You are currently browsing the daily archive for May 24, 2007.

It’s before noon!  And I’m not sitting in bed!  Sheesh, I’m sick of my bed.  First the women’s extreme-adventure on Monday led to lots of laying in bed, and then yesterday I slept for ten hours and woke up with a killer sore throat, headache, and runny nose.  And sat in bed reading because why get up?  These are the times that being a carefree, childless, work-in-the-evening person really pay off.  But today I’m up and about and yes, blowing my nose an awful lot, but all things considered, it’s not bad.

I’m rereading Inkheart, so that I can formulate some intelligent thoughts and make a few bucks, and as much as I found it hard going the first time, I’m totally falling for it this time.  Maybe I’m thinking more about themes and characters and ignoring the language.  I was telling Kitri about the flat translation phenomenon, and she used her mad German skills to explain that German has a fraction of the number of words that English does, and that stories in German are pretty straightforward and plain.  Which certainly sheds some light on the situation and makes me more forgiving of the translation.

Speaking of Germany, I keep meaning to send you to my dear friend Lis’s chronicle of her year in Germany with her husband.  Go.  She’s got an awesome story about a standing ovation received while running.

Sitting around waiting for me to read them:

  • Roller Skates
  • Now is the Hour (I don’t know if I’ll actually read this – my fellow literature nerd stuck at corporate job, whose opinion I trust, said it’s good, but meh, I’m not drawn into the first few pages.  Anyone?  Thoughts?)
  • The Last September
  • Water for Elephants (on CD – for the ipod as soon as The Double Bind is done)
  • Milkweed (ditto)
  • The Boyfriend List

On the topic of parents in children’s books, I’m reminded of a book that Bronwen pointed me towards called Don’t Tell the Grown-Ups: The Subversive Power of Children’s Literature.  I seem to recall a chapter on the orphan phenomenon.  I think I’ll start reporting back on each book I read, if only for my own amusement.  The status of parents in a given book probably depends as much on the author’s own experience as on what they think children want to read about.  Or do children latch on to, and turn into classics, the orphan stories rather than the nice parent stories, in general?  Of course there are exceptions, but my goodness.   If you started putting “orphan” stickers on children’s books (instead of mystery, or adventure, or horses) I’m guessing it would be a huge segment of the collection.

Imaginary library conversation:  “Hi, I’m looking for a recommendation for my daughter.”  “What are some other books she likes?”  “Oh, Harry Potter, The Secret Garden, Peter Pan…”  “Let me take to the Orphan Section.  Has she tried Anne of Green Gables?”

Yesterday afternoon I walked over to the neighborhood farmer’s market, and I realized that it was that time of day known as “after school.”  It was decently warm, and there were kids out on every block.  Skateboards, sidewalk chalk, walking to and fro.  It got me thinking how we order our days.  How 3:30 means one thing when you’re me (farmer’s market is open, then time to go to work) and something entirely different for a kid in school, and something else if you’ve got a kid coming home from school, and something else if you’re sitting at a 9-5 job.

I tried a new cheese vendor at the market – Black Sheep – and chatted about dill (there was a dill and garlic variety, but I went plain) and gardens and all the good cheese at the markets.  I think that will be my little summer splurge, a different new cheese every week or so.  This one is very soft and spready, I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with it.  Maybe on bread, with some olives.  Or in a sandwich.  Or on a salad, with fresh dill.  I also picked up STRAWBERRIES.  I’ve been seeing them at the Four Seasons for a while, but they’ve been California berries and I wanted to hold out for homegrown.  These came from Hubbard (which always makes me think of Old Mother Hubbard, and somehow that seems appropriate to a farmer’s market) and are delicious.  I keep singing little strawberry songs as I eat them.

May 2007

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