You may not know that October 9 is Leif Erickson Day, possibly because the next day is Columbus Day, a day commemorated by shopping sales and celebrating Italian culture. For those us of Scandinavian descent, it is time to mope in the corner with our lefse. Columbus gets all the glory, while our explorer, proven to have gotten here first, gets a listing in Wikipedia and honorable mention in Minnesota. Where's our parade, where's our chapter in the history books, where's our Leif Erickson Day Sale?
Leif Erickson beat Christopher Columbus to the New World by 500 years. Columbus wasn't even a gleam in his great-great-great-great grandfather's eye yet. Five hundred years is how long it takes a plastic bottle or a disposable diaper to break down.
And who discovered lutefisk first, huh Italians? Oh yeah, that's right: Norwegians. And what about Ballard? Yeah, we discovered that too.
While a Norwegian may have been the first European to set foot on North America, I think it's important to note that they were good guests and didn't overstay their welcome. Norsemen tried settling in the New World, but weren't warmly welcomed by the natives. Scandinavians aren't big on conflict (unless you count that whole Viking thing) and moved along. Of course, we came back once the dust had settled a little.
To be fair, the Native Americans are the ones who really got the short end of the stick here. They really need a "Thanks for the Contagious Diseases and the Little Piece of Land Day". Interestingly, the outlet mall situated on the local Indian reservation is indeed having a Columbus Day Sale. I guess they figure we're staying, so they might as well make a little money off us.
So spend today pondering what it means to be the forgotten discoverer of America. Think fjords and krumkakke and viking helmets. Say things like "uff da" and "Ya sure, ya betcha." Then tomorrow head out to the mall and shop those sales.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Good Thing About Being 46
I had a birthday recently, complete with cards, presents, and lots of good wishes on Facebook. My middle child was particularly kind to me that day, but the next morning was back to the same old pre-teen attitude. As she explained to me "It's not your birthday anymore. Now you're just 46." (And to think she used to be my favorite.)
Here I am, just 46. Not old, except to anyone under 21 (okay, 30), but not exactly in my prime. But maybe my prime came a little later than everyone else's--I always was a late bloomer. Maybe there's something magical that will happen at 46.
At 46, I rarely have to worry about being asked for ID when buying alcohol. And when I am, it makes for a really funny story.
I'm not 47.
Now that I'm 46, I no longer feel pressured to have the perfect body. Let's face it, gravity is kind to no one. If I totally let myself go, people will blame it on my middle age hormones. If I keep my current weight, some may think I look pretty good for a middle-aged mom of three.
Everyone calls me ma'am (except for the greeters at Walmart) and while some may think this is the same as being called "old lady", I think it's kind of nice. It beats "honey", "sweetheart" or "hey you" any day.
Forty-six is the age where I finally feel grown up, but not grown old. I have a few laugh lines (some call them crow's feet, but I'm a glass-is-half-full kind of person) and a few saggy areas, but no bunions, gray hairs or desire to eat at Denny's at 4 in the afternoon.
I no longer need to worry about what I'm going to do with my life--I'm already doing it. No need to wonder what I'm going to be when I grow up. No need to impress people, worry if that boy would date me, or if I'll ever have kids. The answers are: don't care; yes, and marry me, too; and yes, much to my delight and chagrin, depending on what kind of day I'm having.
I am the same age as my brother for one week and then he becomes my older brother again, if only by 51 weeks. (But you can be honest, he looks much older, doesn't he?)
When I turned 45, I considered that my half way point. The average age of my grandparents when they passed away was 90, so 45 was the top of the hill. Now that I'm 46 I'm just looking over the rise and getting a peak at what's coming. Looks pretty good so far. And it's all downhill.
Here I am, just 46. Not old, except to anyone under 21 (okay, 30), but not exactly in my prime. But maybe my prime came a little later than everyone else's--I always was a late bloomer. Maybe there's something magical that will happen at 46.
At 46, I rarely have to worry about being asked for ID when buying alcohol. And when I am, it makes for a really funny story.
I'm not 47.
Now that I'm 46, I no longer feel pressured to have the perfect body. Let's face it, gravity is kind to no one. If I totally let myself go, people will blame it on my middle age hormones. If I keep my current weight, some may think I look pretty good for a middle-aged mom of three.
Everyone calls me ma'am (except for the greeters at Walmart) and while some may think this is the same as being called "old lady", I think it's kind of nice. It beats "honey", "sweetheart" or "hey you" any day.
Forty-six is the age where I finally feel grown up, but not grown old. I have a few laugh lines (some call them crow's feet, but I'm a glass-is-half-full kind of person) and a few saggy areas, but no bunions, gray hairs or desire to eat at Denny's at 4 in the afternoon.
I no longer need to worry about what I'm going to do with my life--I'm already doing it. No need to wonder what I'm going to be when I grow up. No need to impress people, worry if that boy would date me, or if I'll ever have kids. The answers are: don't care; yes, and marry me, too; and yes, much to my delight and chagrin, depending on what kind of day I'm having.
I am the same age as my brother for one week and then he becomes my older brother again, if only by 51 weeks. (But you can be honest, he looks much older, doesn't he?)
When I turned 45, I considered that my half way point. The average age of my grandparents when they passed away was 90, so 45 was the top of the hill. Now that I'm 46 I'm just looking over the rise and getting a peak at what's coming. Looks pretty good so far. And it's all downhill.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
What They Don't Tell You
Expectant parents are the target for conflicting (and sometimes bizarre) advice. Put the baby to sleep on its back/stomach, don't give babies cows milk/soda, never leave children unattended in pet stores. With all the labor and delivery classes, well meaning friends/family, and the plethora of books it's hard to know who to listen to. While I am no parenting expert, there are a few topics that I have noticed woefully neglected amid all this.
Most pregnancy books tell you about the different stages of pregnancy and what is going on inside your body. What they don't tell you is your body is no longer your own--it has been taken over by a cute little parasite who doesn't care if you have no clothes that fit you anymore or if you can see your feet to tie your shoes. Your midsection grows to the size of a basketball and it feels like your skin is stretched so tight it's going to explode. Your boobs, formally for decorative purposes only, begin to dispense beverages. Intellectually I knew these were natural occurrences--I'd read the books-- but I would not have been surprised to have the creature from Alien to pop out of me.
They tell you the pain of delivery will be forgotten as soon as you hold your baby in your arms. Ha! They were still stitching up the tear in my private lady area as I held my newborn, so there was little chance of that. Labor for me felt like having a Mac truck drive through my body...slowly. Then it'd go in reverse... inch forward for a while. Next it parked on my tailbone. That is a pain I will never forget. Which is not to say it wasn't well worth it, but it hurt like a son of a b***h.
They tell you that you'll learn to decipher your baby's cries and know what your newborn needs. This is an old wives' tale, in my opinion, and old wives are not to be trusted. My babies' cries went from a whimper (Bored? Can't find my thumb?) to a wail (Hungry? You're the worst mother in the world?) to a shriek (You just stuck me with a diaper pin! Someone call CPS!). Mostly you just start at the easiest things to fix, food and diaper, and work your way up to the bouncing and walking. Endlessly. While said baby screams in your ear for no intelligible reason. Endlessly. Until your hearing is so damaged that you couldn't tell a "Please burp me" cry from a "Why can't I control my arms" cry.
They tell you that toddlers will assert their independence by saying no. What they don't tell you is any practical way of getting them to do what you want, short of sitting on them. And that brings on the "someone call CPS cry" and I tell you, toddlers are masters of the persecuted and abused routine. What they should tell you is that how you handle toddler tantrums will come back and bite you in the butt when they're teenagers. Bad behavior is cyclical.
They tell you that things will get easier when your kids get into grade school. Sure they're potty trained now and speak in complete sentences when they demand things of you, but there's another aspect to consider. Grade-schoolers have social lives. They have friends (who inconveniently don't live nearby), and sports (little league practices are normally two hours long), and school field trips, and important projects they forgot at home and need you to bring to school, and school supplies they need for tomorrow...If they have siblings, you multiply this running around time by 6,789 (more or less). You will be living in your car until they're sixteen. And then they'll be living in your car and you'll be stuck at home without a ride.
They tell you that teenagers will assert their independence by saying no. You can't make them do what you want by sitting on them anymore, however, because now they're bigger than you. So now you just argue with them endlessly and hope to wear them down. But you are too tired from driving everyone to practices and games and roller skating to outlast them. Lucky for you they don't have their own car or their own job or their own house. My most effective bargaining tool to date is to take away my teen's phone and threaten to text all the numbers in his speed dial, explaining to all his friends why he won't BRB. (LOL). I think I actually heard him whimper. (Translation: "You are the worst mother in the world and I will spend many years in therapy because of this.")
This is as far as I've gotten in the stages of parenting advice. I'm looking forward to sharing how to deal with the kids moving out of the house and supporting themselves. Of course, there may be a few things that may surprise me about that stage. The house will be too quiet? I'll start dressing the dogs up like babies? I'll bug my kids about giving me grandchildren so much that they'll stop calling? Perhaps I'll be just as clueless about this part as any other. But I won't have anyone crying in my ear.
Most pregnancy books tell you about the different stages of pregnancy and what is going on inside your body. What they don't tell you is your body is no longer your own--it has been taken over by a cute little parasite who doesn't care if you have no clothes that fit you anymore or if you can see your feet to tie your shoes. Your midsection grows to the size of a basketball and it feels like your skin is stretched so tight it's going to explode. Your boobs, formally for decorative purposes only, begin to dispense beverages. Intellectually I knew these were natural occurrences--I'd read the books-- but I would not have been surprised to have the creature from Alien to pop out of me.
They tell you the pain of delivery will be forgotten as soon as you hold your baby in your arms. Ha! They were still stitching up the tear in my private lady area as I held my newborn, so there was little chance of that. Labor for me felt like having a Mac truck drive through my body...slowly. Then it'd go in reverse... inch forward for a while. Next it parked on my tailbone. That is a pain I will never forget. Which is not to say it wasn't well worth it, but it hurt like a son of a b***h.
They tell you that you'll learn to decipher your baby's cries and know what your newborn needs. This is an old wives' tale, in my opinion, and old wives are not to be trusted. My babies' cries went from a whimper (Bored? Can't find my thumb?) to a wail (Hungry? You're the worst mother in the world?) to a shriek (You just stuck me with a diaper pin! Someone call CPS!). Mostly you just start at the easiest things to fix, food and diaper, and work your way up to the bouncing and walking. Endlessly. While said baby screams in your ear for no intelligible reason. Endlessly. Until your hearing is so damaged that you couldn't tell a "Please burp me" cry from a "Why can't I control my arms" cry.
They tell you that toddlers will assert their independence by saying no. What they don't tell you is any practical way of getting them to do what you want, short of sitting on them. And that brings on the "someone call CPS cry" and I tell you, toddlers are masters of the persecuted and abused routine. What they should tell you is that how you handle toddler tantrums will come back and bite you in the butt when they're teenagers. Bad behavior is cyclical.
They tell you that things will get easier when your kids get into grade school. Sure they're potty trained now and speak in complete sentences when they demand things of you, but there's another aspect to consider. Grade-schoolers have social lives. They have friends (who inconveniently don't live nearby), and sports (little league practices are normally two hours long), and school field trips, and important projects they forgot at home and need you to bring to school, and school supplies they need for tomorrow...If they have siblings, you multiply this running around time by 6,789 (more or less). You will be living in your car until they're sixteen. And then they'll be living in your car and you'll be stuck at home without a ride.
They tell you that teenagers will assert their independence by saying no. You can't make them do what you want by sitting on them anymore, however, because now they're bigger than you. So now you just argue with them endlessly and hope to wear them down. But you are too tired from driving everyone to practices and games and roller skating to outlast them. Lucky for you they don't have their own car or their own job or their own house. My most effective bargaining tool to date is to take away my teen's phone and threaten to text all the numbers in his speed dial, explaining to all his friends why he won't BRB. (LOL). I think I actually heard him whimper. (Translation: "You are the worst mother in the world and I will spend many years in therapy because of this.")
This is as far as I've gotten in the stages of parenting advice. I'm looking forward to sharing how to deal with the kids moving out of the house and supporting themselves. Of course, there may be a few things that may surprise me about that stage. The house will be too quiet? I'll start dressing the dogs up like babies? I'll bug my kids about giving me grandchildren so much that they'll stop calling? Perhaps I'll be just as clueless about this part as any other. But I won't have anyone crying in my ear.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Where I Was
Ten years ago today I had just had a baby and my mother had come to stay with us. That morning the newborn was crying, my two-year-old needed breakfast and my oldest was waiting to leave for kindergarten. It was a time of new beginnings.
Then the world suddenly turned on its axis and everything changed.
While my mom fed the two-year-old and I bounced the crying baby, I turned on the tv for my kindergartner to watch a cartoon before he left for school, but there were no kids shows on, just news. In my new-baby-fog I couldn't quite figure out what was going on. And then I caught the announcer saying the Pentagon was on fire while I watched the picture of a smoking building. I called to my mom to tell her what I'd heard. It still wasn't sinking in, but we watched in stunned silence as the story unfolded.
I don't remember getting my son to school that day, I don't remember if we continued watching the news as the baby cried or if we shut it off so the other kids wouldn't know what terrible thing had just happened. I do remember feeling so confused. How had this happened and what did it mean now? I can only imagine that was how many felt as they watched their country, the most powerful in the world, so crippled by a handful of extremists from half way across the globe. What now?
Today that newborn is a happy ten-year-old girl getting ready to play her first soccer game of the season. The two-year-old is in her second year of middle school with an obsession for the Twilight series. And my kindergartner towers over me and talks with a deep voice. For them the world didn't come to an end that day. None of their relatives were in that tower and nobody they knew fought in Afghanistan. They sleep in their beds each night with no fear of the world being any different than when the went to bed. Does this mean that we won the War on Terror?
For my family, the world is now a safe place to live and grow. But what about those whose loved ones were taken from them that day? What about those who sent fathers and mothers, daughters and sons to fight this War on Terror and never got them back? Do they see this as a win? Or do they wake up every morning wondering what awful thing is waiting for them?
To them I must say thank you. Your world may never feel normal again, but you made it possible for my children to grow up in a country that strives to keep its citizens safe. Thank you for giving this gift to my children.
Then the world suddenly turned on its axis and everything changed.
While my mom fed the two-year-old and I bounced the crying baby, I turned on the tv for my kindergartner to watch a cartoon before he left for school, but there were no kids shows on, just news. In my new-baby-fog I couldn't quite figure out what was going on. And then I caught the announcer saying the Pentagon was on fire while I watched the picture of a smoking building. I called to my mom to tell her what I'd heard. It still wasn't sinking in, but we watched in stunned silence as the story unfolded.
I don't remember getting my son to school that day, I don't remember if we continued watching the news as the baby cried or if we shut it off so the other kids wouldn't know what terrible thing had just happened. I do remember feeling so confused. How had this happened and what did it mean now? I can only imagine that was how many felt as they watched their country, the most powerful in the world, so crippled by a handful of extremists from half way across the globe. What now?
Today that newborn is a happy ten-year-old girl getting ready to play her first soccer game of the season. The two-year-old is in her second year of middle school with an obsession for the Twilight series. And my kindergartner towers over me and talks with a deep voice. For them the world didn't come to an end that day. None of their relatives were in that tower and nobody they knew fought in Afghanistan. They sleep in their beds each night with no fear of the world being any different than when the went to bed. Does this mean that we won the War on Terror?
For my family, the world is now a safe place to live and grow. But what about those whose loved ones were taken from them that day? What about those who sent fathers and mothers, daughters and sons to fight this War on Terror and never got them back? Do they see this as a win? Or do they wake up every morning wondering what awful thing is waiting for them?
To them I must say thank you. Your world may never feel normal again, but you made it possible for my children to grow up in a country that strives to keep its citizens safe. Thank you for giving this gift to my children.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Just Wondering
There are so many important topics being discussed these days it's hard to know what really deserves my attention. What's this about a debt ceiling and how does it affect my back-to-school shopping? If there really is such a thing as global warming, how come it's only gotten above 80 twice this entire summer? And most importantly, what happened between J-Lo and Marc Anthony? All timely topics to be sure, but there are several other things that I can't help wondering about.
What is it with Canadians and outlet malls? They flock there by the busload (literally), whole multi-generational families browsing through the Nike store. Perhaps Seattle Premium Outlets (which isn't in Seattle at all) should open a location a little further north (further north than Tulalip, I mean). And why do they drive so fast? Perhaps they are in a hurry to get a great deal on a Coach bag, or maybe they have trouble converting kilometers. Well here's a little friendly tip for my northerly neighbors: km/h=mph x 1.609344 (don't be afraid to show your work).
Why do people insist on displaying all sorts of inappropriate things on their cars? I once saw a woman who was waiting to pick up her kindergartner from school with a bumper sticker that made me blush. Kindergarten is when kids learn to read--what do you suppose she told her child when he asked what it meant? "Well, Tommy, that means Mommy has the morals of a drug addicted prostitute, but she knows how to read." And ditto for the decals with the boy peeing on various logos and brand names. Why does a grown man want the world at large to think of him as a naughty little boy?
Why does my dog eat his own poop? The vet says I can get a special additive to put in his food to "make it taste bad." But really, what could you possibly do to it that would make it taste worse than dog poop?
With all the scientific advancements and electronic gadgets available, why is it that the only way to unplug a backed up toilet is a rubber suction cup on a stick? I'm sure my great grandmother thought the same thing as she plunged away at her Thomas Crapper original.
While these may not be the greatest mysteries of life, I'm afraid they will remain unanswered (by me anyway). I am not a great philosopher; I prefer to consider myself a creative thinker.
What is it with Canadians and outlet malls? They flock there by the busload (literally), whole multi-generational families browsing through the Nike store. Perhaps Seattle Premium Outlets (which isn't in Seattle at all) should open a location a little further north (further north than Tulalip, I mean). And why do they drive so fast? Perhaps they are in a hurry to get a great deal on a Coach bag, or maybe they have trouble converting kilometers. Well here's a little friendly tip for my northerly neighbors: km/h=mph x 1.609344 (don't be afraid to show your work).
Why do people insist on displaying all sorts of inappropriate things on their cars? I once saw a woman who was waiting to pick up her kindergartner from school with a bumper sticker that made me blush. Kindergarten is when kids learn to read--what do you suppose she told her child when he asked what it meant? "Well, Tommy, that means Mommy has the morals of a drug addicted prostitute, but she knows how to read." And ditto for the decals with the boy peeing on various logos and brand names. Why does a grown man want the world at large to think of him as a naughty little boy?
Why does my dog eat his own poop? The vet says I can get a special additive to put in his food to "make it taste bad." But really, what could you possibly do to it that would make it taste worse than dog poop?
With all the scientific advancements and electronic gadgets available, why is it that the only way to unplug a backed up toilet is a rubber suction cup on a stick? I'm sure my great grandmother thought the same thing as she plunged away at her Thomas Crapper original.
While these may not be the greatest mysteries of life, I'm afraid they will remain unanswered (by me anyway). I am not a great philosopher; I prefer to consider myself a creative thinker.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Happy Father's Day/ Happy Birthday/ Wish You Were Here
I meant to write this post in honor of Father's Day. I'd been thinking about it for awhile-- I wanted to do something clever and funny (Dad always got my sense of humor). Now my father's birthday has come and gone and I still haven't finished it. Dad has Parkinson's, a disease that has robbed him of his mobility and personality, and it's hard to find the humor. But my dad is still my dad, just a little harder to reach. And he could use a laugh about now.So here goes.
Roy "Bud" Alvick was an only child who went on to sire five children. Either he thought Mom was a real hot number, or he was making up for his lack of siblings. Or that whole Catholic thing. As I was number five I'm just glad he didn't stop trying till he got it right.
Dad was always the Fun Dad, much to my mother's chagrin. He was the piggy-back-ride, sure-I'll-buy-you-a-candy-bar, yes-I-see-why-you-need-those-over-priced-shoes-because-every-other-girl-in-school-is-wearing-them Dad. Which is not to say there were no limits at our house (with five kids you need limits). I know for a fact that Dad handed out a spanking or two, just not to me. I was the youngest and, as my siblings will tell you, may have gotten away with more than my fair share.
When I was still living at home Dad had a phone installed in his bathroom. Not something every family can boast of, we were probably the first (or only) on our block. Dad claimed it never failed that whenever he went in there for some "reading time" the phone would ring and it would be for him. Could be that it was the quietest room in the house--there were five children living there after all--but I'm not sure that I want to know if he ever talked to me on that phone while taking care of business.
Dad started his career as a math teacher, worked for years as a school administrator, and eventually became a elementary school principal. Funny thing is, Dad had gotten himself got kicked out of parochial school as a kid. I'm not sure what exactly got him kicked out, but any number of the stories I heard about his adventurous childhood probably would have been enough.
Dad like to tease and taunt me during mass, trying to get me in trouble with Mom. It usually worked--I'd get the evil eye even though he started it-- but it made time go by quicker. Again, Dad had been kicked out of parochial school...
When I was in second grade our teacher tried to show me how to do long subtraction, but I just couldn't get it. When I went home my mom tried to explain it to me but it still didn't make sense. I was devastated--2 years in school and I'd already hit a road block. I had a total meltdown (in a way only a frustrated 8-year-old can). My dad came home from work that night and sat down with me and the math. Two minutes later it made perfect sense and my dad was my hero. Any man who can explain math to me must have super powers.
When I go visit my dad these days he's often confused about where he is or what he's doing, but he always knows who I am. He doesn't joke around as often as he used to, but that's okay--I've already heard all his jokes anyway. He doesn't need to remember them, I know them all by heart.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
My Summer Reading List--Really
I saw an article in Time magazine about books to read this summer, as recommended by famous author-type people. I have come to believe that these famous author-type people are either REALLY boring, or full of shit. Summer reading for these people contains a Russian metaphysical book, Dickens' Great Expectations, and the works of Dante. Really?!? Have they never heard of Janet Evanovich or Tom Clancy? Now, granted, this is recommended reading from Time, not People magazine, but honestly, it's summer--lighten up! (Or at least tell the truth.)
In the spirit of full disclosure, I, Kristin Alvick Graf, non-famous non-author type person, will share with you my summer reading. I will divulge what is currently in my book bag, what is on my bedside table, and what I have on hold at the library.
When I was in college I would read fluff fiction whenever I had a break. I would stock up on Harlequin Romances and give my brain a rest from all my college text books. I should state for the record that I majored in English--I hope they don't revoke my degree when they read this. In commemoration of this tradition I recently finished a racy little paperback titled Slightly Married by Mary Balogh. It's set in Regency England and full of heaving bosoms and throbbing loins. While this book was not bad, I will not be reading the other "Slightly" books in the series--one was plenty.
Last week I started reading The Girl Who Fell From the Sky by Heidi W. Durrow, partly because it was on sale at my local Target store and I desperately needed something to read. (Buying books from Target?! Now I know my bookseller's license will be revoked.) The paperback edition I picked up is so covered with glowing praise there's no room to tell you what the book is about. But I will fill you in: it's set in Portland, Oregon (near my home town) and tells the story of a mixed race girl who survived a family tragedy, but is left with more questions than she can answer. I was liking it, but got distracted by another book.
Right now I'm reading The Foremost Good Fortune by Susan Conley and I'm loving it. I usually don't read non fiction or books about cancer, but this memoir has so much going for it that I am positively swimming in it. (But I am not taking it swimming because it is a library book and the librarian frowns on water logged books).
Next up, sitting on my bedside table are Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh, a book about I only know is set in colonial India during the Opium Wars, and Aunt Dimity's Death, a book (that I am re-reading) that is part of a mystery series by Nancy Atherton that I love.
And requested at the library and for which I am number one on the list after waiting many months--Voyager by Diana Gabaldon. This is third in a series set in 18th century Scotland and has the unlikely combination of heaving bosoms and time travel, but it also covers a lot of Scotland's history. And I like my history with a some throbbing loins on the side.
So there you have my Summer Reading List. I may not reach September any smarter or with greater enlightenment, but I will hopefully be well entertained. And if not, I will go down to the local library and browse the stacks some more.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I, Kristin Alvick Graf, non-famous non-author type person, will share with you my summer reading. I will divulge what is currently in my book bag, what is on my bedside table, and what I have on hold at the library.
When I was in college I would read fluff fiction whenever I had a break. I would stock up on Harlequin Romances and give my brain a rest from all my college text books. I should state for the record that I majored in English--I hope they don't revoke my degree when they read this. In commemoration of this tradition I recently finished a racy little paperback titled Slightly Married by Mary Balogh. It's set in Regency England and full of heaving bosoms and throbbing loins. While this book was not bad, I will not be reading the other "Slightly" books in the series--one was plenty.
Last week I started reading The Girl Who Fell From the Sky by Heidi W. Durrow, partly because it was on sale at my local Target store and I desperately needed something to read. (Buying books from Target?! Now I know my bookseller's license will be revoked.) The paperback edition I picked up is so covered with glowing praise there's no room to tell you what the book is about. But I will fill you in: it's set in Portland, Oregon (near my home town) and tells the story of a mixed race girl who survived a family tragedy, but is left with more questions than she can answer. I was liking it, but got distracted by another book.
Right now I'm reading The Foremost Good Fortune by Susan Conley and I'm loving it. I usually don't read non fiction or books about cancer, but this memoir has so much going for it that I am positively swimming in it. (But I am not taking it swimming because it is a library book and the librarian frowns on water logged books).
Next up, sitting on my bedside table are Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh, a book about I only know is set in colonial India during the Opium Wars, and Aunt Dimity's Death, a book (that I am re-reading) that is part of a mystery series by Nancy Atherton that I love.
And requested at the library and for which I am number one on the list after waiting many months--Voyager by Diana Gabaldon. This is third in a series set in 18th century Scotland and has the unlikely combination of heaving bosoms and time travel, but it also covers a lot of Scotland's history. And I like my history with a some throbbing loins on the side.
So there you have my Summer Reading List. I may not reach September any smarter or with greater enlightenment, but I will hopefully be well entertained. And if not, I will go down to the local library and browse the stacks some more.
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