in the decade(s) since then. 

We also read either Love in the Time of Cholera or One Hundred Years of Solitude, both by Gabriel Garcia Maraq√©z. I know it's blasphemous, but I find his style confusing and boring, so much so that I although I am pretty sure I've read both of these, I have no idea which is which. 



We'll wrap up this complaint-fest with a few books I just find super offensive. 

Not Without My Daughter by Betty Mahmoody takes an admittedly awful custody battle and uses it to misrepresent an entire religion and country. Way to pander to the bigots, Betty.

The Five Chinese Brothers by Claire Hutchet Bishop is about as racist as you'd expect a picture book with that title, published in 1938, to be. Like, I'd be too embarrassed to even share the cover picture here. I'm sharing it, because I liked it in elementary school, which says a lot about how clueless I was. Also, I still have a soft spot for the author's Twenty and Ten about a group of kids in France hiding a group of Jewish children during WWII.

Twilight (series) by Stephanie Meyers
C'mon. This is not a healthy relationship. And the whole weirdness about sex and marriage is also unhealthy. 

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Yes, I know it's a recognized work of genius and Nabakov is a prose mater. And I'm not a prude by any means. I even understand that writing about a topic doesn't mean you're endorsing it. But there's an ick factor here I've never been able to get over.  

Well, that was amazingly cathartic overall. Any on here that resonate with you, or did I just make you sad?

Saturday, May 12, 2018

Falconer's Library's Semi-Annual Attempt at Poetry

What {white} women my age are called



Jennifer, more often than not.
Beth or Liz (but not Betty)
Kristi, Christie, or Kristy
Some Lauras, some Lesleys, some Michelles


We’re at the tail end of Sharon, Debbie, and Karen


And the cutting edge of Melissa, Melinda, and Melanie,


(Our moms are Shirleys and Carolyns, Marys and Jeans)


In high school we were sluts, prudes, or cock-teases. No other options.
Later we were called bitches if we expected to be treated like adults
Or ambitious by people who didn’t use words like bitch
(but meant it anyway)


Now we’re middle aged, and nobody calls us much of anything
Besides Ma’am.


Some of us answer to Mom, Mommy, Mama, Mom.
Very few of us to Hey Mama, Smile For Me Mama, or Suck My Dick, Mama
And yeah, some of us are Grandma now.


You used to call me pretty girl, and I liked it.
Now you mostly use my name, and I think I like it even better,
At least the way you say it.

Wednesday, May 9, 2018

And now for something completely different






Maggie and I, circa 1978




I'm at a writing retreat at the coast. Yay! It's been a long, hard winter into spring, and I am so grateful to be in a beautiful place with kind people and delicious food and space to think and breathe.One of our activities was that we each drew a card that had a universal theme written on it, then were given a short period of time to write a personal story that related to the theme. A couple of mine got pretty grim, because that's where my head is these days, but this one made me happy, so I thought I'd share it here.

DEVOTION

Maggie was devoted to me.

When I slept outside on warm summer nights, she would perch at the end of my sleeping bag and watch over me all night. My parents would remark fondly on how many naps she needed the next day, proof of her devotion. (The question remains what a 20 pound Scottish terrier could have done to protect me from the dangers of the night, but I guess she could have at least barked up a storm.)

Occasionally when I would go to a piano lesson or grocery shopping, my parents would get a call from my best friend’s mom. “Can you come get Maggie? She showed up at our door looking for Wendy.”

We walked together to the library, nearly 2 miles away. After the first time, when she howled her boredom and loneliness outside, they suggested I bring her in, and for the next ten or so years she would follow me cheerfully around the stacks. On the rare occasions I got a ride to the library instead, the librarians would chastise me--”Where’s Maggie? How could you leave her at home?”

We sat together in the back seat on family beach trips, her thick claws scraping against my legs, sunburnt in shorts. I’d complain of the way she smelled, because she ALWAYS had to run into the ocean right before we left, which only added to her naturally pungent odor. If I layed down on the floor to read a book, she’d perch herself on my butt.

When I was a sophomore in college, my mom called to let me know she’d died. I cried my heartbreak, and my worried roommate asked me what was wrong. I told her my dog died, and she said, “Oh.” She was a nice girl, but she’d never had pets, so she didn’t get it.


She didn’t know that I was devoted to Maggie.