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Those of you who read my other blog know that I have this thing about baby names. I grew up with a really crappy last name, one that invites ridicule and snide remarks, and it is only now, when everyone I know is having a baby, that I realized how traumatic that was. I implored them to think about their choices, to say them out loud, perhaps even go so far as to run it by a handy eight year old. So far they have listened to my pleas and not branded their children with anything horrible, but it was touch and go there for a while.
In May I’m going to be an aunt for the first time, when my sister in law has a baby. I’m very excited for her and my brother both (and for my two best friends who recently gave birth to Jacob and Dylan respectively). They aren’t really talking names yet, until they know the gender, which is smart move (it removes half the names to fight over). Like most other couples I know, Tim and I started that fight years ago and have since narrowed it down to a short list for each gender. And I’m not even pregnant.
Since I’ve got my own future children taken care of, I’ve been thinking about names for my future niece or nephew, especially since my brother’s child may have my last name (poor thing!). On a recent visit to my favorite independent bookstore, I found Baby Name Wizard in (obviously) the baby section, a place I heretofore did not visit in bookstores, but which, since everyone I know has gotten pregnant, has become like beckoning siren to me.
The first page had me hooked. I love you Ms. Wattenberg! Here is a woman who is so obsessed with baby names that she created a computer algorithm that puts names into families for easy cross referencing. Created. Her Own. Algorithm. It still gives me chills.
It might seem to you readers that Jesse, Devin and I can’t be on this blog together. However, I can assure you that despite our Clark Kent/Supermanness, we are indeed different people. Though with our glasses and our geekiness I can’t imagine which one of us would be Superman. Jesse is more like Charles Xavier in his (sometimes scary) ability to read people. Devin is quite the enigma – she’d probably be the Invisible Woman. And personally I have always leaned more toward being the Hulk. But I digress. . .
I waited a while to post since I wanted Devin and Jesse to have some time center stage. Recently and not so recently this blog has been entirely too much about me and my reading. But now that they’ve had their fifteen minutes I’m stealing back the spotlight. If they want it back they’ll have to read. And post.
Fitting then, that my post should be about David Sedaris, someone entirely self involved and constantly focused on where the spotlight is (and attempting to get it back where it belongs – on him).
Full disclosure: I read Marley and Me (hey, it has a dog on the cover doesn’t it?) and I enjoyed the book immensely. I laughed at all the funny parts, cringed when required and even cried at the end (come on, you knew it was coming!). I’ve read that Walking with Ollie is Britain’s answer to Marley and I agree with that in many ways. I also think that both men adore and love their dogs and any judgments that follow are solely in their roles as responsible dog owners, not as good people.
I have four rescue animals – two cats and two dogs. They are all wonderful creatures, affectionate and loving. They don’t know they are supposed to be thankful that I rescued them and often act quite cavalier about their living situation (they are, plain and simply, spoiled). Three of them have stable personalities with no issues that need managing.
One of them doesn’t.
He came to us as a four month old puppy and the first time I took him to the vet (the second day I had him) she said “He’s a bit timid isn’t he?” I wouldn’t realize her understatement until many months later. By then I had come to realize the little guy was afraid of the car (he puked once he got in), strange men on the street (or boys past the age of 15 or so), my father (even after he’d known him for months), statues of people, holiday decorations, the vacuum cleaner, nail clippers (the dog version and the human version), baby gates, cats, and inexplicably, the Stop N Shop Peapod truck. Unlike Ollie, he was not afraid of his owner (me) but he did give Tim the fish eye occasionally, just to make sure he wasn’t up to no good.
When I began reading Ollie, I couldn’t help but remember the despair I felt when I realized my dog was not normal. I felt that I had failed. I thought that my first dog attempt was a disaster and it was all my fault (did I make him this way?). That I couldn’t help this poor creature who was just terrified of the world. I felt for Mr. Foster, I really did. I’ve been there.
Ammon Shea is a total nerd.
Best of all, he’s not ashamed of it. He embraces his quirky (to some, but not to me) hobby of reading dictionaries (not to mention his voracious reading habits in general). Not only that, he takes it all to a new level by reading the OED cover to cover (or rather – covers to covers).
I applaud his humor, his wit and his self-deprecation because I love a good nerd, especially a self aware one.
I find books like Reading the OED completely and unabashedly undeniable. My only problem with them is that I wished I had written them, but these guys beat me to it! A.J. Jacobs’ The Know It All is one of my favorite books (of ALL TIME). I even found David Plotz’s Blogging the Bible an irresistible read (and I’m an atheist!). Shea calls the OED his Everest. He’s reading it because it’s there (which I would venture to guess is also why Jacobs and Plotz attempted their arguably insane reading mountains). I empathize with that kind of thinking.
I’m not a fan of Virginia Woolf. Though admittedly I am not that familiar with most of her work. I started reading Mrs. Dalloway after I finished the atrociously bad (though such a clever idea!) The Hours. I didn’t get very far. Though I like her language, I had a hard time relating to her character (a woman planning a party – no surprise there, that’s not my style).
I had heard that she wrote a biography of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s dog Flush but I never thought to read it, since I was so turned off by her to begin with. But then I read another atrociously awful book How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life, in which they mention Flush and I thought, this could be interesting.
I love stories about famous folks’ dogs (the exception being the modern day Paris Hiltons with their little rats in bags) and one of the best books on the topic is The Pawprints of History by Stanley Coren (Flush was sadly omitted). Flush is more than that though, it’s the imagined biography of this dog told in a whimsical yet very canine oriented way. As the reader, you really feel as if you know what Flush was thinking, feeling, and smelling (and he did have many adventures!).
Flush’s bond with Elizabeth is palpable. Virginia herself had a cocker spaniel and it has been suggested that she used him as the model for this book. I’m sure he was. Clearly the author loved dogs in general and spaniels in particular, but one special dog clearly prompted this labor of love.
Interestingly though, this book is really a backdrop for the story of Elizabeth herself. Flush is with her when she elopes. He is with her when she flees to Italy. He is even with her for the birth of her child. And through it all he is unimpressed with her poetry and even her husband (though he softens a bit on that count). He is still very soundly a dog.
Maybe Ms. Woolf isn’t so bad after all. Anyone who can climb into the canine mind with such empathy and understanding must be a dog person.
And dog people are my people.
I bought this book thinking of Jesse, and how it would be a great book to read together. And then I remembered that Jesse is MIA, on this blog but also in real life. No worries, he’s alive and well but apparently distracted from blogging for the moment. I will send him this link and perhaps I can guilt, I mean, lure him back in.
This book was indeed the perfect book for us to have read together. So much so that I will probably be mailing it to him with the demand that he read it, like, immediately and report back. In the meantime I’ll be on to something else.
In other words, exactly how we used to be about books. I would recommend a book to Jesse and he would read it, many many months later, at which point I would have forgotten entirely what it was about or what my feelings or thoughts on it were.
Sigh.
I think it’s a neat phenomenon though, this idea of buying books with other people in mind. It certainly broadens one’s experience to pick up a book that you would choose for someone else and to read it yourself. I have done this with many times with Jesse and it has never led me astray (with other folks it has. Beware, you have to chose your reading muses carefully). It’s different too, than reading a book and thinking “So and so would like this very much.” It’s sort of a premeditated book choice instead of a referral.
It’s another way that reading can be a social, communal activity, even though the other person might not even know you are thinking of them. I’d advise if you do this, to let the other person know – “this book made me think of you.”
Unless of course it’s something along the lines of Tuesdays with Morrie.
That’s just mean.
I was worried about one of my pets, as I always do, when my mother said to me in frustration “Why don’t you just give away all your pets and. . .”
“Be miserable?” was my reply. Because despite my anxieties on their behalf (are they sick, are they happy, are they getting all that they need????) I can’t imagine living a life without the little critters.
Though I am not one of those delusional people who thinks of my pets as kids, they are certainly an important part of my family. I smile even while getting mauled by the dogs each day when I get home (what human would ever greet you with such happiness?). When away from home I cannot sleep, ironically, because it’s too quiet. Though a purring cat can be loud, it sure is comforting. Being flanked on either side by warm felines bodies leaves some folks cold, but I’ll take the subsequent crick in the neck for a few glorious moments of a group cat nap.
Though I spend a lot of time attending to my pets’ needs, as an chronic worrier, it’s nice to have a respite from my own issues, even if it means worrying a little about someone other than myself. When the dogs need to be fed or walked or the litter box cleaned, there is no time for self involvement – and that’s ultimately healthier than the alternative.
I’m not the first to delight in the soothing affect of pets. Ask any pet owner and you’ll get a litany of reasons why their pets are good for them (you may even get melodramatic or just highly dramatic accounts of noble acts and miracles, depending on the pet owner). And more recently science has supported such anecdotal evidence with studies that show pets lower blood pressure, decrease depression and increase feelings of social support in those who live alone.
So it’s not surprising that Bruce Goldstein’s therapist suggested that Goldstein, a manic depressive, get a dog. Where medicine and therapy failed, a tiny black lab puppy named Ozzy succeeded.
Jane Austen presaged the current obnoxious teenage girl, equipped with walks down country lanes rather than cell phones, and letters instead of text messages, in most of her stories. Clearly part of her popularity today is due to the fact that movies (like Clueless) can be made from her work that appeal to the modern teenage audience. She’s certainly the least painful of high school reading assignments.
Though Emma is her most finely drawn version, Northanger Abbey gives us Catherine, who is probably the worst uber-teen there is. She would have done well with Bratz dolls and Juicy sweatpants. Without a wit of commonsense and a lack of wit to boot, she’s the epitome of flighty, willfully silly girl. She’s got a brain she just won’t use,even when her future husband points the obvious out to her. One wonders how quickly the appeal of this student/teacher relationship will last. Poor Henry (and poor Catherine) in the age of no divorce, once her girlish charms become churlish wifeliness.
Jane Austen is famously attributed to have said that girls are no use to anyone until they grow up. And though she illustrates this opinion broadly in Emma and specifically in Pride and Prejudice (especially with Lydia) there is no other book that tops the sneering, snarkiness of Northanger Abbey. It is called her most lighthearted book. But I think it her darkest, in the sense that she lets her real opinions on girls out. It is humor, but humor at someone’s expense.
This is the book in which I wholeheartedly embrace what I see as the real Jane Austen. The girl who saw other women’s mistakes and grew up to be the woman who did not repeat them. She chose not to get married to save her self and she chose not to tolerate the foolishness of others, regardless of gender.
Though she makes Catherine likable enough to keep the reader interested (she uses her heavy artillery on Isabella) she is almost certainly laughing at loud at her own creation’s naivete.
And that makes me like Jane all the more.
I would have bought this book for other reasons – it has a cute dog on the cover, it’s about veterinary medicine – but the real reason I bought this book is a little more selfish. The author, Nick Trout is a veterinarian and he did surgery on my childhood dog almost 20 years ago. That dog was 5 years old and for a while my parents thought they would have to euthanize him. But the surgery was successful and he lived another 9 years.
A small part of me wanted to see him in print, but his was not a sensational surgery or an emergency one. This book features both types of surgery, after all, who wants to read about the routine and mundane? That’s just not exciting and probably doesn’t sell many books.
The format of this book condenses 25 years of experience (including many patients and owners) into a “day in the life” of Dr. Nick Trout. It’s an exhausting day for him, but a vastly interesting one for the those of us reading. Of course you must have an interest in all things veterinary. This book is not for mere animal lovers; it’s not James Herriot (though he never shied away from the gross). There is some technical jargon which, if it’s confusing, you can probably skim, but for those of us who love anatomy it’s very intriguing.
There is one particular patient whose overarching story connects the book and you will get attached to her and her owner. In between there are dozens of other patients and scenarios, some lighthearted, some tragic, some funny and some just plain sad. Dr. Trout’s experience is vast and though he has the brain of a surgeon he has a heart big enough to hold all the patients he cares for.
To Kill a Mockingbird should never be read in school. Period.
I originally read it when I was 16; it was an assignment for some class or another. I rushed through it, impatiently endured the various discussions of race and class and prejudice and ultimately felt burdened by the fact that I was supposed to like it. That was, I think, a typical reaction to class reading assignments and I know I was not alone. And I was a reader, for goodness sake, and any educational system that gets readers to disregard truly great books is obviously doing something very wrong (and very very deterimental).
Harper Lee and her pal Truman Capote are in vogue right now, thanks to the movies Capote and Infamous and I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve caught the fever (I reread In Cold Blood about a year ago). I also just finished a awfully written novel surmising about their relationship post Cold Blood. It was called Capote in Kansas (skip it, it’s not worth the time) and it kicked off a sudden desire to read that slim novel collecting dust on my shelves.
Rereading this book now, as an adult, I realize that there are few books which can be read without cynicism (or maybe which I can read without cynicism, an entirely different thing) . An experienced reader learns to like books – with reservations. We learn to tolerate poor writing in the search for a good story. We forgive or willfully deny plot holes and wide spaces of imperfect style and content. In short, we learn to say “I liked it, but. . .” Because we think that we can’t do better. That all the good books we already read with abandon by the age of seven.
With Mockingbird there are no buts or reservations. This book is simply perfect. It belongs to a short list indeed; I can count on one hand the number of books that can claim such a grand achievement.
Which to me is all the reason I need to understand why Ms. Lee never wrote again. She’s already succeeded at the unattainable. Where else could she go but down?
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