Category Archives: books

My Journey Through the Vast Wasteland

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I used to read a lot of books. I still read more than the average or even above-average American (though that’s not saying much). But increasingly, I’ve been journeying through what F.C.C. chair Newton N. Minow in 1961 called the “vast wasteland” of television. It’s only gotten vaster and waste-ier.

I’m not going to hold up my TV viewing habits as lofty and noble. What I watch is easily scoffed at, and you may do so if you choose. If you do so quietly, that is. I don’t need to hear how I’m disgracing my two English degrees. Think of it as my “Dare to Be Shallow” phase.

Reruns

These shows are what I call my “comfort shows.” Sometimes I actually watch them. More often, I just have them on in the background while I write. I think of them as my “emotional support noise.” (My mother used to do this too when she lived alone after my father’s death. She put on baseball games, but didn’t watch them. I’m not sure what she did after baseball season was over. Game shows, I think. But I digress.)

Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’ve already seen every episode dozens of times, so I don’t have to actually watch them, just glance over when a particularly interesting bit comes on, like the musical episode. (Oddly, my husband got me hooked on Buffy. I don’t know why he was hooked on it. But I digress some more.)

Forged in Fire. I like competition shows where the contestants actually make or do something. On Forged in Fire, they make knives and swords from scratch (or scrap). I can even put up with Project Runway. But cooking competitions are my go-tos: Chopped, 24 in 24, Top Chef, and such. (I never make any of the recipes—except once when I made Ina Garten’s Triple Ginger Cookies, as I’m a ginger freak. But I digress yet again).

Medical, legal, or medico-legal shows. House. Bones. Forensic Files. Mystery Diagnosis, Monsters Inside Me, and Dr. Pimple Popper (another show hubby got me hooked on).

Science fiction series. Star Trek, of course. Firefly, even though there are few episodes. And Babylon 5, which is eerily relevant even now. (See the “Nightwatch” episodes if you don’t believe me. But I digress even more.)

New-to-Me Shows

Recently, I was burned out on the shows I was watching and needed something new, so I asked a dear friend for recommendations. (We used to watch Simon & Simon, Magnum, P.I., and MacGyver together, back in the day. Simon & Simon was particularly good, as we each lusted after a different Simon. But I digress still more.)

My friend recommended Will Trent, High Potential, The Rookie, Matlock, Elsbeth, and Sheriff Country, which, alas, I had to explain to my husband as “Inara in khaki.” Unfortunately, these are all shows that, while I like them extremely well, have only one season or so. I have to wait months now for new episodes.

Dexter and NCIS are shows I’ve never seen before. NCIS, at least, has plenty of seasons, so I don’t expect to get caught up on it any time soon. (Dexter is particularly interesting, in that he kills people who kill people because killing people is wrong. But I digress yet again.)

One new-to-me show that I tried to watch for a little comic relief was How I Met Your Mother. I had to stop watching it, though. After the first season or two, it became “All About Barney,” and he’s such a misogynist-sleazebag-horndog that I can’t bring myself to watch.

(Let’s not even talk about my husband’s viewing habits. Suffice it to say that when I go to bed, I have to remind him not to watch the S&E Channel (Screaming-and-Explosions). And that’s enough digressions for one week.)

Where Do Novels Go to Die?

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“The last day of ten-year-old Nicky Fontaine’s life was nothing special.”

That was the first line of a mystery novel I once wrote. I thought it was a damn fine first line, but apparently the next line and the next and the next and so on weren’t. It was a book about death that was fated for death itself.

(It was the second time I had tried to write a mystery novel. The first one I wrote mostly in order to kill off My Rotten Ex-Boyfriend Who Almost Ruined My Life. I figured if that didn’t satisfy me, I could kill him again in a sequel. There never got to be a sequel. There never even got to be a novel. It was written for the desk drawer, as they say—really a file folder in a computer that died, too. But I digress.)

The mystery manuscript I quoted above, titled Cold as Stone, died in an extended, spectacular fashion. I worked on that novel on and off for a couple of years, alternating between spells of despair and rushes of enthusiasm. Then, one day, I declared the novel done, mostly because after rereading it, I couldn’t think of anything else to do to it. It was, I thought, time to seek out an agent and/or publisher. I was, of course, deluded.

I went through an online database that said what the various professionals were looking for. In a fit of—let’s call it hubris—I sent queries and samples to more than 100 professionals who dealt in mysteries and waited to hear back. (I fantasized getting a call from the Mystery Writers Association telling me that I had won Best First Mystery Novel. I told you I was deluded (or having a fit of hypomania). But I digress again.)

The response from each was a resounding empty silence or a politely worded but resounding “no.” Finally, one agent added to the rejection slip a sentence or two about what I had done that sent the manuscript from slush pile to scrap heap in 100+ different offices.

The naysayers were right, and I could see it as soon as that lone agent pointed it out. (My beta readers had not been prose pros and had enthusiastically said the first chapters were fine, except for a quibble or two, like overuse of the word “and,” which I couldn’t deny if I tried with both hands. But I digress some more.)

Even published novels have places they go to die—the thrift shop, secondhand bookshop, and the dreaded remainders table of books with yellow $2 stickers. (There was once a musical supergroup called Rock Bottom Remainders, formed by Dave Barry, Amy Tan, Scott Turow, Stephen King, Barbara Kingsolver, and a cast of other famous writers. Their music has been described as “energetic, if sloppy.” I never got to hear them perform, though I’ve read many of their books, which are often energetic but never sloppy. But I digress musically.)

The ultimate place where novels go to die is Hollywood. Oh, there are books adapted for the screen that produce a movie that’s better than the book. Hopscotch and Three Days of the Condor, I’m looking at you. Repeatedly. But for the most part, filming a book produces something heinous. I could name a lot of titles here, but let’s stick with one—The Hobbit. Sleigh bunnies and three films from a slim children’s book. Feh.

The sad truth is that most novels (or attempted novels) go somewhere to die. The odds against a new writer making that big breakthrough are astronomical. But we keep trying. I’m starting research for a sequel to Cold as Stone right now. (I know it sounds silly to have a sequel to a book that doesn’t exist. Stop me before I digress again.) I hope the hypomania holds off this time.

The Writers I Love and Why I Love Them

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Last week, I wrote about why we should love writers—and how we should show it. This week, I’m going to take my own advice and write about writers whose work I love.

There are lots of writers I admire. Jon Krakauer, for example. I started with his book Into Thin Air and went on to read more of his work—Missoula, Under the Banner of Heaven, Eiger Dreams, Into the Wild, Where Men Win Glory, and his essays. (Many of his books are about mountain climbing. For some reason, I like true adventure books that describe things I will never do. Dramatic thrills, maybe, or a longing for experiences that I can only live vicariously. But I digress.)

But the writers I love most, the ones whose books I buy as soon as they are published and move instantly to the top of my TBR list, are Mary Roach, Sue Grafton, and Jenny Lawson.

Mary Roach

• Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers

• Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife

• Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex

• Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void

• Gulp: Adventures on the Alimentary Canal

• Grunt: The Curious Science of Humans at War

• Fuzz: When Nature Breaks the Law

• Replaceable You: Adventures in Human Anatomy

Mary Roach writes the least stuffy science books I know on an impressively wide variety of topics. She’s not afraid to insert herself into the narrative as she explores a wide range of topics. Her encounter with the space toilet, for example, is a riot. The thing I love most about her books, though, is the footnotes. They are copious, fascinating, and humorous, and add texture and interest with aspects of the topics that just don’t fit neatly into the narrative.

(I must admit that Roach’s footnotes were the inspiration for my digressions and thus the genesis of this blog. The footnotes for Packing for Mars, for example, include the story of Enos, the chimp that went to space. But I digress again.)

Sue Grafton

• The Alphabet Series

Sue Grafton is justly famous for her series of Kinsey Milhone mystery novels that begin with A Is for Alibi and end with Y Is for Yesterday. She died of cancer before she could write the last book in the series, which she intended to title Z Is for Zero. Mystery fans everywhere mourned her loss.

Grafton’s mysteries are often mentioned in the same breath as Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski series. They do share many qualities, such as strong female private investigators and a cast of interesting supporting characters. But, to me, Paretsky writes from anger (or rage), while Grafton writes from insight and bemusement. Over the years, I’ve gotten away from reading every one of Paretsky’s books that comes out (she’s still writing), but never tired of Grafton’s. I just wish she had lived to write more.

(When I was writing a mystery novel (which never got off the ground), I attended a writing conference where Sue Grafton was one of the speakers/instructors. She read the first 30 pages of my book and gave me some very good advice. But I digress some more.)

Jenny Lawson

• Let’s Pretend This Never Happened: A Mostly True Memoir

• Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things

• Broken (in the Best Possible Way)

• How to Be Okay When Nothing Is Okay

Jenny Lawson, aka the Bloggess, writes wonderful books on some of my favorite topics. Her writing style is chaotic, wildly funny, and ultimately uplifting. I was reading her “Mostly True Memoir” and couldn’t stop laughing. My husband asked what the book was about. “I don’t really know,” I said, “but she talks a lot about her vagina.” For a long time, he called her “the vagina lady.” I haven’t told him that sometimes she talks about her labia.

There was plenty of other stuff too, a lot of it involving her bemused but steadfast husband Victor and the trouble they get into, separately or together—like the time she bought a six-foot metal chicken that she named Beyoncé and left outside Victor’s home office window.

Her later books contain essays with plenty of humor and anecdotes, but they are loosely on the subject of mental illness and coping with it (or not). How could I resist a book like that?

(I met Jenny Lawson twice, once at a book signing and once at a writer’s conference. At the book signing, there was a Q and A session. I asked, “If you could be any animal, what would you be? And why?” She replied, “A tapeworm. Because I could just lie there and someone would feed me.” But I digress even more.)

Of course, there are other books that I like a lot, including more mysteries, more science, science fiction, some history, some biographies (except ones about Prince Albert), books about shipwrecks, books by Lois McMaster Bujold, Dick Francis, Simon Winchester, Jared Diamond, and Steven Pinker, and true crime. (I don’t read as much true crime as I used to. The ones with atrocity photos no longer interest me. I like the ones involving forensics and legal maneuverings. But I digress yet again.)

Got any books/authors to suggest? My TBR pile (well, electronic shelf) only has 1,000+ books on it. There’s room for lots more!

Love for the Writers

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My friend Beth messaged me one day last week to inform me that she had been watching Tales From the Darkside and recognized one of the writers’ names as someone we both knew from attending science fiction conventions: Michael Kube-McDowell. She said she found his episodes very imaginative.

I happen to still be in touch with Michael (who has since dropped the Kube part of the name) after all these years, so I messaged him to tell him what Beth had discovered.

“Where did she see it?” he asked. (He meant on what streaming service, I think.)

“She was watching it on her old collection of DVDs.”

“I didn’t even know they were on DVDs,” Michael said. It turns out the only copies that he had of his own work were some VCR recordings he had made at the time the episodes first aired. And he no longer had a VCR player.

I pointed out where he could get all four seasons of the DVDs online for about $20.

And so he did. “A mere 43 years later, I finally have a professional copy!” he said.

This happy incident happened because Beth watched the DVDs and noticed the writer’s name, something not many people bother to do.

Perhaps because I’m a writer myself, I do, too. I find myself saying, “Wow! David Gerrold wrote this episode of Babylon 5!” or “Theodore Sturgeon wrote this episode of Star Trek!” (I then often have to give this announcement some context for my husband by telling him who the writer is and what else they’ve written. But I digress.) (Oh, and not completely off the topic, did you know Ray Bradbury wrote the script for the movie version of Moby Dick? But I digress some more.)

I like to look for the names of directors, too. I don’t recognize them as often as I do writers, but sometimes I notice that an actor on the show has directed one or more episodes. I always think, “Good for them! Way to branch out!”

I feel the same way about songwriters. People give love to the singers, but barely notice the songwriters much of the time. (I have a little game I play with Dan. When I’m listening to iTunes (or Apple Music or whatever they call it these days), we’ll hear a song, and I’ll say, “Okay, who wrote this?” He’s right a lot of the time, but when he doesn’t know, he’ll guess Kinky Friedman if it’s a funny song or Willie Nelson if it isn’t. Once he said, “I don’t know his name, but he wrote that song that goes ‘living and dying in 3/4 time.'” It was Jimmy Buffett, and he was right. I was impressed. But I digress again.)

So I say, “Pay attention to the writers! Show them some love!” It’s hard to throw your arms around ChatGPT and say, “Thanks for the memories!” (Or, if you’re not close enough to the writer to throw your arms around them other than metaphorically, send them money. I once sent Michael a quarter to make up for royalties when I bought one of his books at a used book store. But I digress yet again, for the last time this week.)

Luck in the Library

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Jimmy Buffett wrote a song called “Love in the Library.” It’s a little disconcerting to hear a Buffett song that includes the name “Flaubert” instead of the word “beach” or “sailboat.” But he did, and I love it. It belongs in Buffett’s oeuvre along with other songs he’s written, like “He Went to Paris.” Gentle, reflective, and nothing at all like “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

I may not have fallen in love in a library, but I’ve gotten lucky in plenty of them. (No, not that kind of “getting lucky.” What do you think I was doing during all those hours I’ve spent in one library or another? Canoodling in the stacks? But I digress.)

I was lucky that my parents, who didn’t read much themselves, valued reading enough that they took me to the library often. Sometimes the library would come to me—or if not directly to me, to the parking lot of a nearby shopping center. It was the bookmobile, and I loved it dearly. When I was very young, I would visit the marvelous vehicle and check out Green Eggs and Ham, still one of my favorite all-time books by one of my favorite authors. In fact, I would check it out on every visit. My mother made a rule. I could check out Green Eggs and Ham every time we went to the bookmobile if I wanted to, but I also had to check out something else as well. (It was a good thing that I learned to read when I was four, or I would have kept her reading it to me every day. But I digress again.)

I was lucky when I cruised the “New Arrivals” section of the big library and found something new to me and unexpectedly fascinating. It broadened my reading enormously.

I was lucky when Ms. magazine had an article on women mystery writers. I went to the library with a copy of it, burrowed into the mystery stacks, and fell in love with Sue Grafton’s and Sara Paretsky’s works, which have stayed with me for decades.

I was lucky when I went to college and got a job in the graduate library, fulfilling requests. (People filled out little slips of paper, which were sent to the upper floors where I worked via vacuum tubes. I located the books and sent them downstairs on a sort of dumbwaiter. When there were no requests, I spent my extra time delving into the stacks. Most of the time, I was on the history/sociology floor, where I learned lots. (The antiquated system of vacuum tubes is still used at the pharmacy drive-through where I pick up my prescriptions, if nowhere else. But I digress some more.))

One day, however, I got really lucky in the library. As I browsed the shelves, looking for my next read, I picked up a book that had a bookmark in it. People use all kinds of things for bookmarks. Some use proper bookmarks and forgetfully leave them in the library book, but others use anything at hand: business cards, envelopes, postcards, playing cards, ribbons, ticket stubs, sticky notes, receipts, the cards that fall out of magazines (these actually have a name: blow-in cards), and even photos.

On the day I got lucky, I picked up a book and noticed someone had used a lotto ticket as a bookmark. And whoever had used it for a bookmark had accidentally used a winning ticket! Going on the venerable, ancient philosophy of “finders keepers,” I cashed in the ticket, which was worth a whole $2.

Naturally, rather than buy something useful like gum or mints with “my” winnings, I decided that my lucky find was meant to bring me even more luck. So I used it to buy another $2 lottery ticket.

It was a loser. But at least that lucky library find had given me a momentary thrill and a soupçon of hope for a million-dollar payout. And that’s in addition to all the books I checked out that day!

How Not to Sell Out

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As a Girl Scout, I was not a success. Oh, I did a lot of the usual Girl Scout things. I wore the uniform, even to school, when the meetings were right afterward. (This was not a cool and popular look in high school.) I went camping and hiking. One summer, I was even a camp counselor. I learned the campfire songs and taught them to younger campers. I earned badges for esoteric pursuits and wore them on a sash. (Another reason the look was uncool at school.)

Trying to Push Cookies

What I couldn’t do was sell cookies—at least not well. Back in the day, we went door-to-door. (This is considered unsafe now for obvious, unsavory reasons. Nowadays, Girl Scouts market the treats by phone or online, or at tables outside supermarkets. (They would no doubt sell more if they set up their tables outside marijuana dispensaries.) I have a dealer who fixes me up every year. She’s the granddaughter of a fellow scout from my high school days. But I digress.)

My problem with selling door-to-door was that I had a sister who was also a Girl Scout, and with whom I went door-to-door. We split the orders, which meant that I got only half the orders I could have had without her.

Another way that Scouts got orders back then was to send the order forms to where their parents worked. The grown-up could then apply pressure to coworkers to buy. (This led to infighting. “You bought from Norma’s daughter, but not from mine.” But I digress again.)

My father, however, had a government job and claimed that he wasn’t allowed to pass around the order form. I now suspect that this wasn’t strictly true, and that he simply didn’t want to be the middleman.

As an adult, I have become a consumer of Girl Scout cookies, not a purveyor.

I Didn’t Learn My Lesson

My eptitude with sales has not increased over the (many) years.

I have written two books on the subject of bipolar disorder (gleaned from the writings in my other blog, Bipolar Me (www.bipolarme.blog). They aren’t selling well on Amazon. I get royalties from time to time. I’m saving up for a pizza.

I figure my choices for selling these books are:

A) door-to-door (That would be silly, not to say ridiculous. Well, okay, it would be ridiculous. There simply isn’t a neighborhood full of people living with bipolar disorder that I could canvas. But I digress some more.)

B) from a food truck or bookmobile-like trailer. (Same problem as with A. Besides, the price of gas would kill me.)

C) Facebook ads (I tried a few of them, to resounding silence.)

D) ask Dan to take orders at work (That would go over well. Not.)

E) have a website

I chose E. I found a company that would host a website—an online bookstore with my two books (and a third, when I finally write it). The site is called Bipolar World, and it lives at books.by/bipolar-world. Of course, the product is not as appealing as cookies (of the Girl Scout type, not the computer sort).

Maybe I should be pushing books AND cookies on my website. (I could call it the Cookie-Bookie Website, except then people would think I was taking bets on which cookies are the best. I’m pretty sure oatmeal raisin would lose. But I’ve digressed enough for this week.)

Fun With Smut

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I may get in trouble for either the picture (no one I know) or the topic, but it’s an aspect of writing and reading that I have just a wee bit of experience with.

How do I feel about “dirty books”? I’m tempted to quote Tom Lehrer from his song “Smut”: “Dirty books are fun. That’s all there is to it.” He also said, “I do have a cause, though. It’s obscenity. I’m for it.” The song contains not one “dirty word.” ( You can find it online at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WSwYID-u71M. But I digress.)

Reading Smut

I must admit that I did read Fifty Shades of Grey when it first came out, just to see what the commotion was all about. (My advice: Don’t bother. It’s miserably written. And unrealistic. Any couple having that much sex that often would be too chafed to carry on carrying on. But I digress again.)

When I was an editor for an early childhood magazine, I was frequently given books to review. One was an illustrated sex education book for young children, written by a doctor. I don’t remember the title, but the book was written in a style meant to emulate Dr. Seuss. I also don’t remember much of the content, except for this metaphor for some body parts, which he supplied the location of:

The towns are both called testicle

And they look like two round eggs.

They’re not located on a map

But between your Daddy’s legs.

(The conception scene was a meeting of Stanley Sperm (who wore a top hat) and Essie Egg (who wore a bow) in front of an ornate gate. I did not write a review of the book. It was my theory that it could be read aloud at a party to great amusement. But I digress some more.)

Reviewing Smut

I’ve recently gotten a gig reviewing books. Most of the books I’ve reviewed were in a category called “steamy romances.” This means that the couple must overcome obstacles to get together, but when they do, they have sex. This means about two realistic sex scenes per novel. (They’re short. The books, that is. The sex scenes go on for a number of pages.)

Personally, I’m grateful that these books (there’s a series) use neither clinical names nor cutesy euphemisms for body parts. (I still remember in the movie The Naked Gun when someone used the term “throbbing purple-headed warrior.” Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) has been known to refer to her “lady garden,” a euphemism she created when not allowed to say “vagina” on TV. But I digress some more.)

Writing Smut

Once during my ghostwriting career, I had to write a piece of smut (erotica, if you prefer). It was the adventures of a woman who was connected (sorry) with various men. The men were all gorgeous and rich, and they bought the main character extravagant gifts. The woman gave me an outline describing her (and their) escapades, which I didn’t believe for a moment. I would call it “wish fulfillment porn.”

This time, I was in the position (sorry) of having to come up (sorry) with words to describe body parts and sex acts without being cutesy or clinical. I guess I succeeded. The customer was satisfied (sorry) with it, and I got paid for it (sorry), so I guess I did okay. (I’ve never been tempted (sorry) to look it up on Amazon and read the reviews. We will not discuss whether or how much I had to conduct research for the book. But I digress even more.)

The only other thing I know about writing sex scenes is that a writer friend of mine once wrote one that went on for multiple pages (and orgasms). My husband read it and was impressed.

To the Adriatic and the Alps

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Eastern Europe isn’t a vacation destination that many people would choose these days, given the uncertainty in that part of the world. But in the past (those days as opposed to these), we did.

It started one day when I called Dan at work and asked, “So, do you want to go to Croatia?”

Dan is pretty much used to anything that pops out of my mouth, but this had him stumped. How did I come up with such an outlandish notion?

The answer is fairly simple. I belong to a website that advertises low-cost vacations. We had used them to arrange a trip to Mexico for us, which was very nice. So when they offered a trip to Eastern Europe for an unbelievably low price, I was ready to jump on it. And I hoped Dan would be, too.

“I can get us a deal that includes a vacation in Croatia, with days in Venice and Slovenia, and excursions to Bosnia/Herzegovina and Montenegro. It’s a great price. But I need an answer right away. At this price, it will fill up fast.”

“Okay,” he said. “Why the hell not?” (Did I mention I love him?) I booked the trip.

Venice, of course, isn’t in Eastern Europe, but it is a gateway. To get to the region easily, you fly into Venice and transfer by bus to Croatia. We had a jet-lagged afternoon in Venice to spend seeing the sites, including some off the tourist map like the tower with a spiral staircase named El Bovolo (the snail). We took a gondola ride around the city and a water taxi to the island of Murano, where we got to see glass blown and many examples far too expensive for us. Then on to Croatia.

Croatia, like Venice, is on the Adriatic, and the coast shares the Mediterranean climate and many features. There are Roman ruins in the Istrian Peninsula and olive and citrus trees everywhere. The whole of the coastline consists of beaches on the Adriatic Sea, harbors, and quaint houses with red tiled roofs. On the inland side of Croatia, where it nears Bosnia/Herzegovina, you are in the Dinaric Alps. A gorgeous National Park, called Plitvice Lakes, features lakes (of course), waterfalls, cliffs, stone trails, and rainbows. It’s particularly lovely in the snow. This side of Croatia is definitely not Mediterranean.

Zagreb is the capital, and there we saw, in the Old Town, a 15th-century clock tower 31 meters tall. I went into a bookstore, found a science fiction novel I dearly love, and bought it. “It’s in Croatian,” the proprietor said, looking puzzled. “I know,” I replied. I wanted it for a souvenir.

Another entertaining sight in Zagreb was a public festival celebrating contraception and safe sex, which featured a number of people in large sperm costumes dancing around. I wish I had gotten a picture of it. And in a town called Split, Dan and I split a banana split in a restaurant.

We also visited Slovenia and a city there, Ljubljana. There is a Tolkien-themed bar there where we had a beer to celebrate one of our favorite works of fiction. And there are castles, one of which we tried to geocache at (see my post on geocaching), but were stymied. We knew exactly where the cache was, but it was underneath a large mound of snow.

We made a side trip to Montenegro, a small, mountainous country (the name means Black Mountain) at the tip end of Croatia. It’s famous (to mystery fans, anyway, of which I’m one) for being the birthplace of detective Nero Wolfe. The country is quite mountainous, with little taverns strewn about and rockslides that looked like Wile E. Coyote might be trapped under them.

Eventually, we made our way back to Venice, where we spent another night before flying out. It was my birthday the day we left, so Dan sneaked out in the morning and bought me an orchid, which I had to carry all through the airport. Strangers kept asking, “Is that for me?” and I always replied, “I don’t know. Is it your birthday?” (It never was.) The orchid made it home with us, no more disheveled than we were.

With all the metaphoric clouds hanging over the area (the weather was pleasant the whole time we were there), I’m not sure I’d want to visit Eastern Europe right now. But Dan says he wants to retire in Montenegro. I’m thinking Costa Rica. We’ll see.

Roommate Roulette

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When I spent time in a skilled nursing facility recently, I quickly learned that one didn’t find a compatible roommate. The choice was up to the whims of the powers that be. It could turn out either good or less-than-good. (My insurance company would only spring for a double room, so there was no chance of a private one, except on the occasion when my roommate happened to move out. But I digress.)

All-in-all, my experiences varied from okay to excellent. My first roommate was Norma, who was quiet and inoffensive, but unfortunately addicted to the TV show Gunsmoke, which she watched all day long. I suppose I could have raised an objection, but I was determined to keep the peace and, after all, I could hardly inflict on her eight-plus hours of cooking shows and Star Trek reruns. Norma was released to go home, however, and I had the room all to myself, my chefs, and my aliens.

The next time I returned to the facility, my roommate was Brenda, a woman with a large family who created quite a commotion when they all visited at once, though that was not often. When it happened, I retreated to Pandora and my earbuds (a must for any stay in such a facility).

I was moved to another room when Brenda developed an infection and had to be isolated. (Since we were then across the hall from each other, our Physical Therapist arranged for us to have weight-lifting sessions in our doorways so we could see each other and chat. Sometimes, Shirley, the lady next door to Brenda, joined in as well, and we all chatted while doing curls. But I digress again.)

My best roommate, however, was my third one, Darlene. She didn’t care for TV and had only a few visitors. Among her other ailments, she had PTSD, so she preferred to keep the curtain between us pulled and wouldn’t be distracted by comings and goings in the hall.

The curtain proved no impediment to our growing friendship, however. We started bonding over our shared love of murder mysteries and true crime books. Naturally, the subject of Jack the Ripper came up. (As it does.)

“When we were in England, my husband and I took the Jack the Ripper walking tour,” I shared.

“Oh!” Darlene exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to go on that.”

“It was a foggy, drizzly evening—very atmospheric. And we booked our walk when Donald Rumbelow was guiding it.”

She recognized the name immediately. “Donald Rumbelow! I’ve read his book on Jack the Ripper! He’s the best!”

“That’s why we chose a tour when he was leading. We also went to 221B Baker St. and saw the Sherlock Holmes Museum. It was a small, narrow building sandwiched between two others. Every floor had displays related to his famous cases. The top floor held a toilet with a blue Delft-like design in the bowl. It looked much too pretty to use. Even if you could make it up all six flights to get there.”

“You’ve been to the places I’ve always wanted to go and done the things I’ve dreamed of doing! Tell me more!” We were off and running on travelers’ tales.

After that, we dissected our favorite mystery series and recommended them to each other. We talked about holidays and favorite foods and family and pets. We spoke of exes and jobs and rated the nurses and aides. We cheered each other on about the distance we’d walked during physical therapy.

And we talked politics. I had been reluctant to share my political views with anyone at the facility, knowing how divisive, not to say explosive, such talk can be. But once again, Darlene and I were completely in sync. We despaired of the state our country is in and blamed the same people for it. When neither one of us could sleep, we talked well into the wee hours of the morning.

Darlene had a birthday while we were both residents, and she shared it with me. Literally. We each ate half of the yummy carrot cake with cream cheese frosting that her family brought her. She reveled vicariously in the little anniversary dinner that Dan arranged for me, which featured sushi, electric candlelight, mood music, and ginger ale in champagne glasses. Dan brought Darlene a case of Diet Cokes and a box of plasticware that her arthritic hands could manage at mealtime. (The aides often forgot.) She let me watch Practical Magic on her DVD player and I ordered her a copy of Fletch when she told me how much she liked it.

I’m out of the facility now, but Darlene is in for the long term. Today, we’re going to stop by and surprise her with a box of the cheese-and-peanut-butter crackers she can’t resist. I can’t wait to see her face light up.

Down the Rabbit Hole

books, etc., humor, literature, writing, ,

Almost five years ago, I wrote a post about how memories from my (and likely your) childhood were being repurposed for political statements and propaganda.

This time I’m writing about a classic piece of literature being rewritten for other purposes. (Largely unobjectionable ones, it’s true, but it’s the principle of the thing. But I digress.)

The work in question is Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (more often known as Alice in Wonderland). It’s one of my favorite pieces of literature and I have returned to it many times since I first read it (murfle) decades ago.

(I have a friend who despises Alice. He finds it to be nonsense (which it obviously is) and incomprehensible. This despite the fact that he has returned to it frequently to see if it makes any more sense. (He ought to like at least part of it because he’s a mathematician, like the author, Lewis Carroll. I recommended The Annotated Alice (edited by Martin Gardner), which explains the jokes, Briticisms, and outdated expressions. (It also includes “Jabberwocky” in French, German, and IIRC, Latin.) But I digress, pedantically and at length.)

The “quotations” in question are not political but psychological or philosophical. I’m not saying they’re invalid—merely that they are misquoted, misattributed, or completely made up.

One of the most common misquotes is attributed to the Cheshire Cat:

“You’re mad, bonkers, off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.”

What the Cheshire Cat actually really said is much more complex. Here’s the context:

“But I don’t want to go among mad people’” Alice remarked.

“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.” 

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.” 

One quotation supposedly from the Mad Hatter is:

The secret, Alice, is to surround yourself with people who make your heart smile. It’s then, only then, that you’ll find Wonderland.

Unobjectionable if sappy, but not from the book. The same with this one:

But, said Alice, if the world has absolutely no sense, who’s stopping us from inventing one?

The most annoying fake dialogue is this one, between Alice and the White Rabbit.

“Do you love me?” Alice asked.

“No, I don’t love you!” replied the White Rabbit.

Alice frowned and clasped her hands together as she did whenever she felt hurt.

“See?” replied the White Rabbit. “Now you’re going to start asking yourself what makes you so imperfect and what did you do wrong so that I can’t love you at least a little. You know, that’s why I can’t love you. You will not always be loved Alice, there will be days when others will be tired and bored with life, will have their heads in the clouds, and will hurt you. Because people are like that, they somehow always end up hurting each other’s feelings, whether through carelessness, misunderstanding, or conflicts with themselves. If you don’t love yourself, at least a little, if you don’t create an armor of self-love and happiness around your heart, the feeble annoyances caused by others will become lethal and will destroy you. The first time I saw you I made a pact with myself: ‘I will avoid loving you until you learn to love yourself.’”

The White Rabbit was late to play croquet with the Queen of Hearts. He wouldn’t have had time to discourse on self-love.

Alice has been in the public domain since 1907, so one can misquote or invent all they want. (The Disney movie version only came out in 1951, The book was in the public domain, but the movie isn’t. I think we can expect a live-action film. I hope they lose the repellent pink-and-purple Cheshire Cat, though I doubt they will. But I digress again.)

Surely no one would do this kind of thing to The Wizard of Oz…or would they? [squints suspiciously]