“If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. It it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

— E.B. White, writer (1899-1985)

We saw Charlotte’s Web on Thursday, the new one. (The actors who voiced the animals were great, as was Dakota Fanning, who plays Fern.) Wacky Girl kept sneaking little sidelong looks at me during the movie, Is she crying yet? No. Now? No. So stoic, my kids. They never cry at books or movies, and they only rarely sob about real life. (Right before winter break, Wacky Girl saw someone at school pitch a major tantrum and asked me later, “What was up with her, anyway?”)

She knows how I feel about Charlotte’s Web because I won’t read it with her. She’s read it with her dad three or four times, she reads it sometimes by herself, but for me, I can’t get over Charlotte dying.

“But her babies live!” Wacky Girl tells me. Spoken like a true spawn.

Unlike many creatures, I’m here to do more than live for one mere year (possibly less) have my babies, nurture my babies (or possibly not be allowed that opportunity) and die. I hope I’m here for more than that. But some days (weeks, years) it does seem like that’s my only purpose. I hate that. I love mothering, but I hate having it define me. Being seen as a “bitch,” or worse, “a fat bitch,” who is here just to mother. Gestate, nurse, mother. Gestate, nurse, mother. Die.

“It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.”

Of course I cried.

Everyone has been sending me stuff, but have I been kind enough to review any of it? Noooooooooooo. Too busy bitching at Emilio Estevez.

Reviewed today:

And, just to mix things up:

Student’s Go Vegan Cookbook, by Carole Raymond. (And no, I don’t like the placement of that apostrophe, either. Talk to Carole’s publisher about it, not me.)

The God of Small Things, by the political, brilliant and irrepressible writer and speaker Arundhati Roy.

And… (mixing it up, get it?) how about the Jiffy Mixes recipe book? If you go to their website they’ll send you, one, too. If you have an Easy-Bake Oven, Jiffy Mixes work just splendidly and do not cost as much as the Easy-Bake mixes.

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From George Bernard Shaw:

“This is the true joy of life: the being used up for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clot of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”

Yeah, that’s me alright — a regular force of nature. And this may be all you’re getting from me this week…

Book of the week: I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being A Woman by Nora Ephron. She is a funny, funny, funny lady. Sorry, I could never hope to be even one-tenth as funny as she is, so I will not try.

Christmas pageants are a lot of work, it turns out. If I was into pharmaceuticals I’d be taking a Valium right now.

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Reviewed today:

You might want to just run out now and buy a handful of UglyDolls, because once you finish reading Jennifer Weiner’s latest, Goodnight Nobody, you will want to get your mitts on one. Or in my case, three or four, because who can pick just one? They’re so pitifully ugly. (UglyDoll Babo is a prominent character in the book.)

I started out thinking I wanted to post a full review of this book, but I hadn’t read anything about it before I cracked it open and I’m glad I didn’t. I hate spoilers, don’t you? So let’s leave it at this — It’s about a mom. And her kids. Her best friend. And her husband, who really? Needs to be paying a bit more attention to his wife and the homefront. And then we have our little friend, UglyDoll Babo, in his crocheted pink bikini and other attire. It’s a great book — you’ll love it. I’ve enjoyed all of Jennifer Weiner’s books, but this one was my favorite. (If you’re a writer, or an aspiring writer, check out the “For Writers” section on her website — it’s full of tips.)

I also just finished Anne Tyler’s latest, Digging to America. Tyler has always gotten a bad rap, as far as I’m concerned. A prof of mine once dismissed her books as “domestic novels.” As if to say, “Families, blech.” Go talk to Tolstoy, would you? Or Shakespeare. Or Tennessee Williams. And can we please get the phrase “chicklit” the hell out of the room? Don’t be dismissive, it makes you look like a jerk. (Weiner makes jokes about “all the books with the pink covers” throughout “Goodnight Nobody” and it cracked me up.)

I’ve read probably half of Tyler’s work and have been moved by all that I’ve read (especially The Accidental Tourist and Back When We Were Grownups). “Digging to America,” which is about two families — one Euro-American and one Iranian-American — who adopt baby girls from Korea, is her finest novel to date. I loved it, and my mom did, too. After she finished reading it, we held an impromptu book club, just the two of us, over the phone. My mom, who is so proud of Wacky Girl (don’t hate her because she reads ahead two grade levels. heeheehee) and Wacky Boy, who started reading this week.

My boy reads. My girl reads. My husband, when I shove a book at him, reads, too. (His real love is non-fiction and political writing. And anything about hockey, natch.) My mom taught me to read, and write, and I love her for that. My dad, who pretty much bombed at school, loved Steinbeck and got lost in books.

You think it’s easy, writing about family life? Go try it. Chicklit my foot. Happy writing, and reading.

Love,

WM

PS — Even though I’ve just started reading Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire, I’m giving it two thumbs-up. Funny, and a little scary, and the language is great.

At the Book Fair yesterday at the North Portland Library, we received a FREE copy of one of the Addy, American Girl books. (Wacky Girl adores American Girl anything, especially now that Emily, Molly’s English friend! has arrived! Much excitement at Wacky House over this. I told her if she scams enough Christmas money, then maybe.)

MORE REVIEWS:

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I have this sweetie of a girlfriend in town, one Leslie Gould.

Quick! Go look how pretty she is. Sweet, no?

I met her through a friend, who was helping me land a freelance job. Leslie became my editor, then my friend, then my buddy. Usually I don’t use my friends’ real names on this blog, because of, y’know. This, and maybe this and a whole lot of this. I don’t want to identify the mommies cuz I don’t want to identify the kids. Sometimes we need our privacy, yes? (What happened to my Friday Advice Column, anyway? Any questions? Fire away. I had a batch and, uh, misfiled them in a sub-folder and now who knows where they are. Truth is out. I cannot file.)

No anonymity here though — Leslie must be outed, because you need to buy her books. Besides, what wouldn’t I do for her? She is that kind of girlfriend to me. She lives in the neighborhood where I grew up. The woman is a career Army wife. Brave? Yes. She has four gorgeous kids who play soccer and are brilliant artists and gifted, and kind, to top it all off. Her family is involved in their church, and their community, and oh, yeah. She writes. She writes and writes and writes.

In her spare time.

On October 10th her third novel, Scrap Everything, arrives in stores.

Perfect for the crafty types in your life, for your best friend, your family members, your child’s teacher, a neighbor — it’s a great book. It’s about two women, Elise and Rebekah, who strike up an unlikely friendship and bond over scrapbooking, their families and their faith. Her two previous novels, Beyond the Blue and Garden of Dreams are equally incredible. Beyond the Blue is about international adoption and its impact on two families; Garden of Dreams is about two women friends, in love with their husbands and their kids; the community they live in and sometimes struggle with; and a secret.

If you love to read about friendship, faith and dreams, you will love these books.

Hello everyone. I find myself with a large stack of review copies here and thought I should maybe, you know, at least open a book this summer.

(A book other than Lu and the Swamp Ghost, that is. Wacky Boy gives this book, by political guy James Carville, two big thumbs-up. It comes with a CD so you can figure out how to pronounce the French. I appreciated this.)

Let’s start with travel, then move right into the health and classic Biblical names section, shall we?

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My favorite kids’ cookbook title, until today, was Feed Me! I’m Yours. As of today, it is Just Two More Bites! Helping Picky Eaters Say Yes to Food. ($13.95/paperback, Three Rivers Press, 294 pages; Linda Piette.net)

(What is it with the exclamation marks! And parenting books! We are the world! We are the parents! De-exclamate, already.)

Yes, nutritionist and dietitian Piette has brought us the recipes we’ve been waiting for: Poop Goop I and Poop Goop II:

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Next to my nightstand, tripping me everytime I get up:

* A pile of toys Wacky Boy keeps adding to — my Mother’s Day gifts. (They include, so far, five Boohbahs in different colors — hot pink, purple, blue, orange and yellow; a rubber snake; several teddy bears; and Whiskers, his favorite stuffed bunny. This is true love, that he gave me Whiskers.)

* One large black Lab, who thinks he’s a cat

* Four journals (two of my own, one for each of the kids)

* TV Guide (because who can maneuver television without guidance?)

* A large stack of old copies of the Nation, New Yorker and Cosmo (???) magazines

These books:

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No news from contractors since last Thursday. Yeah, you’re thinking, “She’s never going to get that frickin’ bathroom done. Blog about something else, would you?” Sorry, I can’t.

Oh, wait, they did call to say that marmoleum was too expensive and homeowners’ insurance won’t cover. (Thank God they’re footing the cost of some of this. Yes, I’m fond of “African Desert” and “Red Copper,” too, how did you guess?) And that we should go for tile, instead. Oddly, my husband wants tile (cold); I prefer marmoleum (warm). What does this say about us? What does this say, that the contractors magically agree with his choice, not mine? Bastards. They’re in cahoots, I know it.

(Note to WM: Figure out prices yourself, why don’t you? Enough of this male bonding bullshit between my spouse and the contractors. All their conversations go like this: “How you doin’?” “How you doin’?” It’s like having Tony Soprano here, times three or four.)

Now comes a call from Himself, AKA Hockey God:

WD: “So, I just talked with the contractors.”

Me: “I can’t hear you!”

WD: “They got the tests back — there’s asbestos under the bathroom floor.”

Me: “Break out the red and the blue!!! Blah blah blah moves on to glory! Courage will lead us on to vic-to-ree-ee-ee!”

Yes, that’s right. I sing my high school fight song when I’m ignoring someone. Or I can always tune it to the “bladdity blah blah blah” channel, as Roxie suggests.

Check out this great Portland winery, Hip Chicks Do Wine.

After that news, I’ll need them. (Hip Chicks Do Whine? Only sometimes, when the news is rilly bad.) Check out Blue Heron French Cheese Company, too. Delicious brie and nice wines…