Do you know how tall you are? Adults stop measuring themselves at some point because they stop growing, but I wonder how many were measured recently enough to know exactly how tall they are. I, for one, have spent the last 5-10 years tellings people I'm 5' 2". I don't know where I came up with that figure, but it's been published everywhere from my driver's license to my health records (since they just ask and assume you know). Last night, I asked Wes to measure me, and low and behold, I'm actually 5' 4". I don't know where the extra two inches came from or when I got them (not recently), but I'm excited about them.
For good measure (hah!), we measured Wes and Lucy also. Wes is 5' 10 1/2" (not quite the 6' that the Davidson baseball program always claimed he was). Lucy is 2' 3" from nose to butt, and 3' 3" from nose to tail -- yes, that's 1' of tail. She's also 1' 4" tall from paw to back.
We weighed ourselves, too, but I don't think we need to share that...
Friday, January 27, 2006
Thursday, January 26, 2006
The second worst reason for doing something
Over the past ten years, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know several new mothers (and watching them become veteran mothers) because I’ve been able to see firsthand the decisions that are part of parenting. I’ve seen these moms grapple with breastfeeding versus bottle feeding versus formula, babies sleeping in the bed or in their crib, working full-time or part-time or from home, letting them cry it out or holding and carrying and rocking. Unfortunately, not all parents put this much thought into their parenting. Which brings me to the second worst reason for doing something: “Well that’s parents did x, and I turned out okay.” I dislike this reasoning mainly because people providing this as an excuse often didn’t turn out okay. You’ve got some half-drunk violent guy in a worn-out tank top saying, “Well, my pa whooped me, and it made me a man.” Yeah, that’s convincing.
I think my parents did a fine job raising the four of us. We did, for the most part, turn out okay (I won’t say we turned out “fine” because that has an ambiguous connotation in our family). When I have children, I’m sure many of the decisions I make will be informed by how they raised me. But I also won’t be afraid to do things differently if I think it makes sense. When Wes was little, his parents strapped him into the back seat of a car with a sheet because child seats hadn’t really been introduced. I hardly think they will recommend that we do the same. Doctors used to tell parents to put infants to sleep on their bellies because they were afraid babies would choke on their spit-up otherwise. Now, SIDS research shows that infant mortality is reduced if babies go to sleep on their backs.
It seems that in child rearing, there are a few things that are right or wrong, some things that are better or just okay (and open to great debate), and a lot of things that just depend on the parents and the child. I only hope I figure it out as well as my “mommy mentors” have.
I think my parents did a fine job raising the four of us. We did, for the most part, turn out okay (I won’t say we turned out “fine” because that has an ambiguous connotation in our family). When I have children, I’m sure many of the decisions I make will be informed by how they raised me. But I also won’t be afraid to do things differently if I think it makes sense. When Wes was little, his parents strapped him into the back seat of a car with a sheet because child seats hadn’t really been introduced. I hardly think they will recommend that we do the same. Doctors used to tell parents to put infants to sleep on their bellies because they were afraid babies would choke on their spit-up otherwise. Now, SIDS research shows that infant mortality is reduced if babies go to sleep on their backs.
It seems that in child rearing, there are a few things that are right or wrong, some things that are better or just okay (and open to great debate), and a lot of things that just depend on the parents and the child. I only hope I figure it out as well as my “mommy mentors” have.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
The worst reason for doing something
When Wes and I decided to get married and to have a wedding, we made a pact early on to do things the way we wanted to – not in the sense of “It’s my day, and I’ll do what I want” but in the sense of “Why do I have to do it that way?”. Wes and I wrote our slightly unusual ceremony, which involved friends and family members, rather than use the tradition version. We had guests submit songs for our play list and burned CDs for the music at the reception. I wore blue ballet shoes. My various maids and matrons (none had formal titles) didn’t wear the same dresses – in fact, they picked them out themselves. Nor did I buy a copy of Etiquette for Brides or some such Emily Post publication. As a result, I – according to the experts – improperly addressed the invitations. The invitation for my sister and brother-in-law was sent to “Mr. and Mrs. Reid and Laura Cook” – that’s who they are after all, and the bit of feminist I have in me screams out “I want to acknowledge that the woman has a name!” (I don’t fall apart when we receive mail addressed to Dr. and Mrs. Wesley Self, but I prefer letters that are for Wes and Liz, since that’s who we are to people who are near and dear). My sister, who was married about six months prior to us, called me to tell me that it should have read “Mr. and Mrs. E. Reid Cook.” My only response was that she got the invitation, so my way evidently worked just fine.
Why – why – are people so obsessed with doing things like this a certain way? In a word, tradition. I know many brides, in particular, who plan their weddings in line with tradition. I say fine, but only if those traditions hold particular meaning to the bride. If not, why not do things differently? I understand why basic etiquette is important – it reduces that chance of inadvertently offending someone, especially where cultural, ethnic, or generational differences are concerned. But I hardly see how including a woman’s first name would offend her. And I would never tell someone that they’d done something wrong in the name of tradition alone.
I love traditions when they are meaningful. It’s tradition in my family to create a chain on my mother’s birthday (the last day of November) and count down the days until Christmas. Growing up, the four kids would take turns taking links off the chain as it got shorter and shorter and Christmas day drew nearer. Now that it’s just Wes and I, we still have a chain. It’s customary at Christmas in Wes’s family to honor a few Swedish traditions in honor of Wes’s paternal grandmother who immigrated to the US from Sweden when she was just a child. And so we have the Christmas goat. Why not – it’s cute. These traditions remind us of special times and special people, and so they are meaningful. Having a flower girl and garter toss were not important to us at our wedding, so we didn’t have them. What’s the fuss?
This eschewing of tradition intertwines for me with a distaste for overly pompous and unnecessarily formal events – like UVA’s graduation. For those of you who have never attended one of these ridiculously drawn-out affairs, let me synopsize – ALL of the graduates of UVA – bachelor’s, master’s, doctorate, MD, JD, MBA, and all the other acronyms – process onto the lawn for one ceremony, then break up into schools for a second ceremony where the degrees are conferred. The lawn processional takes at least an hour – just to get everyone on the lawn – plus at least another hour for speakers and other formalities. A few years ago, on the day of UVA’s graduation, it was around 50 degrees and pouring rain. Most sane people expected the trustees to move the ceremony inside or cancel it and just hold the smaller ceremonies for individual schools. Did they? No. Of course not. One of the trustees on the radio said, “We couldn’t imagine not holding the lawn processional. It’s tradition.” Huh? I loved attending Wes’s MD ceremony. Everybody walked, and everybody cheered and clapped. The graduates all knew each other and there was a common bond. It was festive. I didn’t love the lawn processional. It was long. It was tedious. It was replayed on the local Charlottesville tv station all summer. I guess what confused me was that some people interpreted my disinterest in the lawn processional as a lack of excitement for Wes’s accomplishment. Fortunately my husband knows me well enough – and I him – that he didn’t connect one to the other. He knew I was utterly ecstatic for this day to come, that I was proud beyond words of his accomplishment, but that I felt it more truly celebrated in a smaller, more intimate setting – like in the big banner I put on the front our house announcing his becoming a doctor.
A lot of graduates probably love the lawn processional, and a lot of onlookers may find it a beautiful and elegant tribute to the history and esteem of the institution. I don’t short them for that. They find meaning in the event. I don’t. I personally didn’t really want to attend my high school graduation, and I although I enjoyed it to an extent, I wouldn’t have felt bereft if I hadn’t attended my college graduation. Some brides may find meaning in being married with the same words and deeds that their parents did. I didn’t. I didn’t want to make our thirty guests sit through another wedding ceremony that they’d heard a million times. I wanted our ceremony to be a reflection of us and our hopes and dreams as a couple. I just want that honored also.
Ironically, the speaker at Wes’s lawn processional gave a speech that day much in line of this post – she talked about the need to end traditions that don’t make sense, no longer hold meaning, or are offensive. She was the first African-American and first female to attend UVA’s medical school and helped usher in a new tradition that all of us could learn from – acceptance and inclusion of something different from what we’re used to. I don’t hope that people necessarily ignore tradition or try to fly in the face of it all the time, but that they follow the traditions that have meaning and make new ones where needed. It’s putting a little thought into how to live life. Sing on Frank.
Why – why – are people so obsessed with doing things like this a certain way? In a word, tradition. I know many brides, in particular, who plan their weddings in line with tradition. I say fine, but only if those traditions hold particular meaning to the bride. If not, why not do things differently? I understand why basic etiquette is important – it reduces that chance of inadvertently offending someone, especially where cultural, ethnic, or generational differences are concerned. But I hardly see how including a woman’s first name would offend her. And I would never tell someone that they’d done something wrong in the name of tradition alone.
I love traditions when they are meaningful. It’s tradition in my family to create a chain on my mother’s birthday (the last day of November) and count down the days until Christmas. Growing up, the four kids would take turns taking links off the chain as it got shorter and shorter and Christmas day drew nearer. Now that it’s just Wes and I, we still have a chain. It’s customary at Christmas in Wes’s family to honor a few Swedish traditions in honor of Wes’s paternal grandmother who immigrated to the US from Sweden when she was just a child. And so we have the Christmas goat. Why not – it’s cute. These traditions remind us of special times and special people, and so they are meaningful. Having a flower girl and garter toss were not important to us at our wedding, so we didn’t have them. What’s the fuss?
This eschewing of tradition intertwines for me with a distaste for overly pompous and unnecessarily formal events – like UVA’s graduation. For those of you who have never attended one of these ridiculously drawn-out affairs, let me synopsize – ALL of the graduates of UVA – bachelor’s, master’s, doctorate, MD, JD, MBA, and all the other acronyms – process onto the lawn for one ceremony, then break up into schools for a second ceremony where the degrees are conferred. The lawn processional takes at least an hour – just to get everyone on the lawn – plus at least another hour for speakers and other formalities. A few years ago, on the day of UVA’s graduation, it was around 50 degrees and pouring rain. Most sane people expected the trustees to move the ceremony inside or cancel it and just hold the smaller ceremonies for individual schools. Did they? No. Of course not. One of the trustees on the radio said, “We couldn’t imagine not holding the lawn processional. It’s tradition.” Huh? I loved attending Wes’s MD ceremony. Everybody walked, and everybody cheered and clapped. The graduates all knew each other and there was a common bond. It was festive. I didn’t love the lawn processional. It was long. It was tedious. It was replayed on the local Charlottesville tv station all summer. I guess what confused me was that some people interpreted my disinterest in the lawn processional as a lack of excitement for Wes’s accomplishment. Fortunately my husband knows me well enough – and I him – that he didn’t connect one to the other. He knew I was utterly ecstatic for this day to come, that I was proud beyond words of his accomplishment, but that I felt it more truly celebrated in a smaller, more intimate setting – like in the big banner I put on the front our house announcing his becoming a doctor.
A lot of graduates probably love the lawn processional, and a lot of onlookers may find it a beautiful and elegant tribute to the history and esteem of the institution. I don’t short them for that. They find meaning in the event. I don’t. I personally didn’t really want to attend my high school graduation, and I although I enjoyed it to an extent, I wouldn’t have felt bereft if I hadn’t attended my college graduation. Some brides may find meaning in being married with the same words and deeds that their parents did. I didn’t. I didn’t want to make our thirty guests sit through another wedding ceremony that they’d heard a million times. I wanted our ceremony to be a reflection of us and our hopes and dreams as a couple. I just want that honored also.
Ironically, the speaker at Wes’s lawn processional gave a speech that day much in line of this post – she talked about the need to end traditions that don’t make sense, no longer hold meaning, or are offensive. She was the first African-American and first female to attend UVA’s medical school and helped usher in a new tradition that all of us could learn from – acceptance and inclusion of something different from what we’re used to. I don’t hope that people necessarily ignore tradition or try to fly in the face of it all the time, but that they follow the traditions that have meaning and make new ones where needed. It’s putting a little thought into how to live life. Sing on Frank.
On taking the elevator to the second floor and tying dogs to newspaper boxes
I am someone who is easily irritated. I can’t stand the dog that barks incessantly in the apartment below ours, the fact that my husband scratches at his head until it bleeds, and groups that congregate in the middle of sidewalks. Today, I’d like to add two items to that list: people who take the elevator in our building to the second floor and those who tie their dogs to newspaper boxes and other outdoor locations without supervision.
Our apartment building is an old hotel that was refurbished (I can’t bring myself to say that a building is just out of “rehab”) into an apartment building. The elevators are a little slow, and a few weeks ago there were problems significant enough to render them virtually useless for a few hours. A few hours may not seem like long, I agree, but if the dog needs to go out to the bathroom during that time, it’s 15 floors down and, more to the point, 15 floors UP to fully accomplish that feat. Right next to the elevator shaft is the door to the stairwell that goes from the ground floor to the second floor. If you want to keep going up the interior stairs (versus the outdoor fire escape), you have to walk to the other end of the building on the second floor to do so. I can understand, for that reason, a lot of people on lower floors of the building not taking the stairs, especially when they’re carrying things. But I don’t really understand why people don’t take the stairs to the second floor – I mean, it’s one flight of stairs. You could walk it sooner than wait for the elevator to get down to the ground floor. What really irritates me, for whatever reason, is that the people who always do this don’t even live in the building. They’re all going to the nail salon that’s housed on the second floor of our otherwise residential building (I swear they need a permit or something to do this, and I’m sure they don’t have one). So all these fee-fee overly tan women with zillion carat diamond rings take up the elevators when I’m waiting for one! (My favorite is when Lucy is in the elevator with me and one of these women gets on. I keep Lucy away from people, but the look of horror and distress that comes over these women at the sight of a dog more than 5 lbs. cracks me up.) They stand at the door of the building looking confused as to how to use the call box to get in, then inevitably stand around and wait for a resident to come through. One day I held the door for a woman who was going to the nail salon, and she ran down through the lobby, jumped in an elevator (destined for the second floor), and didn’t even hold the elevator another 30 seconds for me to get in it, too. Maybe they should put an etiquette school next to the nail salon. The only thing goofier than taking the elevator one flight of stairs UP is taking them one flight of stairs DOWN. There’s a clearly marked stairwell. Ugh!
On to random annoyance number two. Chicago is a dog town. Lots of people have them, and lots of places accommodate them – enough so that many businesses have to put “Please, no pets” signs up so that people won’t take them in to, say, CVS or (and I’m not kidding) the grocery store that’s closest to our building. I love Lucy (hah!), but I’m not planning on parading her through stores (save the doggie store) anytime soon. I also refuse to tie her out to street signs and the like while I’m running errands. It’s irresponsible and inappropriate. Anyone who’s met Lucy will understand why she shouldn’t be left to her own devices. She’d chew through what she was tied up with, or she’d bark the entire time I was away from her. There are a lot of nice, calm, sweet dogs, too, but I don’t think they should really be out there either. For one, what’s to stop someone from stealing the dog? What’s to stop children from reaching out to pet the nice doggie (you’d think the parent, but it just doesn’t always happen)? Plus what’s to stop the dog from getting scared and acting aggressive towards people? And who’s to say that every person who walks past isn’t terrified of dogs? I’ve spent a lot of time around dogs, but I’m always nervous when I approach one that doesn’t know me, especially if it’s alone, barking, or running towards me. The reason I bring this up is that Monday night when I came home there was a black poodleish thing tied up outside of Potash Bros. (the small supermarket near our apartment with the aforementioned “Please, no pets” sign). The dog was tied such that he had access to most of the width of the sidewalk, and he was barking endlessly. The owner must’ve been in the grocery store, and there was no sign of her. Why would someone do this? It’s unfair to the dog and the passerbys.
For anyone out there who will respond by telling me that I let little, ridiculous things bother me – let me save you the time. This is but a short list of things that rile me. It’s one of my major shortcomings in life. I figure that if I just write them all down, that will be sufficient stewing, and I can move on to being bothered by people who stand on the left side of the escalator rather than the right (“stand right, walk left”), dog owners who don’t pick up their dog’s poop and dispose of it, the fact that our kitchen faucet leaks when pushed all the way to one side…
Our apartment building is an old hotel that was refurbished (I can’t bring myself to say that a building is just out of “rehab”) into an apartment building. The elevators are a little slow, and a few weeks ago there were problems significant enough to render them virtually useless for a few hours. A few hours may not seem like long, I agree, but if the dog needs to go out to the bathroom during that time, it’s 15 floors down and, more to the point, 15 floors UP to fully accomplish that feat. Right next to the elevator shaft is the door to the stairwell that goes from the ground floor to the second floor. If you want to keep going up the interior stairs (versus the outdoor fire escape), you have to walk to the other end of the building on the second floor to do so. I can understand, for that reason, a lot of people on lower floors of the building not taking the stairs, especially when they’re carrying things. But I don’t really understand why people don’t take the stairs to the second floor – I mean, it’s one flight of stairs. You could walk it sooner than wait for the elevator to get down to the ground floor. What really irritates me, for whatever reason, is that the people who always do this don’t even live in the building. They’re all going to the nail salon that’s housed on the second floor of our otherwise residential building (I swear they need a permit or something to do this, and I’m sure they don’t have one). So all these fee-fee overly tan women with zillion carat diamond rings take up the elevators when I’m waiting for one! (My favorite is when Lucy is in the elevator with me and one of these women gets on. I keep Lucy away from people, but the look of horror and distress that comes over these women at the sight of a dog more than 5 lbs. cracks me up.) They stand at the door of the building looking confused as to how to use the call box to get in, then inevitably stand around and wait for a resident to come through. One day I held the door for a woman who was going to the nail salon, and she ran down through the lobby, jumped in an elevator (destined for the second floor), and didn’t even hold the elevator another 30 seconds for me to get in it, too. Maybe they should put an etiquette school next to the nail salon. The only thing goofier than taking the elevator one flight of stairs UP is taking them one flight of stairs DOWN. There’s a clearly marked stairwell. Ugh!
On to random annoyance number two. Chicago is a dog town. Lots of people have them, and lots of places accommodate them – enough so that many businesses have to put “Please, no pets” signs up so that people won’t take them in to, say, CVS or (and I’m not kidding) the grocery store that’s closest to our building. I love Lucy (hah!), but I’m not planning on parading her through stores (save the doggie store) anytime soon. I also refuse to tie her out to street signs and the like while I’m running errands. It’s irresponsible and inappropriate. Anyone who’s met Lucy will understand why she shouldn’t be left to her own devices. She’d chew through what she was tied up with, or she’d bark the entire time I was away from her. There are a lot of nice, calm, sweet dogs, too, but I don’t think they should really be out there either. For one, what’s to stop someone from stealing the dog? What’s to stop children from reaching out to pet the nice doggie (you’d think the parent, but it just doesn’t always happen)? Plus what’s to stop the dog from getting scared and acting aggressive towards people? And who’s to say that every person who walks past isn’t terrified of dogs? I’ve spent a lot of time around dogs, but I’m always nervous when I approach one that doesn’t know me, especially if it’s alone, barking, or running towards me. The reason I bring this up is that Monday night when I came home there was a black poodleish thing tied up outside of Potash Bros. (the small supermarket near our apartment with the aforementioned “Please, no pets” sign). The dog was tied such that he had access to most of the width of the sidewalk, and he was barking endlessly. The owner must’ve been in the grocery store, and there was no sign of her. Why would someone do this? It’s unfair to the dog and the passerbys.
For anyone out there who will respond by telling me that I let little, ridiculous things bother me – let me save you the time. This is but a short list of things that rile me. It’s one of my major shortcomings in life. I figure that if I just write them all down, that will be sufficient stewing, and I can move on to being bothered by people who stand on the left side of the escalator rather than the right (“stand right, walk left”), dog owners who don’t pick up their dog’s poop and dispose of it, the fact that our kitchen faucet leaks when pushed all the way to one side…
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Doggie daycare -- No, I'm not kidding
Wes and I have made the decision to start sending Lucy to doggie daycare. It is without question a ridiculous notion to send a dog to daycare, but it’s something we think is worthwhile. If we hadn’t had a dog before moving to Chicago, we certainly wouldn’t have adopted one while here, but neither were we going to rule out Chicago simply because we had a dog. When we moved to the city, we took into account the issues that would arise as a result of having a dog here. We moved into a pet-friendly building where people were used to seeing dogs and having them on the elevator and such. We made sure we were close to a park or big spanse of grass (thank goodness for Washington Square). We looked at dog parks (unfortunately all several miles away, which is far when you’re walking it on a regular basis) and found a vet within walking distance. And while the weather was nice, Lucy got walked several times a week (before I went back to work and while part-time, we were out every morning). But winter is here, the weather is cold, and I’m working more and more. I’m happy to have the extra work, but Wes and I are feeling increasingly guilty about the long hours Lucy spends alone during the day. The only time I’m home and could walk her is when it’s dark out, and safe as our area is, taking a 5am or 6pm walk in the dark in Chicago can be questionable. Wes occasionally has call on medicine rotations, and if his shift overlaps with a Kaplan class I’m teaching, either Lucy is left home alone for long stretches or I run home between nannying and class (like tonight) to run her out and give her some playtime before I head back out. She’s really good about it, and fortunately she’s not a puppy anymore (almost three years old!), so it’s not the end of the world – but still we feel guilty.
So we talked and talked and basically decided that something needed to happen. Yes, she’s a dog, not a person and not a child. Yes, she probably would have been better off with a family that had a house and a yard and owners who were home all the time (or at least more than we are). Yes, it is silly to spend money to have other people play with our animal when we should do it ourselves. Yes, we could probably have someone come in and take her for a short walk each day for a portion of what we’re going to pay. Yes, it does seem like an absurd waste of money.
BUT, she is our responsibility, and we love her and want to be fair to her. So Lucy will now spend three days a week at a doggie daycare. A Cavalier down the hall does five days a week, so maybe they can become friends and then have play dates at home (people aren’t kidding when they say pets become practice children). She will be picked up in the morning, dropped off in the afternoon, and hopefully exhausted for the rest of the evening! Right now she’s going to go Mon, Tues, and Wed, because those are the nights when I have Kaplan classes (usually not all three nights in one week). At doggie daycare, she can run to her heart’s content, play with people and balls and other dogs, and bark as much as she wants. We thought about just having her walked, and while that would eliminate the bathroom issue, it doesn’t do much for her need to play and expend energy. So this is our solution. On Thursday and Friday, she’ll only be home alone for the hours I’m at work nannying, which she can handle for two days. And Saturday and Sunday, we’ll just have to make an effort to make sure she gets a good walk (to Wes’s credit, he usually does take her out on a long walk when he has a day off).
So call us ridiculous. Call us crazy. Call us insensitive to what a dog really needs – love, attention, several acres to roam –, but at least until the weather improves and one or both of our schedules lightens, this is our solution.
So we talked and talked and basically decided that something needed to happen. Yes, she’s a dog, not a person and not a child. Yes, she probably would have been better off with a family that had a house and a yard and owners who were home all the time (or at least more than we are). Yes, it is silly to spend money to have other people play with our animal when we should do it ourselves. Yes, we could probably have someone come in and take her for a short walk each day for a portion of what we’re going to pay. Yes, it does seem like an absurd waste of money.
BUT, she is our responsibility, and we love her and want to be fair to her. So Lucy will now spend three days a week at a doggie daycare. A Cavalier down the hall does five days a week, so maybe they can become friends and then have play dates at home (people aren’t kidding when they say pets become practice children). She will be picked up in the morning, dropped off in the afternoon, and hopefully exhausted for the rest of the evening! Right now she’s going to go Mon, Tues, and Wed, because those are the nights when I have Kaplan classes (usually not all three nights in one week). At doggie daycare, she can run to her heart’s content, play with people and balls and other dogs, and bark as much as she wants. We thought about just having her walked, and while that would eliminate the bathroom issue, it doesn’t do much for her need to play and expend energy. So this is our solution. On Thursday and Friday, she’ll only be home alone for the hours I’m at work nannying, which she can handle for two days. And Saturday and Sunday, we’ll just have to make an effort to make sure she gets a good walk (to Wes’s credit, he usually does take her out on a long walk when he has a day off).
So call us ridiculous. Call us crazy. Call us insensitive to what a dog really needs – love, attention, several acres to roam –, but at least until the weather improves and one or both of our schedules lightens, this is our solution.
Reading Update
I finished The Dante Club by Matthew Pearl and really enjoyed it. It’s great for anyone who enjoys historical fiction or just a good mystery. Well written. I actually went online and read about Oliver Wendell Holmes and Longfellow and Lowell and some of the others as a consequence. I also have an inkling – but only an inkling – of desire to read Dante’s Inferno now. Maybe I will. One of my favorite parts was that the poet’s publisher was Houghton – as in Houghton Mifflin – and their editor was Ticknor & Fields – now a subsidiary of Houghton Mifflin! Very cool. I also didn’t know that Abraham Lincoln’s cousin was governor of Massachusetts shortly after the Civil War.
After The Dante Club, I moved on to Amy Tan’s The Bonesetter’s Daughter. I really enjoyed this one, also. Tan touches on the mother-daughter theme in basically all of her books, but it doesn’t seem repetitious. I know by the time I read my third Ayn Rand novel, I was like, “Okay, I get it, socialism bad, capitalism good” (I’m still hoping that Galt’s Gulch really does exist – I SO want to live there). But I don’t have the same reaction to Tan’s books. I have The Kitchen God’s Wife coming in a Powell’s order, and that’s the last of her books in paperback. That will have to be it for awhile, as I don’t buy hardback except in really important cases (like Jan Karon’s novels).
The last book I read was really done on a lark. My friend Greene Teacher, who is a huge fan of Victorian novels, mentioned she was reading Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife, a sequel to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. One of her students – a former student of mine – had recommended it. The only way I can describe this novel is as P&P meets trashy romance novel. The title is a pretty accurate description of what happens in the book – Mr. Darcy takes his wife – over and over again! Jane Austen must be blushing in her grave! This is one of the few P&P sequels that deals with the newly married couple as main characters rather than part of the subplot cast, which was nice, but I just don’t think the author did a very good job with the novel as a whole. Austen’s characters lost their backbone – Elizabeth Bennett in particular – and the storyline she wove – for 500+ small-print pages – just wasn’t that engaging. I must admit to skimming parts. On HP’s recommendation, I have ordered the Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentlemen series – not a sequel, but an alternative perspective to P&P. Oh, and if any Austen fans haven’t seen the new version of her very popular novel, go see it. It was great.
What’s next? March by Gwendolyn Brooks. Another Greene Teacher recommendation, this is a story about Mr. March’s experience in the war during Little Women. Haven’t even read the first page, but I’m looking forward to it.
After The Dante Club, I moved on to Amy Tan’s The Bonesetter’s Daughter. I really enjoyed this one, also. Tan touches on the mother-daughter theme in basically all of her books, but it doesn’t seem repetitious. I know by the time I read my third Ayn Rand novel, I was like, “Okay, I get it, socialism bad, capitalism good” (I’m still hoping that Galt’s Gulch really does exist – I SO want to live there). But I don’t have the same reaction to Tan’s books. I have The Kitchen God’s Wife coming in a Powell’s order, and that’s the last of her books in paperback. That will have to be it for awhile, as I don’t buy hardback except in really important cases (like Jan Karon’s novels).
The last book I read was really done on a lark. My friend Greene Teacher, who is a huge fan of Victorian novels, mentioned she was reading Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife, a sequel to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. One of her students – a former student of mine – had recommended it. The only way I can describe this novel is as P&P meets trashy romance novel. The title is a pretty accurate description of what happens in the book – Mr. Darcy takes his wife – over and over again! Jane Austen must be blushing in her grave! This is one of the few P&P sequels that deals with the newly married couple as main characters rather than part of the subplot cast, which was nice, but I just don’t think the author did a very good job with the novel as a whole. Austen’s characters lost their backbone – Elizabeth Bennett in particular – and the storyline she wove – for 500+ small-print pages – just wasn’t that engaging. I must admit to skimming parts. On HP’s recommendation, I have ordered the Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentlemen series – not a sequel, but an alternative perspective to P&P. Oh, and if any Austen fans haven’t seen the new version of her very popular novel, go see it. It was great.
What’s next? March by Gwendolyn Brooks. Another Greene Teacher recommendation, this is a story about Mr. March’s experience in the war during Little Women. Haven’t even read the first page, but I’m looking forward to it.
This city's made for walkin', and walkin's what we'll do
The following is an excerpt from the rough draft of an essay I wrote for my nonfiction class at Northwestern last semester. The essay explored the experiences of walking, driving, and riding a bike in Chicago. The final draft only dealt with the bike riding, since that was the most pointed and interesting part of the first draft, but I liked the other parts too and would like to ultimately stretch out those sections. I will post them in parts, as it was a rather long essay for a single blog post.
Walking around Chicago has been one my preferred pastimes since moving here. Granted, I moved here in late June, when the weather still permits a leisurely stroll through the park district or Michigan Avenue. Sometimes I wander, usually I walk, and occasionally I jog, with dog. The ability to walk a city is one of the most wonderful gifts a resident can enjoy. As a tourist, I have walked London, Glasgow, Paris, Venice (naturally), Vienna, Budapest, and even St. Petersburg, Russia. As an American citizen, I have only ever lived in one city where I could and get anywhere of any interest, and that city is Chicago. It is one of the boons of living in a major city – things are close together, often all on a small island that has absolutely no business housing that many people, much less the major cultural, shopping, and financial districts in the United States.
One of the major drawbacks to being a pedestrian in such a walkable city is not having a horn. Most vehicles have horns – rather loud – and even bicycles have horns – less so. This horn is used to gently remind the first driver up in line that the light has changed, to shepherd unaware pedestrians to the sidewalks, and to let the New York tourists visiting the mountains know that they have no business trying to drive around curves – and probably don’t need to stop to take pictures of the cows in their fields (not that this has happened to me or anything). Keep in mind that a pedestrian would not honk her horn – in my mind, an air horn like the ones some of the more obnoxious fans take to football games – just at drivers and the occasional bike rider, but also at fellow pedestrians. There is nothing more frustrating as a pedestrian than walking behind slower pedestrians. (Granted, being hit and injured by a vehicle is more severe than this, but frustrating is not the word most people would choose for that situation.) I acknowledge that I am a fast walker. It is a trait I inherited from my mother, who taught me to “move with purpose,” as she called it. When I was in high school, my mom liked to walk the dog around the neighborhood for exercise. My father tried to go with her a few times, but he finally gave up because he wanted her to either slow down or start jogging. Sam, the family dog, and I were the only two who could keep her pace. To this day, my husband complains about trying to walk anywhere with me. If he wants me to slow down, he grabs my sleeve and tells me to shift down from “Lizzy speed.” My fast walking has, among other things, robbed me of shopping companions who couldn’t stand the pace with which I careened about the shopping mall, caused me to show no mercy towards my students who arrive late to class, claiming there wasn’t enough time to arrive punctually from the previous classroom, and eschew public transportation for distances that others would have readily driven.
Chicago has a lot of pedestrians – some of them too slow-moving for my taste –, but it has a lot of vehicles, too, and the vehicles are bigger and heavier and moving very quickly. I may have a few choice words for the driver’s making right-hand turns on top of me – shouting at me with their horns to get the hell outta the way this is a street not a sidewalk – but I will get the hell outta their way. I just wish I had a horn to toot back.
Walking around Chicago has been one my preferred pastimes since moving here. Granted, I moved here in late June, when the weather still permits a leisurely stroll through the park district or Michigan Avenue. Sometimes I wander, usually I walk, and occasionally I jog, with dog. The ability to walk a city is one of the most wonderful gifts a resident can enjoy. As a tourist, I have walked London, Glasgow, Paris, Venice (naturally), Vienna, Budapest, and even St. Petersburg, Russia. As an American citizen, I have only ever lived in one city where I could and get anywhere of any interest, and that city is Chicago. It is one of the boons of living in a major city – things are close together, often all on a small island that has absolutely no business housing that many people, much less the major cultural, shopping, and financial districts in the United States.
One of the major drawbacks to being a pedestrian in such a walkable city is not having a horn. Most vehicles have horns – rather loud – and even bicycles have horns – less so. This horn is used to gently remind the first driver up in line that the light has changed, to shepherd unaware pedestrians to the sidewalks, and to let the New York tourists visiting the mountains know that they have no business trying to drive around curves – and probably don’t need to stop to take pictures of the cows in their fields (not that this has happened to me or anything). Keep in mind that a pedestrian would not honk her horn – in my mind, an air horn like the ones some of the more obnoxious fans take to football games – just at drivers and the occasional bike rider, but also at fellow pedestrians. There is nothing more frustrating as a pedestrian than walking behind slower pedestrians. (Granted, being hit and injured by a vehicle is more severe than this, but frustrating is not the word most people would choose for that situation.) I acknowledge that I am a fast walker. It is a trait I inherited from my mother, who taught me to “move with purpose,” as she called it. When I was in high school, my mom liked to walk the dog around the neighborhood for exercise. My father tried to go with her a few times, but he finally gave up because he wanted her to either slow down or start jogging. Sam, the family dog, and I were the only two who could keep her pace. To this day, my husband complains about trying to walk anywhere with me. If he wants me to slow down, he grabs my sleeve and tells me to shift down from “Lizzy speed.” My fast walking has, among other things, robbed me of shopping companions who couldn’t stand the pace with which I careened about the shopping mall, caused me to show no mercy towards my students who arrive late to class, claiming there wasn’t enough time to arrive punctually from the previous classroom, and eschew public transportation for distances that others would have readily driven.
Chicago has a lot of pedestrians – some of them too slow-moving for my taste –, but it has a lot of vehicles, too, and the vehicles are bigger and heavier and moving very quickly. I may have a few choice words for the driver’s making right-hand turns on top of me – shouting at me with their horns to get the hell outta the way this is a street not a sidewalk – but I will get the hell outta their way. I just wish I had a horn to toot back.
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