Book Review: The Secret Life of Bees/The Mermaid Chair

Sue Monk Kidd has a way with words, evoking scenes and smells, drawing idiosyncratic characters who seem perfectly plausible. Her writing style reminds me a lot of Pat Conroy's--if she's not a native Southerner, she's one who loves it all, the people, the land, the food.

The Secret Life of Bees is her debut novel. The main character is Lily Owen, whose life has been defined by the death of her mother. Lily was four when she accidentally shot her mother who was having an argument with her husband, Lily's father. Lily's father, whom she calls T. Ray, seems indifferent to Lily, leaving her in the care of Rosaleen, a black woman he's pulled out of his peach orchard.

Lily has found a box containing a few items that belonged to her mother. One is a picture of a Black Madonna, with the words "Tiburon, South Carolina" written on the back. When Rosaleen runs into trouble on the way to register to vote (it's 1964), Lily springs her from the hospital and they run away and they head to Tiburon. On her way in to town, she finds the Black Madonna--it's a label on a jar of honey, made by a local beekeeper, August. August (who is also black) lives with her two younger sisters, June and May. She lies her way into staying with the sisters, learning about bees and "The Daughters of Mary," the religion the sisters practice revolving around the Virgin Mary. Coincidentally, Lily also receives the mothering she needs and Rosaleen finds a place for herself as well.

Of course, the idyll cannot last. Lily is a white girl living in a black household and her father has no idea where she is. The situation comes to a head and Lily learns about her mother, her father, and herself.

Unfortunately, the ending is implausible and a disappointment. (Interestingly, DD#1 had the same reaction, but phrased it much more elegantly: "Ms. Kidd is a good writer but not much of a storyteller.) I enjoyed the book in kind of a lazy, laid-back way. It's a good summer read: pleasurable, but not enthralling.

The Mermaid Chair is another novel. Also set in South Carolina. This novel has more overtly Catholic themes, involving a saints, monks, and women. Jessie has been married to Hugh for 20 years. Their daughter, Dee, is off to college. Jessie is feeling restless, but doesn't know why. She has learned to live in "the smallest space possible." Then she gets word that her mother has chopped off her right index finger. Jessie returns home to Egret Island, to her mother and her mother's best friends, Kat and Hepzibah. And to the Monastery of St. Senara, home of the Mermaid Chair.

And home to Brother Thomas, who, in his previous life, was an environmental lawyer, happily married and expecting his first child, when his wife and their unborn child were killed in a car accident. Father Sebastian, the monastery prior, suspects that Brother Thomas is running away from life. Father Dominic has written the story of the Mermaid Chair which Kat sells to tourists in her store, The Mermaid's Tale.

Because the island is small, all the characters are intertwined. Brother Thomas and Jessie feel a strong attraction, a deep connection. And the island itself--its heat, its mud, its tides--is as much a character as the people involved.

Again, though, lyrical writing but weak story, especially the ending. Both The Mermaid Chair and The Secret Life of Bees have a lot of detail about Catholic traditions, but apparently Ms. Kidd was a Southern Baptist. Before writing novels, she was known for her writing about spiritual matters, including her journey to the "sacred feminine." Her novels reflect her world view.

On the March Hare scale: 3 out of 5 Golden Bookmarks overall. Fine summer reading, not too mentally challenging, but not enough of a guilty pleasure either.

crossposted at Catholic Media Review

Summer Intermezzo

My internal alarm clock woke me up, even though I stayed up late watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix last night. Not only do I have no children to hustle off to school, I have no Hubs either: he and DS#2 and DD#2 are at Boy Scout camp this week as part of our Troop and our new Venture Crew. The Venture program is co-ed, which is why DD#2 can go. I have mixed feelings about that, but the camp fee for a new unit is incredibly cheap. And I am the type of parent who is always pushing her children to stretch their wings, try something new, be outdoors.

While they are gone the remote is mine and the television has mostly been off. I can read when I want, eat when (and what) I want, and write without fear that someone will walk in wondering, "Whatca doin'?", startling my Muse, causing her to flee.

This is an amazing freedom.

DS#1 is in his college town, in his apartment, having found a summer internship there. DD#2 is working and taking two classes at community college--she decided that since she's been there so long, she might as well get her AA. Later this summer and early in the Fall, the intensity will begin as both DS#2 and DD#1 apply for universities and colleges. She will probably get in; he probably will not. (DS#2 is smart enough; just not book-smart. He's people smart, but California state universities and colleges do not have personal interviews.)

The house is very quiet, especially at night. The Dog is lonely, although since there is only one human around, the decision where to sit is much easier for her: wherever I am. The cats only find me if they need to be fed or decide they want a lap.

The last week was hot, but the fog has come in and temperatures are returning to summer norms. The hills are August-dry, so there are several grass-and-brush fires around the Bay Area, tinging the fog a reddish-brown and leaving the faint smell of smoke in the air. If the burns are small enough to control, the local fire departments let them burn out to prevent larger, more serious fires. These fires rarely make the news--a burnt scar on the hillside tells the tale. The Fourth of July weekend will be a concern: more fireworks, more alcohol, more open campfires as people take to the mountains and lakes. Better to burn now.

The birds are singing. I can hear the traffic from the freeway. It sounds like it's going to be warm today. My bedroom window is open, but I'm not cold. I'll need a jacket for BART, but I'll park in the shade so I'll be able to touch the steering wheel of my car this afternoon without burning my fingers. I have to remember to stop by the cleaners and pick up my dress and DS#2's tuxedo. My schedule at work is light, but I never know.

I've read three books--novels--that I hope to review this evening. Summer novels, although one has left me feeling nostalgic and a little sad. Maybe wistful?

Now it's time to get up, take a shower, get dressed, and face the day. Put on my "game" face, my "career woman" persona.

Carpe diem!

What the Frack???

So last night was the cliffhanger episode of Battlestar Galactica. I thought that this was the last season, but, apparently, there is a new definition of "season." Because the resolution of this cliffhanger won't be aired until January 2009.

In the parlance of BG, what the frack???

If you haven't seen it, I won't spoil it, but I do have a general question.

Here, the child of Helo & Athena, is important because she is a hybrid--half human, half Cylon. But the Chief's (Galen's) son is also a hybrid, although no one realized that one of his parents is a Cylon--including that parent. Why isn't he as important as Hera?

Well, to help tide me over until January, SciFi Channel is bringing back Eureka! This series is about a quirky town of geniuses, hidden in Northern California (I think)--"Area 51 only wishes they had our security." The only non-genius is U.S. Marshall John Carter (an homage to Edgar Rice Burroughs Mars novels?), who is now the sheriff. He may not be a genius, but he has common sense.

I love the characters in this town and the oddball problems they get into. The characters are well-developed and there are gizmos and gadgets galore. I got DS#2 hooked on this. It's a great summer series (the new season starts the end of July). I'm not sure if Season 1 and 2 are out on DVD yet, but SciFi Channel does show some episodes on the web--maybe they have some old ones available.

crossposted on Catholic Media Review

Book Review: Good Omens

The complete title of this book is Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. This is a joint effort by Neil Gaiman (Stardust) and Terry Pratchett (Discworld series). Which means it's hysterically funny, but you can't explain to anyone why you're laughing out loud without reading several pages to explain the set up.

It's also the kind of book where a complete stranger, who noticed I was reading this on BART, said, "Great book! You'll enjoy it!" Book recommendations don't come any more spontaneous than that.

The story is about Armageddon. A demon, Crowley, and an angel, Aziraphale, who have been on Earth since The Fall of Adam and Eve, aren't really too keen to have this happen. They've grown rather fond of this planet and its inhabitants, along with wine, classic Bentleys, well-cut suits, and books. But the Anti-Christ is born and the Hound of Hell has been unleashed, so what can they do?

Meanwhile, there is a book, with Agnes Nutter's prophecies, currently in the possession of Agnes's direct descendant, Anathema. The "Nice" in the title refers to the original meaning of the word: precise. And Agnes's predictions are accurate and precise--it's just that her relatives have to figure out what she means.

Meanwhile, Newton Pulsifer, answers a rather strange ad in the local paper in an attempt to add some drama to his life. He finds himself in an odd kind of Army of two, where his main job is going through newspapers looking for odd happenings.

The Four Horsemen appear, but their "horses" don't have four feet.

There is much British humor, which Gaiman & Pratchett explain to Americans with helpful footnotes, although access to the Internet for British history and folklore was also useful to me.

The tone is, of course, entirely irreverent, especially towards the end. Can any of God's creatures truly know what He wants?

In the afterword, Gaiman & Pratchett discuss their collaboration. They talk about signing copies of this book that are swollen from having been dropped in the bath, taped together with massive amounts of duct tape, and talking to fans who keep purchasing copies because the ones they've lent out don't return home.

I can see why.

This book is not for everyone. But if you enjoy Monty Python, Douglas Adams, or Doctor Who, chances are you'll enjoy Good Omens. It's a great vacation book.

On the March Hare scale: 4.5 out 5 Golden Bookmarks

crossposted at Catholic Media Review

May Is Over; Summer Has Arrived!

I hate the month of May. It's the month when everyone is trying to "finish up" before the end of the school year. This year we survived two Junior Proms, one SAT test (the same day as one of the Proms), a Girl Scout bridging and Silver Award ceremony, a family gathering/reunion/mini-break, an AP Biology test, Back-to-School night, two major term papers, a plagiarism crisis, Boy Scout Camporee, a Girl Scout Leader-Daughter breakfast, the husband of a good friend rushed into by-pass surgery, and a good friend of DS#2 who is in the hospital with an allergic reaction to his cancer meds.

Last week was finals. And the week before was when the rest of the projects were due. DD#2 told us she owes $109.00 because of damage to one of her textbooks. And the weather has been beautiful--shirtsleeve warm during the day, cool enough at night to sleep.

The "marine layer"--aka fog--rolled in on Friday, which was the last day of school. That's the way it usually works around here: beautiful weather the last two weeks of school, followed by ten or twelve weeks of fog, and then several more weeks of great weather in September and October. It wouldn't be a traditional Independence Day without barbecuing with ski jackets on.

Next year, DS#2 will be a Senior. DD#2 will be confirmed. DD#1 will be transferring to a four-year University.

Hubs and I may just go to Disneyland. :)

Movie Review: Iron Man

This is the latest installment of Marvel comics to come to the big screen and, I believe, it's the first to carry their production label. Iron Man is also the first of the summer popcorn movies to hit theaters.

And hit it does. The film opens with a tribute to Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.), the genius son of the founder of Stark Industries. The senior Mr. Stark made his fortune during World War II, working on the Manhattan Project. Tony, who showed his engineering genius at a young age, has inherited the company after the death of his father, but has also inherited his father's corporate ethics: Stark Industries supplies weapons only to the U.S.

However, in his personal life, Tony's ethics are more lackadasical. He doesn't appear at the tribute to pick up his award. He seduces a female reporter who wants to interview him. He delays leaving for Afghanistan where he's due to demonstrate the latest Stark Industries weapon to work on his latest classic car. His old friend, Col. James "Rhodey" Rhodes (Terrence Howard) and his assistant, Ms. "Pepper" Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow), do their best to keep him focused, with moderate success.

After a successful demonstration of the "Jericho Bomb", the convoy heading back to the airfield is attacked. Tony wakes up with a car battery attached to his chest. He has been captured by terrorists and a fellow captive, Yinsen (Shaun Toub), has rigged a device to keep Tony's heart beating. The terrorists, who come from several countries, including Hungary and Yugoslavia, want Tony to build a version of the Jericho Bomb for them. Tony looks around and realizes that someone within Stark Industries has been selling munitions to these insurgents and Tony isn't happy about it. He's also not happy about being held captive. With Yinsen's assistance, Tony builds a small power source for his heart and then the ultimate in body armor. While building the armor, Tony learns about Yinsen's life--his family, his village--and comes to see how narrow his vision has been.

With the aid of his suit, Tony escapes and returns to New York. He is a changed man and announces that Stark Industries will no longer make weapons. He has a new vision, a vision that not everyone in his company shares. And he has to find out who is selling Stark munitions to the terrorists.

Tony confides his new plans to his assistant, Ms. Potts, and to Obadiah Stane (Jeff Bridges) who was his father's closest confident and right hand man. He also shows Obadiah the power source that is keeping him alive. And then Tony goes into seclusion to work on and refine the design of the armored suit.

Meanwhile, back in Afghanistan, the Head Bad Guy find the pieces of the body armor and vows his revenge.

The special effects in this movie are awesome. There's a great scene where Tony Stark is trying out his new suit and is picked up by Strategic Air Command, who are getting ready to blow him out of the sky. He avoids that not through techno-wizardry, but through his friendship with Rhodey. And, for me, it was the characters that made the movie great, not just the special effects.

Tony and Pepper have a chemistry, but when their relationship threatens to turn personal, she refers to him as "Mr. Stark" and he refers to her as "Ms. Potts." Tony sees Obadiah as a mentor. Tony and Rhodey have been friends since they were kids. Yinsen touched Tony's heart, literally and figuratively. Tony is flawed, but capable of change--although his flaws, and his genius, are what get him into trouble.

The casting is excellent. I didn't recognize Jeff Bridges at first and Robert Downey Jr. shows the talent for characterization evident in Chaplin. Gywneth Paltrow is strong, resourceful, and sexy. The dialogue is witty and snappy without resorting to profanity. There is some innuendo, especially between Tony and Ms. Potts, but it's well done. There is the one sex scene early in the movie and several violent fight scenes. The destruction of the convoy is particularly shocking--I jumped even though I knew it was coming. Iron Man provides lots of topics for later discussion, particularly with high schoolers, including

Oh--stay through the end of the credits.

On the March Hare scale: 5 out of 5 Golden Tickets

crossposted at Catholic Media Review

My Advantaged Childhood

"Never pass up an opportunity to keep your mouth shut." I received those words of wisdom from a co-worker many years ago. It was one of his father's favorite sayings and they were words I especially needed to hear early in my career.

This quote is especially appropriate this election season, which has gone on far too long (including for Jon Stewart, apparently).

Still, at a recent luncheon, I couldn't help but say something when President Bush was referred to as "our idiot president." Come on, now. This slander is getting really old and adds absolutely nothing to the discussion. So I pointed out that it was Vice-President Al Gore who cast the tie-breaking vote encouraging ethanol subsidies.

The next words out of the original commenter's mouth were, "Are you a Republican?"

I admitted I was.

She was shocked, especially, she said, "considering my background."

She was shocked precisely because she doesn't know my background.

I tried to explain why I did not like the Democrats ideal of Big Government. I prefer to give a homeless man on the street a dollar--and he gets the entire dollar. If I give it to Washington, he's lucky if he gets 35 cents.

"But not everyone has had your advantages," she persisted (after telling me that she won't think less of me because of my views).

And that's when I shut up.

The luncheon was all women and I was the only one who did not support Hillary Clinton. I was also the only one who has a successful, long-term marriage and children, which colors my views.

Upon reflection, the original commenter was correct: not everyone has had my advantages. I grew up in a two-parent family. My mother and father loved each other. They were practicing Catholics, active in the parish, the parish school, and the community. They both loved to read. Education was important--in the classroom and out. They never stopped learning.

We were blue-collar, working class, but my parents wanted us to appreciate culture and so found ways to expose us to the arts, to theater, to music. They raised six of us on a single income for most of my life, so we learned to economize and prioritize our spending. Our job was school. We were expected to do our best at all times.

And because there were six of us and two of them, we were given responsibilities and duties. It was part of belonging to a family.

Consequently, I'm a hard worker. I'm curious. I seek new challenges. I know that I will do what is necessary to survive, even if it means flipping burgers. I know that God never closes a door without opening a window--although sometimes it takes a while to find it.

Hubs didn't have that kind of support growing up, so some of this is new to him, especially when it comes to higher education. But we're trying to instill the same values in our children: love of and loyalty to family, love of God, love of learning, the ability to work hard (and all that entails) towards a goal, taking personal responsibility.

These traits can't be taught by the Secretary of Education in Washington, D.C. They have to be taught one-to-one, adult, preferably the parent, to child. The fanciest school, the best books, the most up-to-date technology won't make a difference.

Nor will whoever happens to be in the White House.

Prayer Request: Terry Pratchett

I came late to Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, although I certainly was familiar with Mr. Pratchett's name and some of his other works. So I was shocked to read in the online version of the Guardian Book Review that Mr. Pratchett is suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's. He has since donated $1 million to Alzheimer's research in the U.K. and has also spoken out about the fact he must pay for his own medication because, according to the National Health Service, he is "too young" to qualify.

Mr. Pratchett is also outraged at the lack of funding for Alzheimer's research--hence his donation.

He's still writing books, although he's noticed that his ability to touch type has disappeared.

There's little we as fans can do except pray. And continue to enjoy Mr. Pratchett's prolific writings. He plans to keep writing as long as he is able. God willing, that will be for several more years!

crossposted at Catholic Media Review

A Question of Communion

This weekend our parish celebrated Confirmation and First Communion. As usual, I cried watching the First Communicants process in. There's something about watching seven-year-olds, the girls in white dresses and most with veils, the boys in Sunday best shirt-and-tie, walk in solemnly, hands held together as in prayer. They look a little nervous, a little wide-eyed, trying to remember all the instructions they've been given and feeling the eyes of the congregation on them.

Father N. was the presider. Besides being one of the administrators of the local Catholic high school, he's also over six feet tall. So he got down on his knees to give the children their First Communion so he would be at their eye level. Father N. is also an excellent homilist, with a talent for talking to teens, rather than above or below them.

He didn't fail tonight, discussing how the Eucharist brings Jesus into our lives so we can bring Him to our families and friends and the rest of the world. He stressed how Jesus's presence is real and that's what makes Communion so important.

Where was Father when I was trying to explain why Catholics don't let just anyone receive Communion?

The conversation was at a party. Most of us knew each other from the Boy Scout troop and we were enjoying a rare warm evening outdoors. A good friend of mine made the statement that she thought the Catholic religion was "snobby" and "elitist." Yes, she knows I'm Catholic as was another adult sitting in our area. And she felt that way because the Catholic Church won't allow non-Catholics to receive Communion at Mass. She especially seemed to think that it was terrible that Hubs can't receive, especially since we've been married for almost 30 years.

I tried to explain that it's because Catholics believe that the Eucharist is truly the Body and Blood of Christ, not just a representation. The Eucharist is sacred. And the Church wants to make sure that those who receive understand that.

"Well, who was the first priest anyway?" she said.

"Jesus Christ, of course!" I answered. I was a little shocked at her question and some of that came across in my tone. "And He passed His Authority to the Apostles who passed them down to modern times."

"Well, I still think your religion is snobby, " she replied.

"If it's any consolation, I can't receive communion in your church," I said.

"But that's because your church won't let you, not mine." (She's Presbyterian.)

The other Catholic tried to help me explain, but she really wasn't interested in a theological discussion. But watching the children receive First Communion today made me wonder if other Christian religions have a rite of First Communion. I suspect the Episcopalians and the Lutherans might (I know they have a rite of Confirmation). If communion is merely a symbolic sharing of a meal, then what's the purpose in making it a special event in a child's spiritual life? I also never understood why Communion was available only during certain services and not at every one--or available every day. Was it only to distinguish themselves from Catholicism? Isn't that kind of like cutting off your nose to spite your face?

Fortunately for the party, our conversation didn't move on to Mary.

Our pastor, Father P., writes an "editorial" in the weekly bulletin. Last week he congratulated the Confirmandi and the First Communicants. He also pointed out that while there are over 100 children receiving First Communion, there are only 60 Confirmandi--reminding parents that religious education doesn't stop with First Communion. (He also noted that for many children their Second Communion happens years after their First--also not good.) In an ideal world, the number of Confirmandi would be the same as the number of First Communicants.

I have to admit my children don't continue their religious education after Confirmation, mostly because they don't want to. One thing the Presbyterians and some of the other Protestant religions do much better than most Catholic parishes is their youth groups for older teens and young adults. Hubs and I do have a rule that the kids continue to attend Mass with me until they graduate from high school. Once in college, the decision is theirs, although if they're home, they're expected to go Christmas, Easter, and all family occasions (and there are several of those a year!).

My friend may never understand why the Catholic Church is exclusive about Communion. But we, as Church, must do better educating our members, of all ages.

Book Review: Seven Archangels: Annihilation

The story begins with Remiel, one of the Seven Archangels that stand before God, dancing in a studio. She's checking out one of the latest musical trends to see if it is, in fact, music. Saraquael, another of the Seven, comes to find out what she is doing. Instead, Remiel starts a game of Tag that eventually encompasses several angels and the entire Universe. She even coaxes Gabriel out of his library and into the game.

Unfortunately, that leads Gabriel into a trap set by Satan and his minions: Mephistopheles, Beezelbub, Asmodeus, and Belior. And one more fallen angel: Camael, Remiel's twin brother. Memphistopheles, a Cherubim like Gabriel, has discovered how to kill an angel and Gabriel is their first victim. By destroying Gabriel, they hope to cripple Raphael, a Seraphim who is joined to Gabriel, and to exploit what they see as a weakness in God's design, thereby proving Satan as God's equal.

Camael is captured by Michael and Remiel assumes her brother's aspects in hopes of thwarting Satan's plans. This, however, causes problems for Remiel, who must continually deny who she is in order to remain undetected as Camael.

And, in fact, Hell's plans don't succeed, at least not completely. Gabriel is not killed but he is mortally wounded. And God, because of His gift of Free Will, will not interfere. The angels must discover how to repair Gabriel's soul and repair Remiel's psyche.

Initially, I was caught off-guard by the modern aspects of Heaven. Mary in blue jeans and a pony tail? Baking cookies? Angels in hiking boots and turtlenecks? Rock-climbing? Playing tag? I've always thought of angels as near-perfect beings, so it was odd to read about personality quirks and clashes.

But, as the author, Jane Lebak, explains, each angel is a "facet" of God. So it makes sense that each angel would be unique and individual. And if they didn't have personalities, the story would be very dull indeed! And that brings out some interesting discussions about Free Will and choice, repentance and redemption, how hate perverts God's order and design, and finding the inner strength to do what God's will. Not bad for a book under 300 pages!

Once I got into the milieu, I was truly absorbed into the story. (Okay, when Jesus says to Mary "Thanks, Mom," for a cookie, I laughed.) Towards the end, I was even feeling sorry for Mephistopheles. And, since there are seven archangels, I'm hoping there are six more books.

One critique: I wished Jane had included an organizational chart at the beginning of the book. Several of the angels have similar names and I would forget which choir they belonged to. And a brief description of each choirs quirks would also have been helpful, especially at the beginning. (Cherubim are the "absent-minded professors", Seraphim are healers (and quick-tempered), Thrones stand in front of God, singing His praises--that sort of thing.)

On the March Hare scale: 4 out 5 Golden Bookmarks

crossposted at Catholic Media Review

Movie Review: Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium

If you're looking for a little magic in your life, stop by Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. It's a charming little shop, cozily sandwiched between two skyscrapers in what appears to be New York City. Mr. Magorium may no longer be there, but Mahoney is, along with Bellini, the Mutant, and Eric.

There is always something to do: read, build, experiment, play dodge ball with the world's largest ball. Children run riot and parents seem especially relaxed.

Eric (Zach Mills), who is nine-years-old and whose only friend is Molly Mahoney (Natalie Portman), narrates the story. Molly--who is always referred to as "Mahoney"--is the manager of Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium and a former child prodigy at the piano. She is trying to write her own piano concerto, but is stuck. Mr. Magorium (Dustin Hoffman) is 243 years old and an avid wearer of shoes. He hires an accountant, Henry Weston (Jason Bateman), to figure out how much the store is worth because it's time for Mr. Magorium to leave. He fell in love with a pair of shoes in Tuscany, bought enough to last him his whole life, and now he's worn out his last pair. So, it's time to go.

It makes perfect sense, you see.

Mr. Magorium takes Henry, who is called "Mutant" by a convoluted chain of reasoning, into the office where there is a hodgepodge of boxes and ledgers dating back hundreds of years. Henry's not sure what to make of it all, especially since Mr. Magorium hasn't filed a tax return or for a business license ever. But Henry knows how to work (whether he knows how to play is in question) and he gets right too it.

Henry can't figure out how Mahoney seems to just go with the flow of it.

Mr. Magorium eventually tells Mahoney he's leaving and that the store will be hers. She protests: he's healthy, he's magic, she's not, the world won't be the same without him. In reply Mr. Magorium gives her a block of wood. Mahoney isn't sure what to do with it, but Mr. Magorium tells her she'll know.

Will Mahoney ever finish her piano concerto? Will she find her sparkle? Will Eric ever make a friend? Will Henry learn to play? Will Bellini finish Mr. Magorium's story and start a new one?

Did Mr. Magorium really give Thomas Edison the idea for the light bulb?

In addition to having storylines about believing in yourself, reaching out to others, and learning to play, Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium pays homage to several classic movies. Dustin Hoffman seems to be channeling Ed Wynn's "Uncle Albert" from Mary Poppins. Mahoney has to look in the "Big Book" in order to find a fire truck with "hoses that really squirt water" (the original Miracle on 34th Street). An early scene reminds me of the bookstore in You've Got Mail. There is a bit of the original Willie Wonka in this movie, too.

There's also lots of puns, visual and verbal, as in Eric making sure that Mr. Magorium has "plenty of space to sleep in."

Having said all that, both DS#2 and I felt that the ending was flat, almost as though the director felt the show had gone on long enough and he had to wrap it up NOW. The relationship between Henry and Mahoney is never really resolved, although it's kind of nice that the male and female leads don't have to be in a romantic relationship. Still, something's missing...

This movie is available on DVD and On Demand. Hubs chose it (it was his birthday) and DS#2 watched it with us. Younger kids would miss the film references and some of the puns, but likely would be captivated by the toys and the idea that a store can have a temper tantrum. Death is treated gently and matter-of-factly ("one story ends so another can begin").

On the March Hare Scale: 4.5 out 5 Golden Tickets

crossposted at Catholic Media Review

Book Review: Mr. Blue

I read Mr. Blue way back in high school at the recommendation of my freshman religion teacher. (My copy cost 65 cents and still bears the return address stickers I used back then.) Some months ago there was a discussion floating around some of the Catholic blogs about Mr. Blue, so I retrieved my copy and re-read it.

Much of what I remember about Mr. Blue remained true. Some of it I rediscovered. And some of it I now read with the eyes of a 50-something adult, who bears responsibilities for a husband, children, mortgage, and job.

This made for some very slow reading, even though the book itself is rather short.

The author, Myles Connolly, was a Catholic who lived in Boston. He attended Boston College, was a reporter, and eventually went to work in the movies as a story writer/editor. Mr. Blue was written in 1928 and I doubt very much that such a character could exist in modern times.

The narrator, who remains unnamed, first hears of Mr. Blue in a bar in New York. The superintendent of a high-rise office building tells of a man who lives on the roof, a man "who's so happy he's almost crazy." The superintendent takes the narrator to meet this young man, who has only a gaily painted packing crate for shelter. The narrator listens while Blue expounds on his philosophy: how if the poor lived on the roofs of the buildings, lifted from their squalor, how their souls would be uplifted as well. How you could see the world from the tops of the buildings. How they were both lucky to be Christians.

"I think," he whispered half to himself, "my heart would break with all this immensity if I did not know that God Himself once stood beneath it, a young man, as small as I."

In high school, we went up to the fourth floor and released balloons in honor of Mr. Blue. (That was back in the day before we understood the ecological damage we were doing. We had the rather romantic idea that someone would find the messages we had tied to the strings, kind of like messages in a bottle, and be uplifted or inspired by them.) Reading the passage about Mr. Blue flying his kite or releasing his balloons brings back some of the innocence and excitement I felt 40 years ago. Because I was excited about my faith, my relationship with God. Despite Vietnam, despite the presidency of Lyndon Johnson, despite the Civil Rights riots in the South, it was an optimistic time. Vatican II was encouraging the laity to become involved in the Church. The Mass was in English and we were trying to find new ways to make the Church a real community. Rev. King was giving stirring speeches; Bobby Kennedy was the Senator from New York.

By the following fall, the national mood went from optimistic to cynical. The Summer of Love degenerated into merely sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

Until I read the review of Mr. Blue by Fr. John Breslin, S.J., I didn't think of the contrasts between J. Blue and Jay Gatsby. Both are young men. Both have a dream. Both ultimately die because of it. But one believes in God; one believes in nothing except his "ideal woman," who is all too human and shallow.

When I was 14, I wanted to be Mr. Blue. 40 years later, I find I'm the Narrator. I'm much more practical, even about my faith. I tend to take sunsets and stars for granted. My scope of thought has narrowed from infinity to the next 24 hours. That Myles Connolly was able, as a middle-aged man, to find that part of his soul and create Mr. Blue so I can rediscover it, is something of a miracle. Thank you, Mr. Connolly. Thank you, Mr. Blue

On the March Hare scale: 5 out of 5 Golden Bookmarks

cross-posted on Catholic Media Review

I Won the Po-Bowl!

During the monthly meeting of the Ina Coolbrith Circle, my name was drawn. The poem I read, Taming the Tangle Monster, is posted at the website: http://www.coolpoetry.org/thepobowl.html. There's even a mp3 file so you can hear me read it!

The poem was inspired by my daily battles with DD#2's hair when she was younger. She has since cut her hair, although it's still blond, still straight, and still comes loose from hair elastics and barrettes. But now she deals with it, not me!

Rites and Rituals

I don't mind some chaos in my life (including that in the Fly Lady sense: Can't Have Anyone Over). I'm a procrastinator by nature, disinclined in the Domestic Arts, have learned to appreciate clutter.

But I also crave routine. If I skip a step in my morning routine--or am interrupted by a phone call--I lose my stride. I falter. I become annoyed with the world in general and it can take awhile before my equilibrium returns.

Long ago I discovered that I actually enjoyed the rites and rituals of the Catholic Church. I can't imagine belonging to a religion without them. I know the seasons by the color of the priest's vestments. I know it's Sunday because I've gone to Mass. I enjoy the flow of the Mass, being carried along with the community in celebrating God's love for us. The Church has a rite for every major occasion of my life: birth, adulthood, marriage, death. I am fascinated by the way the priest washes his hands during the Offertory, praying, "Lord, wash away my inequities, cleanse me of my sins." The way the presider blesses the priest or deacon before they read the Gospel. The precise summary of the Catholic faith in the Nicene Creed.

I need these in my life.

Familial and cultural rituals are important to me, too. It's not Christmas without an Advent Calendar. It's not Easter without baskets. The Fall Holiday Season literally kicks off with the Cal-Stanford Big Game. Eagle Courts of Honor must be held at Camp Herms. First-Day-of-School means a picture at the front door. Last weekend was the Ligue Henri IV banquet. My great-grandfather belonged to the Ligue, as did my father, my brothers, and now DS#1 (DS#2 is eligible for membership when he turns 18 in a few months). My brothers and my sons do not speak French. No matter; it's a family thing and explains why we eat lamb with lots of garlic and eat our salad last.

Rites and rituals are my anchors. I don't have to think about what to wear to a funeral or a banquet--family ritual tells me. I don't have to worry about what to say at a funeral or a wedding (although weddings are easier)--the rites tell me. Rites and rituals provide structure to my chaos.

And I'm passing them on to my children. DD#2 knows what to wear to funeral. DD#1 knows what to wear to a banquet. Junior Prom is around the corner and DS#2 and I are discussing the details, including finding out the color of his date's dress so he can coordinate his tuxedo vest and tie and the corsage. ("Oh, that's a good idea," he said today.)

I'm not adverse to change. As long as I have my rites and rituals to fall back on!

Book Review: The Rossetti Letter

My latest book review is up at Catholic Media Review.

R.I.P., Kim

"Have you heard about Kim?" a fellow mom asked me.

"No, what about her?"

"She died last Sunday." And then she told me some of the details.

I met Kim through the Sunday pre-school program at our parish. The program was a co-op venture where the families buddied up to teach--okay, it was the mothers who usually taught. The dads generally took the older siblings to Mass or supervised on the playground. Kim's two boys were about the same ages as my two youngest. When our parish school recommended that Kim's oldest wait a year before starting Kindergarten, I was able to give her my perspective, having been through the same situation the year before.

Kim served on the PTG Hospitality Committee, so she was usually in the kitchen. She seemed unflappable, keeping the tea, coffee, hot chocolate, croissants, and fruit coming during the Welcome Back Coffee on the first day of school. If there was a class party, Kim was there. She also worked as a nurse at night so she could be with her boys during the day.

Eleven years ago she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She remained cheerful and upbeat, admitting only to being tired and frustrated that she didn't have the energy to do everything she wanted to do. She wore colorful scarves and hats to hide her bald head. But she had faith that God would not let her down.

She beat that round of cancer.

Three years ago, the cancer returned. Again Kim fought. The entire class of 2007 prayed for her every day. She made it through graduation and danced with her youngest son. But the cancer was relentless and in February she decided to stop fighting. She had Open Houses, wrote her own eulogy. Unfortunately, I was out of the loop and didn't get a chance to see her to say good-bye.

That Kim passed on Divine Mercy Sunday seems quite appropriate.

I wasn't able to go to the funeral, but DD#2 and I did go to the Rosary. (DS#2, who knew Kim's oldest son, was visiting a friend who just came home from the hospital after being treated for lymphoma.) A lot of the kids from their class were there, along with staff from the school. We shared our memories and our prayers. We made the usual comments about how nice it was to see everyone; how sad it had to be an occasion like this, we really need to get these kids together for a happier reunion.

We probably won't.

I can't imagine the school kitchen without Kim behind the door.

Book Review: Beach Music

My latest review is posted over at Catholic Media Review.

The Next 28 Minutes

There's a great pizza commercial where the wife says, "They'll be here in 30 minutes." The husband dashes into the bedroom and comes out in a smoking jacket and a flower between his teeth. The wife says, "That's nice, Honey, but what will we do for the other 28 minutes?"

That was kind of Hubs' reaction to hearing about Governor Spitzer's dalliance at the Emperor's Club. At $4K an hour, what did they do for the other 58 minutes? Okay, maybe it took a little bit longer, but still...

I was impressed by the money. $4K an hour? Who can afford that?!

Hubs and I both agreed I was in the wrong business. And what does the former Governor say to his young daughters when they ask him for career advice? Are there any legitimate careers where a young woman can make $4K/hour? (Does Julia Roberts earn $4K/hour now?)

What made this particular woman--or any in the Emperor's "stable" worth that kind of money? What talents did they possess that couldn't be found elsewhere?

I imagine Mrs. Spitzer is feeling particularly undervalued. Although I'm reminded of a scene in Analyze This! Billy Crystal, the psychiatrist to Robert DeNiro's Mafia Don, asked DeNiro why he had a mistress. DeNiro explained that his mistress performed certain sexual acts that he enjoyed. Crystal asks why DeNiro doesn't simply ask his wife to perform those acts.

DeNiro responds, "Are you crazy? She kisses my children with that mouth!"

Perhaps Gov. Spitzer felt the same way.

Racism, Redefined

One bonus to being chauffeured everywhere is that I'm spending a lot more time with DD#1. Her car is small and, because she is the driver, she controls the radio station we listen to (family rule). So one of the morning DJs brings up Geraldine Ferraro's comment about Barack Obama.

Now DD#1 is too young to remember Ms. Ferraro and her place in history. And she doesn't particularly care for Ms. Clinton, either. So she hadn't paid attention to the fuss. I had and I commented that Ms. Ferraro's comment was probably, in essense, correct.

"But that's a racist comment," DD#1 said.

"Really? Pointing out that Mr. Obama's credentials are light and that if he were white he wouldn't be considered for the Presidency is racist? But she didn't say anything negative about his being black," I pointed out.

"She brought up his race. Any time you mention a person's race, you're racist."

"That's right, Mom," chimed in DS#2.

"Even if it's positive?"

"Yes."

"Being racist isn't always negative or about negative things," DD#1 elaborated. "You're just commenting on their race."

"What if I refer to your red hair..." I began.

"You're being racist," she stated. "I consider redheads a race."

Wow.

I couldn't think of any argument. According to two of my children (DD#2 was in the car but refused to be drawn into the discussion), any mention at all of anyone's race or physical attributes makes you a racist. Which doesn't necessarily carry the same negative connotation I thought it did. It's kind of the opposite of Dr. Martin Luther King's vision of a color-blind society. This new society recognizes that, yes, races exist and we notice them. How can we not? But our judgements about a person's ability isn't determined by those physical characteristics.

Somehow, I don't think the MSM or the rest of the world has adopted this particular outlook quite yet.

Dexter: TV Series & Book Review

My review of Dexter, the TV series and book series, is up at Catholic Media Review.

Breaking News...

Well, not really. The news is that my arm is healing nicely. I don't have to wear the sling anymore and I can drive "if you feel you can do so safely." Hey, I didn't feel I could drive safely before my arm was broken! Drivers around here are nuts. And my car is a stick.

DD#1 is anxious to not have to chauffeur me around, especially in the early morning when she drops her two younger sibs and myself at BART.

Both daughters were very happy when I could dress myself without help. That was my goal for the end of February because there was a conference in Long Beach I was scheduled to attend. It's the only conference I get to go to and I didn't want to miss it. I did take advantage of early boarding on my flight, however. There was no way I could sling my suitcase into the overhead bin.

Last Sunday was DS#2's Eagle Court of Honor. Lots of people came--family, friends, fellow Scouters, members of the troop. I babied my arm, not hauling tables, chairs, or platters of food. By Monday night, though, my arm was really sore. When I thought about it, I had hugged around 100 people on Sunday and most of them were taller than me! DS#1 made it up and said wonderful things about his younger brother. In fact, he was so complimentary, I was waiting for the punch line.

Every day gets a little bit better. I try to move my arm a little bit more, a bit further. I'm back at the office, skirts, blouse, nylons, makeup, and all. But the test will be when I go back to the gym and walk through the shower room on my way to the pool. I'm a bit nervous, still, about that!

A Scare and a Lesson?

Traditionally, the President's Day Holiday is the day I gather all the forms Hubs needs to take to our tax preparer (along with two boxes of shortbread Girl Scout cookies--we have that kind of longstanding relationship). This past Monday, DD#2 was actually working on several homework projects, DS#2 was stuffing envelopes for his upcoming Eagle Court of Honor, and I was going through my box of bills and receipts, trying to keep the dog and the cats off the paperwork. I bent over to pick up a piece of paper and my head felt like someone had sent a meat cleaver through the top. Whimpering, I went to bed, while DS#2 found one of my migraine pills.

No good. The pain was so intense I couldn't keep anything down, including the anti-nausea meds that had been prescribed when I broke my arm. Tuesday I got out of bed long enough to call in sick. Wednesday I got up, started to work from home, and realized that I couldn't focus on the computer screen. Hubs called to check on me and asked if I needed to go to the hospital. I did end up calling the Advice Nurse, who chastised me (very nicely, though) for not coming in to the Emergency Department Monday afternoon. But my doctor had an Urgent Care appointment open and I took it.

My doctor did some neurological evaluations and concluded that what I was experiencing was, indeed, a migraine, albeit more the onset was more sudden and the pain was more severe than usual for me. I was also dehydrated. He ordered two injections: one for the pain and one for the nausea and told me to contact him if the shots didn't help.

I got the shots and Hubs bought me some Gatorade (I usually hate the stuff, but this wasn't bad). Once home, I fell asleep for about an hour and woke up to a migraine of more manageable levels.

Today I have a slight "migraine hangover." But I can actually focus on the task at hand and reading the computer screen is not a challenge. Not being able to read was what scared me most about this whole experience. It's been a long time since I've had to parse out each word, consciously decode its meaning, and work to make sense of the sentence. To lose that ability would be devastating to my sense of self--it would mean a radical shift in self-definition.

Sleep while in pain is more escape than refreshing and in the twilight where I lived for about 24 hours, I mused about pain and Lent, specifically on the idea of "offering it up for Jesus." I'm not sure what that really means. Does it mean that I go on as if my life was normal, even though I can't see straight? Am I allowed to curl up quietly in my darkened room and not make demands of the rest of my family, trusting that they get along? Does it mean allowing Hubs to do what he does best and take command of the situation, dragging me off to the doctor even though I'm not sure I want to go? I don't know--I was focusing on not moving. (Although I did forget about my broken arm.)

I don't know how Jesus--the human part of him--made it through the Passion. I can't imagine carrying a cross on a back scourged raw. Forget Simon of Cyrene. I would have fallen after a few feet and not gotten up. Ever. I thought my head was going to explode just walking from the parking garage to the doctor's office.

Now that my pain is considerably subdued, I feel like I'm living again. I have the energy to be interested in what my family is doing. I can think coherently. I am grateful to God for the miracle of modern science and wonder drugs.

I feel like Easter.

Berzerklean Logic

From the article on AOL:

Councilwoman Linda Maio said the council opposes recruitment, not the military. "It's behavior that we oppose, not the people," she said.

That sounds awfully familiar. Kind of like "Hate the sin; love the sinner."

If that kind of rhetoric isn't acceptable from the Catholic Church when discussing homosexuality or extramarital sex, why does Ms. Maio think the exact same rhetoric would be acceptable as an apology for the Berkeley City Council's action against the U.S. Marine Corps?

Either the argument is valid or it's not.

Book Review: Sixpence House: Lost in a Town of Books

My review of this book by Paul Collins is up at Catholic Media Review.

My Personal Lent

"Man proposes, God disposes." I'm not sure if my mother or one of my teachers used that quote often when I was growing up. It certainly applies to my life.

I've given up driving for Lent. Okay, because of my broken arm I was forced to give up driving for Lent. I am now dependent on the services of others--primarily my family. I also need their help to do simple things, like get dressed. Who knew how difficult it is to put a sock on your right foot using just your right hand? Or that I used both my right hand and my left when brushing my teeth? Even if public transportation was readily available, I'm not sure I'm up for the task of dressing and juggling with my wallet, etc., one-handed.

My physical therapist is cute, young, and six-months pregnant.

"So, are you sleeping in the recliner?" she asked.

"Why, yes," I replied.

She nodded. "Typical shoulder injury."

I also discovered that this injury is probably what is aggravating my migraines.

I described how I now do the wearing-a-tight-skirt-bent-knee squat to get something low, rather than bending over. It puts less pressure on my arm & shoulder. Apparently that's another adaptation. She was impressed that I was working from home, using the computer--that's keeping my wrist and my elbow flexible.

And then she gave me my exercises. This first level is designed to move my left arm and shoulder passively: my left arm moves because I move my body. There's also a pulley designed to raise my left arm when I pull on it with my right.

She warned me I'm going to need to ice my arm afterward. Fortunately, we're in a warm spell--the temperature is in the 60's.

Last night was the first night I slept without using Tylenol PM. The pain has subsided to a dull constant ache, which in many ways is more annoying than outright pain. I feel like I should be better than I am, able to do more. The ache is distracting, just enough so that I feel like I'm not on top of my game and the most inane television shows are watchable. Who knew that EWTN had online shopping? Or that Project Runway could be enthralling. (I would have bought Sweet P's denim dress in a minute, if I had the money. It was classy and classic.)

I am tired of sitting. I try to eat lunch outside at our picnic table so I can pretend I'm getting out. I try to remember to be nice when I make a request of my family (at least now I can open my own bottles!) and to maintain my sense of humor about the entire situation. And to not worry about what I am going to do, but instead cope with what I am doing now.

My Lenten Lesson this year is patience, humility, and letting go of my need to always be in control. Because I can't do it all. I can't do as much as I'd like to or expected to. I'm doing what I can. These are not the lessons I would have chosen to learn. But I'm not the Teacher this year.

Movie Review: The Bucket List

My review is up at Catholic Media Review. Enjoy!

Book Review: Eat, Pray, Love

My review is up at Catholic Media Review.

A Brief Hiatus...

Because my life isn't complicated enough, on Thursday I broke my arm. It's not a bad break, as these things go, but it is painful. I've been spending a lot of time drugged and sleeping. As of now, I don't need surgery. I'll know more on Monday. (Technically, I broke the top of my humerus--the long bone in the arm. It's my left arm, a small blessing as I'm a righty!)

I slipped in the shower on the wayto the pool at the "Y". I was wearing my new aqua-aerobic shoes--guess the non-slip soles didn't work too well! I was in my Speedo swimsuit for about 8 hours. (Think one piece, nylon and lycra, snug fitting, no hooks or clasps.)

There is more to the story, some of it actually funny. But it will have to wait until I can type with two hands!

In Memoriam: Bernadette

I knew Bernadette was fighting breast cancer. Her name appeared each week in our Parish Bulletin in the column asking for prayers for the sick. I saw her at Mass several months ago--was it Easter? Mother's Day? I hugged her and asked how she was doing. Bernadette was petite, but I was surprised how fragile she felt under my arms. She let me know she was fighting, physically and spiritually, and introduced me to her parents.

We met through the Girl Scout troop at our parish school; Bernadette's daughter was two years ahead of DD#1. Bernadette had been a Girl Scout back in New Jersey; I had been a Girl Scout here in the Bay Area, but it didn't matter. We knew many of the same songs and the same "lingo." At camporee, we made "Girl Scout chili" from a recipe she had copied down from her time at camp.

Bernadette's daughter moved up and out of Girl Scouting, but Bernadette and I would run into each other. For years she ran the White Elephant booth at Oktoberfest. Then she volunteered at a local thrift shop. I'd see her at Mass or at the store. She'd send me e-mails with jokes and prayers. She went back to teaching, sometimes special ed, sometimes junior high English.

An artist, she always wore colorful clothes and had an eclectic style. Okay--she looked like a refugee from Telegraph Avenue or Haight Street. She favored hats, especially large ones with floppy brims, even before she lost her hair during chemotherapy.

Sometimes it was a challenge carrying on a conversation with her. Her sense of the here and now wasn't always in the same realm as the rest of us.

She always made Hubs laugh and shake his head in wonder.

On the Feast of the Holy Family, during the Prayers of the Faithful when the lector reads the names of the recently departed, her name was read.

I was in shock, in part because I thought I would have heard something if she was so close to the end of her fight. I looked up her obituary and discovered she died Christmas morning.

Please pray for Bernadette's family: her husband, her son, and her daughter. I hope Bernadette finds a halo to her liking up in heaven--shiny, purple maybe, with a wide, floppy brim and an oversized flower or two.

Catching Up on the New Year

I have been spending a lot of time thinking over my New Year's Resolutions. I know, I know--January is almost over and where have I been? Working, among other things, and dealing with family issues. But I've also spent some time thinking about why I make the same resolutions over and over and why I fail to keep them.

The Resolutions aren't bad. They're usually include writing for 15 minutes a day, eating healthier, exercising more, staying in contact with old friends, getting birthday and anniversary cards out on time. If I'm really ambitious, I'll include cleaning out the garage, getting our finances in order, and scrapbooking all those pictures in boxes in the attic.

It never happens.

The thing is, I enjoy doing all of those things. I really do want to have a neat and orderly life. I love to write. I miss hearing from my long-time friends from grammar school, high school, and my early working career. I love the way I feel after a walk or after I've worked out.

So why don't I follow through?

Well, in part because when I begin a project I get caught up in it. I can't just write for 15 minutes. I can't jot a quick note to my friends, just like I can't just sign Christmas cards and send them out. Each card has to have a personal note. So I end up not sending any cards at all.

I caught myself hyperventilating at work when I was assigned several projects at the same time because I wanted to finish them all right then. When I realized what I was doing, I was able to back off a little bit and prioritize. And give myself permission to finish some of the projects later in the week.

There is a YMCA around the corner from my office and they offer an "aquacize" class from 12:30-1:10 p.m. every work day. I've been pretty faithful about going this last month, even on days--especially on days where the phone has been ringing like crazy and monthly data has just been released and I have reports due to clients around the globe. I have voice mail. I have e-mail. And FedEx doesn't pick up until 5:15 p.m. I am entitled to my lunch hour, free of clients.

But the writing thing takes me out of myself. Before I know it, an hour is gone and I am late for the next item on my list. (The same thing happens when I read as well. I have been known to miss my stop. I'm afraid to listen to books-on-tape when I drive because I fear I will become so lost in the story, I won't pay attention to the road.) It doesn't matter if I'm writing on my blog or a poem or a letter to a friend. Time slips by, unnoticed. So if I have to be somewhere in 15, 20, or 30 minutes, I dare not start writing.

And time I spend on a project is time not spent with my family. I hide away when I write; I am unavailable when I work on a project, like cleaning the garage or organizing the files for the taxes. I feel like I'm neglecting Hubs and the kids by not spending time with them, even if that time is something as simple as watching a movie or a TV show. For some reason, if I multitask, it drives Hubs crazy.

One of my favorite bloggers is Manolo of Manolo's Shoe Blog, although his blog has expanded to include much more than shoes. One of his entries was about New Year's Resolutions and he suggested that one simply resolves to make everyday a "Superfantastical day." One doesn't have to do something difficult--one can merely smile at everyone on the street, be polite to the shopgirl and the transit driver, look one's best for all the strangers on the street. Unfortunately I can't find the exact article or quote, but I do remember thinking, "I can do that!" So I laugh with the clerk at the Y who checks me in. I smile at the homeless men along the street and wish them "Good morning" or "Good afternoon." One of them always replies, "God bless!" and I can certainly use all the blessings I can get from God.

What's harder is to be polite and cheerful and to look my best for my family. I'm easily annoyed when DD#2 doesn't load the dishwasher when I ask. Or when Hubs drops his socks on the bathroom floor instead of putting them in the hamper. I forget what they have done for me, concentrating on what they haven't done or completed.

I can choose to see the glass as half-full.

So I'm taking care of my physical body (and I'm not taking away any family time doing so--a bonus!) and I'm tryin to make the world more Superfantastic one person one day at a time, and that leaves my soul and my relationship with the Almighty. For several years now I've tried to pray the Rosary during my morning commute. Again, that only works if I'm not driving--I don't know how other people can do it, but I can't. The other problem I've always had saying the Rosary on my own is that I doze off in the middle of it. Or my mind wanders off and suddenly I'm far from any of the Mysteries.

Currently, I'm relying on modern technology as a solution: I've downloaded a podcast of the Scriptural Rosary as written by Eva Hite at the Franciscan University of Steubenville. Ms. Hite goes through all four sets of Mysteries, using the familiar lead and response for the prayers. Before each Hail Mary, she reads a bible verse that relates to the particular mystery she's on. Ten Hail Mary's; ten bible verses. At the end of each decade, there are traditional petitions, and the rosary ends with "Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy." The timing is perfect: the Rosary ends just as I pull into my destination. I don't worry about losing track of where I am and if my mind wanders (and it does, still) I can usually find my way back. I can foresee a day when this particular version becomes too familiar and I will need to find another podcast or other solution. Hopefully, that won't be for awhile!

Book Review: How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents

The story begin in 1989. The third Garcia daugther, Yolanda, has returned to the family compound on the Island--the Dominican Republic. Yolanda hasn't been back in five years, an eternity in this close-knit family of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Yolanda hasn't told her family yet, but she's thinking of staying permanently this time, not returning to her family.

There are four Garcia girls and they left the Island with their Mami and Papi in the 1960's because of Papi's political activity. In the Dominican Republic, they lived surrounded by servants and family, but also constrained by social conventions. Their lives in the U.S. were harder: mastering a new language, new social expectations, new customs. The girls are sent "home" every summer so they do not forget who they are. They manage to evade the watchful eyes of Mami, Papi, and the Tias, and learn to become Americans. But assimilation comes with a price.

Sofia (Fifi) is the youngest and adapts the easiest, but is alienated from her Papi. Carla, the oldest, is a psychologist but has been married, divorced, and now remarried. Yolanda (YoYo or "Joe") was married, divorced, is a poet and a professor, but is having an affair with a married colleague. Sandi was the artist, but a traumatic experience back home has stifled her creativity. Now her connection to reality is tenuous.

The story moves backwards in time, beginning in 1989 and ending in 1956. And the story moves among the viewpoints of the sisters as well as the third person. Reading this book is sort of like watching a movie backwards. We don't fully understand the actions of the girls or of their parents until later. And it can be kind of confusing trying to remember whose story we're reading.

In fact, Carla's story gets short shrift, as do the college years of most of the girls, especially their early years at an all-women's college. Mami and Papi are presented mostly through the eyes of the girls, although Mami does get a few short chapters.

All in all, the book left me frustrated. I wanted to know more. Why and how did the girls fall away from the Church? How did Mami cope with losing the support of her family, her status? What happened with Carla's first marriage? Besides Sofia's children, did the other girls have any?

I thought this was going to be a story about the Americanization of these four young women, but I found that the author, Julia Alvarez, seemed to take shortcuts, stating the girls became American without showing how. Why was YoYo considering returning to the Domenican Republic to live? Did she feel more secure? Was she trying to recapture something from her past? Was she looking for a sense of belonging?

I did enjoy the interaction of the sisters: the jealousies, the closeness. I felt those scenes were faithfully captured, based on my experiences with my sisters and from what I've seen with my cousins and friends.

One of the reasons I read is to live another life, another's experiences, at least vicariously. I guess what I was looking for was a sense of experiencing the lives of the Garcia girls, at least vicariously. I never got that sense with this book, and I was very disappointed. The stories were interesting, but not particularly engaging.

The girls come of age during the 1960's and 1970's, so there is plenty of sex, casual and otherwise. There's some drug use, mostly marijuana. The girls have much to hide from their parents, especially when they are in college, which involves some elaborate schemes and lying. Except for Sofia, the girls do not seem particularly happy with their lot in life, with the choices they made. Their relationship with each other seems strong, their parents do love them, and there is much strength in their extended family, if only they could see it.

On the March Hare scale: 2 out of 5 Golden Bookmarks.

crossposted on Catholic Media Review

Movie Review: The Tale of Sweeney Todd

This non-musical version of Sweeney Todd stars Ben Kingsley in the title role and Joanna Lumley as Mrs. Lovett. The basic story is the same as the musical: Sweeney Todd is a barber on Fleet Street who murders those clients he feels do not deserve to live and Mrs. Lovett takes care of the bodies by baking them into her "specials" whose secret ingredient she does not disclose. And, in the end, Mr. Todd is killed by his apprentice.

The motivation for Mr. Todd's wrath is different, however. Instead of suffering at the hands of a particular magistrate, Mr. Todd has spent time in Her Majesty's Army in Africa. One of his comrades-in-arms was a man who died there, leaving behind a young daughter, Alice, whom Mr. Todd vowed to raise and to protect.

What happened to Mr. Todd and his comrades in Africa and its importance is revealed slowly. And, in fact, Mr. Todd's actions might never have been revealed except that he happened to kill a rich merchant. And a young American, Ben Carlyle (Campbell Scott) comes to London, looking for this merchant who owes Ben's employers either $50,000 or the equivalent in diamonds.

Ben happens to be staying at the inn where Mr. Todd's ward, Alice, is a maid. As Ben tries to locate the merchant, who has been missing for several weeks, he and Alice fall in love. Alice confides in Mr. Todd, who is less than pleased.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Lovett has calculated that she and Mr. Todd finally have enough money to escape from London--and a pretty dismal place this London is, too. A war has been going on for years and is a drain on the economy and the morale of the common folk. (I'm guessing it's the Napoleonic war, but it's never stated.) Additionally, there are the "Runners," a quasi-police force, led by a "Major." They are supposed to keep order, which they do by use of force and bullying. They aren't really interested in finding the missing merchant, unless there is something in it for them.

Mr. Todd also has an apprentice, a young mute whom Mr. Todd has rescued from the asylum. Charlie knows that Mr. Todd has killed the merchant Ben is looking for, but he since he cannot talk, and is intimidated by Mr. Todd, he doesn't tell anyone.

Except for Lucy, who works in the basement of Mrs. Lovett's, grinding the meat Mrs. Lovett feeds into the hopper. On a rare break from work, Charlie makes Lucy understand that he knows what happened to the merchant. Mrs. Lovett becomes suspicious and asks Mr. Todd to "take care of her." He does. And he also chains Charlie to the wall in the basement because he is fond of the boy, in his way, and decides not to kill him.

Ben has learned enough to start to put the pieces together. Mrs. Lovett can feel the net closing but Mr. Todd will not leave. Mrs. Lovett arranges to kidnap Alice and tells Mr. Todd that she will release Alice when they are safely on the ship away from England. Ben shows up at the barber shop and he and Mr. Todd begin a dangerous dance of words, where Mr. Todd reveals what happened in Africa to him and to Alice's father.

The movie ends with the death of Mr. Todd at the hands of his apprentice. Alice and Ben are free to go off to America, with Alice never realizing the truth about her guardian.

Ben Kingsley's Sweeney Todd is much more likable than Johnny Depp's. He is a charmer, obsequious to his customers, who include the local vicar. He chatters while he shaves, sharing the local gossip. Joanna Lumley's Mrs. Lovett's relationship with Mr. Todd is more a matter of convenience than love, as is Mr. Todd's with her. The madness of this Mr. Todd lurks far beneath the surface, with few clues surfacing. The only person Mr. Todd really cares for is Alice.

There are a couple of scenes with partial nudity, one where Mrs. Lovett is "spanking" (with a leather strap) the Major, one with Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd in bed, and one where Alice is rising from Ben's bed and puts on her chemise. The throat-slitting scenes are not as dramatically bloody as in the musical version. Mrs. Lovett's butchery is done behind closed doors. Ben discovers the decomposing bodies in the sewer, munched on by rats.

This is an Irish-British production, originally shown in the U.S. on the USA Channel in 1998, so there is no MPAA rating. Because of the subject matter, I would definitely rate this PG-13 or higher, depending on the child. And because this version is less theatrical, the horror is more subtle. Mr. Todd's reason for revenge is less obvious and so his revenge is less focused and more diffuse. This movie also recreates the London of the 1800's, illustrating the squalor and the hardships of the lives of the common citizens of that time. (It's not Jane Austen country, certainly!) Plenty of opportunity for discussion across many subjects.

Hubs didn't care for it as much as the musical, but then he's partial to musicals. I was fascinated, especially by Ben Kingsley's performance.

On the March Hare scale: 4 out 5 Golden Tickets

crossposted at Catholic Media Review

Mrs. Edwards Doesn't Know Her Horses

from Michelle Malkin's blog:

"At both a rally in Manchester this morning and the event in Nashua this afternoon, Elizabeth Edwards played into the horserace analogies of the presidential contest by comparing her husband to the legendary racehorse Seabiscuit.

"'Seabiscuit was the horse of the working class, you know, owned by a bicycle repairman, and ridden by someone who wasn’t supposed to be able to make it,' she said in Nashua. 'But that’s what this campaign is about, isn’t it? The dog who wasn’t supposed to be able to make it.'"

Uhm, Mrs. Edwards? Seabiscuit's owner, Mr. Charles Howard, might have started as a bicycle repairman when he first came to San Francisco, but he quickly saw opportunity and began repairing autos. In fact, he opened the first Buick dealership on the West Coast.

By the time he owned Seabiscuit, he was wealthy, owning homes in San Francisco and a ranch in Sonoma county. He paid $8,000 for Seabiscuit--not an insignificant sum of money for a racehorse.

I'm getting weary about both Edwardses playing up the "working man" connection. It's not a sin to be rich, especially if you've worked hard for it. The fact a bicycle repairman could become rich enough to own a racing stable (for Mr. Howard owned more horses than just Seabiscuit) used to be a point of pride--anyone could work their way up the ladder (with emphasis on work) in the U.S. Even the son of a millworker could go to college, become a lawyer, then a U.S. Senator, and dream of being President.

That's not a bad thing, Mrs. Edwards. Obscuring the facts, however, is.

Hubs' New Toy

Hard to believe but Hubs just celebrated his 30th Anniversary with the same company. Okay, it's not really the same company--it's been bought and sold several times over the years. Fortunately, he's only had to reapply for his job once. And his seniority has always carried over.

He was able to chose a gift from a catalog, which caused considerable discussion. I finally told him to pick something for himself--he's made several sacrifices over the years, including agreeing to live on one salary with three kids in Catholic school and getting up at the crack of dawn to commute to his current location.

Since he loves music, he chose an iPOD. He thought it was just a simple 8GB model. Wrong--it's the 80GB model with Bose stereo headphones as well as the little bitty earbuds. So besides downloading just about all the CDs we own, and some of the stuff the kids have (our children have very eclectic tastes in music), he downloaded Pirates of the Caribbean: The End of the World.

The iPOD actually made Christmas shopping for him very easy this year: he got accessories. So he has the strap on case so he can listen while he works out. He got the docking station/alarm clock/radio (which is so bright I can almost read by it). And he got the docking station that connects his iPOD to our Home Theater System (such as it is).

The plus is the music quality is pretty decent. The minus is that Pirates appears very dark on our TV. We recently watched it via On Demand and the color was fine. The video appears normal when viewed on the iPOD, so we're not sure what the problem is.

Unfortunately this docking station comes with a remote. A little one that we're sure to misplace. It also means that as Hubs is showing me the neat things his iPOD can do, so we can't listen to a complete song. I don't mind if it's an instrumental, but I'm just getting into a ballad by Simon & Garfunkel and then we're in Chicago. Or an Irish ballad. Or the music from Pirates.

I hate that.

He's now left it on the 40 songs from the three Pirate movies. (Aren't they all the same?) And he's left the room while I write.

However, one of the pieces he's downloaded is Fanfare for the Common Man, which is one of my faves. Now that I know we have it, I may have to use it as the "alarm" for DS#2 and DD#2 on school mornings!

BTW, any suggestions for other iPOD accessories that are Good To Have would be appreciated. I'm especially interested in accessories for the car--Hubs commutes in our 1997 Dodge Caravan, which has a radio, but the cassette player is broken. Rather than fix it, I'm thinking that an iPOD dock would be nice. But is there a model out there that will fit the minivan, delivers decent sound, and won't break the bank?

Movie Review: National Treasure: Book of Secrets

The scene starts with a crowded street. It's April 1865. Two men meet, chat, and separate. One heads to the stage entrance of a theater, where he is recognized. The other man goes to a tavern. There he meets Thomas Gates who is known for his ability to solve ciphers. While he works on the cipher, President Lincoln is shot by the man in the theater--John Wilkes Booth.

Word of President Lincoln's assassination spreads quickly. Thomas Gates solves the cipher and realizes that the man he is solving it for is a Knight of the Golden Circle--an organization dedicated to a Confederate Victory. When Gates' young son rushes in with the news of assassination, Gates tears several pages out and attempts to burn them. The Knight manages to grab a partially burnt page from the hearth and flees. Gates grabs his son and tells him, "The debt all men must pay."

The next scene is a college lecture hall. Benjamin Franklin Gates (Nicolas Cage) and Patrick Gates (Jon Voight) have just presented a lecture about their ancestor, Thomas Gates, and the Booth diary when they are challenged by a member of the audience. Mitch Wilkinson (Ed Harris) has one of the missing pages. Thomas Gates is listed along with other members of the conspiracy. Could Thomas Gates have been the leader of the plot to kill Lincoln?

Ben and Patrick do not believe this and Ben is determined to clear his great-grandfather's name. But he can't do it alone. He needs Riley Poole (Justin Bartha) and his expertise. Riley, who is having serious financial problems, is more than happy to go along. However, Ben also needs some information from his house. The problem is that he and Abigail Chase (Diane Kruger) are splitting up and it's not amicable. (No, they're not married.) Ben and Riley break in and surprise Abigail who figures out that the boys are on another treasure hunt.

Riley solves the cipher and they're off to Europe. And then--hang on to your hats because the chase is on.

The pace is quick so there is no time to mull over implausibilities or historical inaccuracies. I felt like I was on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland--just along for the ride. And it's a marvelous ride! Wilkinson is on their tails and they have to elude him. They find one clue and the only person in the whole world who can translate it is Ben's mother, Patrick's ex-wife, Emily Appelton (Helen Mirren). When Patrick and Emily meet after 31 years of not speaking to each other, they take up their argument where they left off. It's a great scene mostly because of Mr. Voight and Ms. Mirren.

The clue leads to a special book--a Book of Secrets--whose existence has only been a rumor and the stuff of conspiracy buffs. And, yes, Ben has to find it. And it won't be easy. Or safe. And we do get to see more of Ms. Mirren (in a good way!).

I was captivated until the very end when I had a problem with where the treasure was. Apparently I was the only one: Hubs and DD#2 thought it was just fine. (As DD#2 keeps telling me, "Mom, it's a MOVIE.") And, except for that one point, the resolution was solid, with one loose end that may indicate there will be a third movie.

The caliber of the actors is impressive, even for the relatively minor roles (Harvey Keitel is back in his role as FBI Agent Sadusky). The location shots are stunning. And if this inspires a few kids to pick up a history book, so much the better.

I do wish that Ben and Abigail would get married, though. Patrick wants them back together but does not suggest marriage. Patrick and Emily are divorced and the reasons for their divorce are discussed--turns out it was a lack of communication rather than infidelity. There is a lot of shooting and mayhem and a lot of shouting, which may bother young children. But on the whole, this is truly a movie for the whole family. Disney does it again!

Added Bonus: Before National Treasure began, we were treated to an original cartoon, just like the good old days. This cartoon was in the classic "How To" genre that Goofy seems specially suited to: "How to Set Up Your Home Theater System." Watch for Walt Disney's picture and other "inside" jokes that Disney cartoonists are noted for. If you've ever bought a TV from an electronics store, you'll appreciate this cartoon!

Like the Pixar shorts, bringing back the cartoon before the feature is something I hope Disney continues to do!

On the March Hare Scale: 4.5 out of 5 Golden Tickets


crossposted on Catholic Media Review

Living Life to the Fullest?

This morning I was reading the San Francisco Chronicle while waiting for my bagel to toast when I came across this review: Her Last Death: A Memoir by Susanna Sonnenberg. The following paragraph caught my attention (not easy, since I've only had one cup of coffee):

"Daphne is a formidable figure; her behavior inexcusable, shocking and, ultimately, irresponsible. A compulsive liar, an incorrigible cheat, a promiscuous siren with an insatiable sexual appetite and an addiction to cocaine and other drugs, Daphne can quite rightly be viewed as the mother from hell. But Sonnenberg doesn't paint her as pure evil. She also portrays her positive side, her charm, her grandeur, her capacity to live life to its fullest. No one else was quite like her, and no one else made Susanna feel special the way she did." (emphasis added-Ed)

It occurred to me that the only time I hear or read the highlighted phrase is if the person described is otherwise a wild person: an addict, an alcoholic, sexually promiscuous, unable to form long-term commitments. Will Sean Preston or Jayden James Federline someday describe their mother, Brittany, as having "lived life to the fullest"? She looks pretty pathetic to me right now. And the more I read of the review of Ms. Sonnenberg's memoir, the more I wondered if she thought her mother "lived life to the fullest" or if the reviewer was putting words into her mouth. (I also wonder where the adults were in Ms. Sonnenberg's life, but the review doesn't ask that question.)

Does "living life to the fullest" really mean spending your money on booze, drugs, and men while neglecting your children? Is travel really broadening when done while your brain is in a fog? Is this really the kind of example we want for ourselves and our children?

Not me.

Personally, I think JPII lived life to the fullest. Or Mother Teresa. Or my own mother who lived through the Great Depression, WWII, was married to the same man for almost 50 years, raised six kids on a single salary, sent those six kids to college, and loves to read and to travel. She might have slowed down, but she hasn't stopped. She's still planning ahead, still looking forward. Still living until she dies.

That's living life to the fullest!

A New Blog!

Julie D. from Happy Catholic has started a new group blog, Catholic Media Review. She's asked me to join them and I was happy to accept. As far as I know, none of us are "professional" media critics. We're ordinary people--moms, dads, aunts, uncles, grandparents--who happen to have a particularly Catholic outlook on life. And we will bring that sensibility to our reviews.

My hope is you'll find our reviews useful, although, since I tend to only spend my money on movies I have a pretty good idea I'm going to like, I don't know how critical I'll be! I hope there will be some discussion, as well, on what makes a good movie or book or music and if a particular movie, book, or music reflects the values of Christianity in general or the Catholic Church in particular.

Please check it out and let me know what you think!