(photo from Amazon.com)

I wanted to review The Cuckoo’s Calling WITHOUT mentioning that Robert Galbraith is the pseudonym of J.K. Rowling, but it would never have worked: someone would have mentioned it in the comments immediately. Besides, once People magazine has mentioned it AND a new edition has been put out with the information about the pseudonym right in the author section, it doesn’t seem like it’s exactly a secret anymore.

Learning who actually wrote it is the reason I read it: I wouldn’t have been interested in it otherwise, partly because I feel like I’ve reached my lifetime limit of books written by men about male detectives, and partly because of judging it by its cover (I think it looks like a “beach read”—i.e., trashy and lightweight).

But I DID read it, and I wonder what I would have thought of it if I hadn’t known the real author? I never would have recognized the writing style. I’d say she successfully pulls off writing a male narrator—but I’m more sensitive to such things in the other direction (men trying to write female narrators) so I’d want to ask a few men what they thought.

I liked the book overall, and I would recommend it. I hope she writes more stories about this same detective.

(photo from Amazon.com)

Saving Fish from Drowning is by Amy Tan, but it reminded me of Barbara Kingsolver. It has, however, been a long time since I’ve read a Barbara Kingsolver, because I find they leave me with a card file of horrifying and depressing imagery, plus the feeling that the world is a terrible place and there’s nothing anyone can do about it, and that anything we TRY to do about it (1) actually makes things worse and/or (2) makes us look ridiculous. That’s what this book left me with, too. If you LIKE that sort of thing, however, this is a great book for it: an interesting story, an interesting cast, and an omniscient narrator (I love omniscient narrators).

I almost forgot to update on how the school volunteering thing is going. First of all, the comments on that post were SO HELPFUL. I find it so soothing to have a list of ANSWERS—I think partly because it makes me think “Other people go through this too” and “Other people need to think these things out too rather than just Naturally Handling It,” and partly because I feel like I have a Next Thing to Try, and then a Next Thing if that doesn’t work, and so on.

Anyway, I did my first official shift (so far I’d only done training), and there is one bad news and two good news. The bad news is that the woman in question is even worse than I thought. After I’d gone away from her the first time and calmed down a bit, I’d started to feel like she might be manageable after all, and/or that maybe I’d just had a bad first impression. But no.

I am tempted to say “She is awful” as if it were an objective fact—and that is certainly how I say it in my brain, with incredulity: “She’s awful! She’s AWFUL!” And I DO think a satisfying percentage of people would ALSO find her awful, if I could take a survey (*drifts into reverie, considering how fun that would be*).

And yet it seems clear to me that some of this is more like a chemical reaction. Do you get that, sometimes, with certain people? Like, it’s like EVERYTHING THEY DO hits you wrong, and if you tried to explain to someone else what the person in question had done it wouldn’t sound all that awful? That’s part of what’s going on here. I couldn’t even focus enough to give some of the Next Things to Try a fair shot, because it was like electrical interference. She’d say something and I’d want to burst into tears. It felt so hopeless to even attempt a reply—like, the FACT OF HER EXISTENCE was too much for me to cope with, let alone whatever she’d just said.

Fortunately this kind of thing doesn’t happen often, but when it does I’m curious what percentage of the time it’s a reciprocal feeling. Like, when I feel like I can’t tolerate the mere existence of another person, how often is that other person completely neutral about me and/or even favorably inclined toward me, and how often do I set their teeth equally on edge? It’s probably similar to the percentages with romantic sparks, where one person can be Really Feeling It and it seems like the other person MUST be feeling it too—and yet the other person is completely flat-line. Or sometimes the sparks are completely reciprocal, or sometimes the person likes the other person enough to be friends, but there are no romantic sparks, or WHATEVER. People don’t always feel the same way about each other, is I guess my Captain Obvious point here, and it would be interesting to have a chart of that.

So that’s the bad news. Do you know that song The Twelve Pains of Christmas, where the woman who mentions her in-laws is holding it together pretty well until she blurts out tearfully “She’s a witch I hate her!!” during the verse about the eleventh pain of Christmas? That is how I feel. It’s a panicked, tearful kind of dislike. Or maybe this video clip from Clue is a better way to describe it:
 
 

HERE IS THE GOOD NEWS. There are two. The first should probably count as more than one, because it’s “basically everything else”: I like all the other people I’ve met so far, and the job itself is good, and it went well, and it’s just the right level of work and flexible scheduling for my first crack at this. And also the first good news includes that I don’t think the other people there like this woman either, though they seem better able to handle her (but perhaps I seem that way to them, too), and they DO seem to like ME, and I felt like we were compatible and things were likely to go well. One of the other people there made a statement everyone else disagreed with, and she registered that from our awkward non-responsiveness, and so she changed the subject—unlike the awful woman, who in that scenario pushes harder and tries to force agreement.

The SECOND part is that I HAD THE WOMAN’S NAME WRONG. So when I’d thought I’d inadvertently signed up to work with her for five of the six days I started out with, I WAS LOOKING AT SOMEONE ELSE’S NAME. I THOUGHT it was the awful woman’s name, BUT IT IS NOT. So I will have to look again at the schedule to see if I’m just ALSO working with the same THIRD person every time—but it’s more likely I inadvertently avoided her almost completely. And of course now that I know her, I can try to avoid her, as long as she signs up first. And if I want to get bold about it, I can keep asking for the schedule as if I’ve had something come up, and I can keep scribbling out my name and putting it on different days or whatever.

Don’t you wish sometimes that you could access the hive mind and find out what percentage of other people dislike someone you dislike? Imagine how wrongfully delightful it would be to find out that no one else likes someone either! I suppose that would be more than counteracted by the horror and despair of the times when you’d find out that actually a majority found the person you disliked just wonderful. Plus I’d feel some pity for her if I found everyone agreed with me. Okay, so I don’t wish I could access the hive mind. I DO wish, however, for several other parents to make subtle remarks over the next few months that let me know (without it turning into back-biting, because that feels wonderful at the time but comes with a nauseating hangover) that they don’t like her either.

I have finished my Jincy Willett tour, and now I am recommending reading The Writing Class first and Amy Falls Down second. Unless you don’t like mysteries: The Writing Class is a mystery. In which case, Amy Falls Down works on its own completely fine: it only partially cheeses up The Writing Class by letting you know not to suspect a couple of people, but that’s no problem if you’re not going to read The Writing Class anyway. I feel like re-reading Amy Falls Down now that I know some backstory, but you don’t need the backstory to try it.

*******

I have planted the tulip bulbs. I hate messing with dirt, but it went fairly well except when I saw something out of the corner of my eye and it was a substantial (more compact than some, but also sturdier) daddy-long-legs on my shoulder, just PERCHED there like “Hey.” I practically saw its little chin do the “Hey” lift. In my panic (SOMETHING TINY THAT CANNOT HURT ME IS NEAR MY FACE!!) I first BLEW on it; it flinched down irritably. I then brushed it away with my hand without looking, which is a good way to not have to see your hand touching a spider but is a bad plan in the long run because then you don’t know if you got it and you have to search your entire self multiple times and you still feel like it might be, say, on the back of your collar, or sitting on top of your bun (*compulsively checks back of collar, and then bun*).

Something must have bitten me while I was out there, too, because one ear is itchy and magenta. Let’s say you have it on good authority that that’s what happens if a daddy-long-legs bites you. That should not inspire you to TELL me so. Especially since the daddy-long-legs was on my OTHER shoulder, and I don’t want to imagine it spending that much time on me before I noticed it.

********

An interesting part of the menopause book I ended up giving up on and returning to the library right around the time she said it was no accident that the word menopause sounded like “a pause” from “men” was that she said men tend to get more domestic right around the time women are feeling (and here I’ll paraphrase) like they cannot spend one more goddam second with saucepans and washcloths. (It’s no accident that the word washcloth contains the words “ash” and “lot,” “ash” signifying burnout and “lot” signifying what a lot of them we used.) That’s consistent with how things have been going at my house: I feel like I am just absolutely out of the energy it takes to clean something for the hundred thousandth time even though I have plenty of time to do it, and meanwhile Paul has started gardening, canning, and baking bread.

I’m not complaining per se, but I plan to later on when I figure out what it is I want to complain about. It has something to do with his domestic inclinations seeming to lean only toward the impressive (rather than also including cleaning toilets, dusting shelves, or putting away the summer clothes), and something to do with how at this point I would kind of like to start going on adventures but now he wants to stay home and make jam, and something about how nice it would have been to have this kind of domestic participation going on when I was so exhausted and busy with babies. Except I think I would have killed him if he had been fussing around with jam for hours in the kitchen while I was dealing with infants and diapers, whereas now I appreciate having a little space—so again, please stand by while I eat homemade jam on homemade bread and figure out what specifically it is I want to complain about.

Here is the order in which I have been on a Jincy Willett kick:

(photo from Amazon.com)

First: Amy Falls Down. I found this on the library’s New Books shelf and thought it looked like just my sort of thing. When I finished the book (having confirmed my guess about it being just my sort of thing), I noticed there were quotes on the back of it from David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs. I looked up Jincy Willett online, and found that David Sedaris is the guy who brought her to national attention. Which is interesting when combined with the plot of Amy Falls Down, which is about an older female writer who is brought to national attention by lucky fluke.

All through the book I kept saying to Paul things like, “This is DIFFERENT. This is my kind of thing, but in a way I can’t figure out how to say it.” There are a few authors I’ve reacted to this way over the years: I’ll be reading along and I start thinking, “Wait. What is this. What is happening here.” Authors who make me lose appropriate punctuation. I’m not saying YOU will necessarily feel the same way, but David Sedaris and I are in agreement and maybe you would be too.

(photo from Amazon.com)

Next I requested Jenny and the Jaws of Life through the library system, because our library didn’t have a copy. I liked this book less. One reason is that I rarely like short stories. (They are too short, which is similar to the reason Paul’s grandmother didn’t like cats: “Too soft.”) But also, I felt like I was pushing my way through character summaries rather than reading a story. “Can we stop talking about what this person is LIKE and instead move the plot ahead just an INCH?,” I would think, my punctuation having returned to me. And I was left feeling depressed and upset after most of the stories, and I prefer not to feel that way unrelentingly even if the dismal stories are very nicely-written, so that was the final blow. I still liked the book, even though it sounds like I didn’t, but I’m glad I didn’t start with it or I might not have tried others.

(photo from Amazon.com)

Next I read Winner of the National Book Award. It was dark, like the short stories, but longer. Character descriptions felt worthwhile because we were going to be spending so much time with these people, and because the plot did keep inching forward. (Though I would sometimes have to put the book down because I felt worn out waiting for the next inch.)

This is the kind of book where you know upfront that something bad is going to happen: in this case, that the narrator’s twin sister is going to kill her husband (her own husband, not her twin sister’s) (the second twin sister’s, not the first twin sister’s) (okay, so the sisters are Dorcas and Abigail, and Dorcas is the narrator, and we know from the start that Abigail is going to end up killing Abigail’s husband, is THAT clear?). And then you jump back so you can work toward this Bad Thing That’s Going to Happen, feeling jumpy about it and wondering how/why it’s going to happen. And then it turns out there is another layer or two of things to anticipate.

It wasn’t cheery, but I liked it. I kept pausing to re-read particularly good parts, wishing it worked well to quote little pieces to someone who wasn’t reading the book. (It never does, which is why I dislike Meaningful Quotes.) (Unless they are meaningful to ME, in which case they’re marvelous.)

Thinking over it afterward, I find I still don’t feel like I understand the characters (despite all the description), so Amy Falls Down is still my favorite.

(photo from Amazon.com)

Now I am reading The Writing Class. I am only a little ways into it, but I see it comes before Amy Falls Down. You definitely don’t need to read this one first, and in fact so far I’d advise against it. The narrator (not the author, as the author keeps using her narrator to remind us) is trying a blog, and the way I feel about what she says about bloggers and blogging is very similar to the way the narrator (and perhaps also the author) feels about the things everyone says to her about fiction-writers and writing fiction. I’ve nevertheless already found several parts to wish I could read aloud to someone, though, so clearly I am ENJOYING it, it’s just that she happens to be hitting some of my personal irritations. [Edit: The part that was irritating me is over, and now I really love it.]

To sum up: I recommend trying the author. I recommend starting with Amy Falls Down or else with The Writing Class (The Writing Class is meant to be first). [Edited to add: I finished The Writing Class, and now would recommend reading that first, then Amy Falls Down. But Amy Falls Down stands alone, if you only want to read that one, and/or if you don’t like mysteries.] If you notice a self-conscious stiffness to this post, it’s because the narrator-who-is-not-the-author says she uses Google Alert on herself.

Last night I had such bad dreams—and they’d started out so well, too, with the classic romance-novel plot of “I thought he didn’t like me but actually he was in love with me,” plus I also had David Boreanaz interested. But then the first guy wasn’t where he said he’d meet me, and instead there was some blood, and I realized something bad had happened to him and was about to happen to me, and I was thinking, “Ah, so this is what Gavin de Becker meant about how when it’s Real Fear it will help you—but then, shouldn’t I be able to run faster than this?,” and I ended up at a dead end and couldn’t tell if THAT was the trap or if backing up and going the other way was the trap, and anyway maybe I shouldn’t be watching Bones so close to bedtime.

I got up and did the Nightmare Cure from my childhood (go pee, eat a Tums, brush teeth, get a drink of water), but as I was getting the drink of water, a spider threaded down from the ceiling a foot in front of my face. And when my eyes had followed its return climb, I saw two more spiders up there. So it is not particularly surprising that when I went back to bed, it turned out the Nightmare Cure had not worked and I dreamed that I was at the animal shelter and it was flooding and I couldn’t figure out how to get the animals out without releasing them into the wild, and also it was clear someone was flooding the place on purpose and therefore was out there waiting for all of us.

I have no reason for being so sleepy and laggy and unmotivated and sad the last few days. Except that we’re all going to get old and die and so will everyone we love.

Rob has been at the moodier/angrier end of the teenager spectrum recently, surprising me with his sudden outbursts over what seems from my point of view to be NOTHING. It’s hard to respond peacefully/defusingly [ha—I originally had this as “diffusingly,” like I was making tea] when I’m not even sure what’s going on. Sample conversation:

Other child, looking at Paul’s desk: “OOOOooooo, a new keyboard! Let me try it!”

Rob, turning around and getting involved with sudden and unexpected scorn: “It’s not even PLUGGED IN yet.” *scoff sound*

Me, in a friendly voice: “It’s a cordless one.”

Rob, with even more intense feeling: “It still has to be PLUGGED IN. The thing that MAKES it cordless still has to be plugged in SOMEWHERE.”

Me, puzzled by this outburst and unsure how to respond/proceed (i.e., is it that he’s embarrassed to have been wrong so he’s trying to prove he really was right, or does he know the thing that needs to be plugged in hasn’t been plugged in yet so he’s trying to rudely-but-nevertheless-accurately correct what I said?): “Mm hm, yes, that’s right.”

Rob: “WHAT?? It DOES. There’s a THING that gets plugged into the computer!!! YOU SAID it didn’t need to be plugged in!!”

Me, cautiously, in a mild, explaining tone: “Yes, I know, I just thought you might think it had a cord, since the last keyboard did. You can check if you like to see if that other thing is plugged in yet. Maybe it isn’t yet, but I thought Daddy already set it up.”

Rob: *exasperated sound; hands briefly beseech the heavens; he spins around in his chair and is back to his computer typing crankily*

Me: *bewildered and annoyed*

It’s difficult to imagine this going on for the next decade or so, but perhaps it gets easier with practice. I’m trying to remember if it got easier to deal with toddler irrationality/outbursts or not, and I THINK it partly DID—if only because by the time the fifth child was being a toddler I was aware that the stage would pass without me having to actually make a toddler understand that he/she was nuts.

I have started the menopause book recommended by the nurse-practitioner at my OB/GYN, and I am having mixed feelings. The author is Not My Type, and nor is her ex-husband, and in fact I would be mincing rapidly away from either of them if I encountered them in a social or work setting. And so when she is describing how their marriage fell apart due in part to menopause, I have to do extra work to separate out the actual point of the story from the parts catching my attention, which are things such as him saying he hates when she acts disempowered, and her saying he should be more supportive of her truth, and me thinking “I would divorce BOTH of you without even FLINCHING.”

So what happens is I skip ahead a few chapters, because I think, “This part about marriage readjustments is making me dislike her, and I don’t want to dislike her because I want to glean usefulness from this book, so I will skip this part.” But then as I’m skipping ahead, something useful catches my eye and I think “Well, it DOES make sense that the marriage would need to adjust to the new stage of life…,” and then I have to go back to see what she’s talking about, and before I know it I’m back to where I started skipping. And then a minute later I’m wondering if she and I are too different for me to apply her advice to my life anyway.

Another big issue is that the author and I are not of like minds on the subject of what causes what, medically speaking. Certainly I allow room for the idea that one day in the future it will be proven scientifically that uterine fibroids occur when a woman has been prevented from giving birth to something creative and powerful, or that acne occurs as a literal manifestation of something metaphorical “getting under our skin.” In the meantime, I am not following along—and such things form a strong foundation for the book. If you stop taking care of your husband the way you did when you were in your mother role, he may get heart disease or high blood pressure in unintentional revenge—that sort of thing. It makes me wonder if I should even bother to look up her take on the physical changes I’m curious about. If I try to look up this hair-thinning-at-one-temple situation to see if it’s from hormonal changes or if it’s because I grew my hair longer/heavier and I’m wearing it up, am I going to find information about how this is really my body’s way of communicating to me that I am metaphorically “pulling out my hair,” and that it’s because I’m struggling to style my old dead strands of creative energy when I should be “cutting away” the old stage of life and welcoming the new growth?

But then I got to the part about how many women have trouble switching from “the mothering stage” to “whatever is next,” and so they try to prolong the mother stage and delay decisions/adjustments about the next stage by having more children, or by adopting more children, or by getting very involved in their children’s activities, or by taking care of their grandchildren, or by over-mothering their grown children, and I thought, “That does make a certain level of sense, and also I recognize that category of impulse.” So in short, I’m still reading, but Paul is getting tired of hearing me read sections aloud in that tone of voice.

Well! I managed to sign up for some volunteering at one of the schools! If you remember, I tried to do so earlier, but never heard back from the volunteer coordinator. This time, I was dropping off Elizabeth’s Epipen at the school nurse’s office (such things have to be hand-delivered by a parent), and an acquaintance was there and mentioned there was a volunteer training session going on right that minute for a particular volunteer position she’d done before and thought was a good one, and she said I should go right now and join in. And so I did.

The reason I’m not specifying the type of volunteering is that I’m about to make some complaints about a fellow parent and suddenly I’m nervous about being Found Out. So what I will do is use a stand-in for the type of volunteering AND for the types of things I want to complain about. Let’s say that the type of volunteering is helping set up the lunchroom, and let’s say it takes an hour and a half each time, and you can sign up for however many/few days you want out of an available eight days per month, and that there will be two or three volunteers each time. There: now you can imagine me going to this training session, and they are showing us how to set up the tables and put out the silverware bins and where/how to set up the milk station and so forth.

Okay, now I will describe the other parent. So, we are there to learn how to do this. And she started RIGHT IN criticizing the old way, before we’d even been fully trained, let alone tried out the job for real. She was disgusted by how unclean the back of the silverware caddy cart was (“Ug, don’t you ever CLEAN this?,” she said, constructively, to the person training us), an area that no one touches and that touches nothing, and also I didn’t agree it was dirty (it looked like it had been cleaned many times but was old and had been periodically re-painted without sanding first) and so I certainly don’t want to clean it with her when that is not what I’m volunteering for, and also at that moment we were SUPPOSED to be learning how to fill the silverware caddies. And also: RUDE.

Then, during a 30-minute training session, she managed to perform THREE highly-controversial and irrelevant mini-rants, one of which criticized public schools in general (keeping in mind that we were at that moment standing in the public school our children attend); one of which was on a topic such as vaccines, or why we should consider a relationship with Jesus Christ; and one of which directly criticized one of the policies of the school we were in. The root of her complaint on that third subject seemed to be that she should be exempt from that policy, and that she had every reason to be indignant/offended that it was enforced even for her. She told us how she had given the principal what-for (evidently she was wildly victorious in the way most of us are only while lying awake imagining it differently than it happened—and yet no policies changed as a result of this confrontation, not even for her) and then delivered a rather scornfully-put closing remark (“I mean, SERIOUSLY! What are they THINKING??”), and then waited. A couple of us tried to brush it off politely with “Mm” sounds. But she would not have it. “You know what I mean?,” she said, turning directly to me. “Mm,” I said. “I mean, RIGHT?,” she said. So that I finally said, mildly, “Well, I see what you mean, but I still see why they do it that way.” So then she kept going about how actually it was stupid, and then I tried another “Mm,” and it didn’t stop her, so then I did what I should have done first, which was to say, “Oh, I see they’re showing us how to…” and trailed off as I walked away toward something I acted like I needed to have explained to me about keeping the forks and spoons separate.

I looked at the sign-up sheet and guess who I am working with on five of the six days I signed up for? Yes. Paul thinks she will simmer down a bit, but he was working on the theory that she was nervous and keyed up in a new situation, whereas my impression (and I’ll remind you that I was there and Paul was not) was that she was just starting to get comfortable. She didn’t seem nervous, she seemed oblivious and over-confident and a little dim, and like she hadn’t yet reached the stage of life (“adulthood”) where she knew there were different ways to think about things and that not everything was set up around her own way. I suppose nervousness could exhibit in that way; I’m not ruling it out, but I’m not counting on it either. Instead I am reassuring myself that I have only signed up for six sessions, so if it’s awful and she’s awful, I will get through it and then not sign up for any more of that, and try something else instead.

In the meantime, I am looking for advice. The volunteer job-type I used as a stand-in for the real job sounds like people would be spread out working separately; but the actual job is working closely together and not being able to get away from each other, and not much need to discuss the work itself (and thus, plenty of time to chat). What are some good things to say to someone who is basically DEMANDING either agreement or disagreement? Like, what I’d like to say is “Dear god, why are you bringing up this controversial topic HERE and NOW, and WHY OH WHY aren’t you taking a hint from our unenthusiastic/noncommittal responses and away-turning body language??” What I DON’T want to do is discuss my opinions one way or another with someone so aggressive: I don’t want to argue with her, and I don’t want to pretend to agree with her, and I don’t want to clean that silverware cart with her.

So that is why I am asking: What are some of your ways of dealing with people who won’t take “Mm” for an answer? And I’m thinking of actual, sayable things, not the things we say in our imaginations while lying awake showing reality how it OUGHT to be done.

To some of you this is going to be like me saying, “You guys, I made toast!! Toaaaaaaaaaaaaaaast!!”—but I made potato pancakes for the first time ever. Making mashed potatoes regularly is a bit of a new thing at our house, and it took several occurrences of the “making mashed potatoes” —> “putting the leftovers in the fridge” —> “throwing out the leftovers because I never wanted to heat up leftover mashed potatoes” cycle before I noticed the Potential Deliciousness Alarm going off in my head.

I looked up the recipe in the red-and-white-checked cookbook (Better Homes & Gardens, though I almost always accidentally call it Betty Crocker), and it said to take the leftover mashed potatoes, mix in a raw egg (it also had a part about sautéing a mild-onion-type thing, but I sprinkled mine with garlic salt instead), and fry up pancake shapes in butter. Okay then, I like the sound of that! So I tried it and it was soooooooo good. I had one for breakfast and then another for lunch and then another at snack time. And now I make extra mashed potatoes on purpose, and I stir a raw egg or two into the leftovers before I put them in the fridge so they’re ready to go. (I mark the container with masking tape, because imagine thinking it was regular mashed potatoes and then SURPRISE RAW EGG.)

The main glitch is that they rarely hold their pancake shape nicely and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Too much milk at the mashed-potato stage, maybe? Or not ENOUGH milk? They’re still delicious as Scrambled Potatoes, but if anyone knows how to make them hold together that would be even better.

********

I found the Dunkin’ Donuts Strawberry Shortcake coffee at Target for 50% off, so I thought it would be fun to try. Instead I ended up following Holly‘s advice for cleaning the coffee pot with multiple cycles of vinegar and hot water, and the lid STILL has a whiff of nightmare about it. (I think I’ll soak that on its own in vinegar for awhile.) As Elizabeth said, “Seemed like such a harmless bit of whimsy when I tossed it in the cart…”

********

I’ve finished Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake trilogy. It’s apocalyptic fiction of the sort that Raises a Lot of Issues, and I found those issues interesting, depressing, and paranoia-inducing. As presumably intended.

Except for the few lead characters, I found it difficult to remember which character was which; I don’t know whose fault this was, but since I have trouble if two characters have names starting with the same letter, I’m guessing it was mine. I also had a lot of trouble remembering the minor characters and even the medium characters—I had no mental pictures of them. The first book was hard for me to get into at first: I don’t like it when a book starts out with NOTHING MAKING SENSE and then gradually explains it, so I was happier once things got going. I found the whole “misspelled/mashed-up brand names to make them seem annoying and modern” annoying in a “kids these days with their misspellings!” way instead—-like the author was over-making her point. It reminded me of Stephen King and his overkill on the cell phone topic, YES WE GET IT YOU DON’T LIKE THEM. I don’t blame either author: it’s hard to quit harping on something when it drives you crazy. But it can still be annoying for the reader. The third book seemed to me to have about 100 pages of material it needed to get through to finish up the trilogy, filled out with a bunch of interesting but mostly unnecessary backstory on a couple of characters from the other books. I was basically pleased and satisfied with the ending. There was one mystery that never got cleared up, and I wished it had.

Overall I liked the whole trilogy, and I put it in the Worth Reading / Will Likely Want to Re-Read category.

Two teenager things.

One. We were going mad–MAD–about William’s little rubber bands for his braces. His orthodontist had strongly emphasized to him and to us that he MUST wear them, he MUST. But every single time we said, “William, do you have your rubber bands in?,” the answer was NO (and/or “I was just GOING TO,” and/or “I just took them out to EAT”—when eating had last occurred hours before), followed by a scramble to find some. And we kept having Firm Talks with him, and going over the importance of blah blah, and how much he’d appreciate his effort NOW when he was an adult, and how the orthodontist SAID, and look she sent us a BUSINESS LETTER about it, and so forth.

And yet the situation persisted. Sometimes I would realize it had been a few days since I’d remembered to ask him, and therefore it was likely he had gone several days without wearing them, and I would feel both panic and despair. This is not MY job! This is HIS job! But he is not accepting it as his job, and the natural consequences (his braces completely fail to work, the orthodontist continues to Speak Firmly to both him and us, we stretch out this situation for years) are not ones I’m willing to accept.  WHAT TO DO.

Here is what I did: I said it was not my job to remember his rubber bands, and that if he was going to MAKE it my job by not doing it himself, he would have to pay me for that work: 25 cents per reminder. I made sure his siblings overheard me, knowing they’d LOVE to get in on a costly tattling opportunity like this. RUBBER BANDS ON EVER SINCE, BABY.

Second thing. I would like to give you an example of the kind of argument Rob likes to have. The pediatrician had recommended melatonin for William’s periodic stretches of getting-to-sleep troubles. I’d warned William that one side effect can be vivid dreams. In the morning, William reported that he had slept well and hadn’t had any vivid dreams, and I said good. Rob then wanted to argue that we didn’t Really Know if William hadn’t had any vivid dreams, since maybe William just didn’t remember them.

Now, that is a fine point to make, very nicely noticed. Perhaps another time we can have the late-night-college-student discussions about whether maybe this could ALL be a dream, or about what if anesthetic was completely ineffective except in that it made us completely forget the pain so we THOUGHT it had completely worked, what THEN. But right NOW, in THIS discussion about melatonin, when we are BUSY DOING OTHER THINGS, let’s NOT get into it, and especially not in that tone of voice. That is, if we CAN’T KNOW, then we CAN’T KNOW, so we have to go with what we CAN know. If we must define “not having vivid dreams” as “not REMEMBERING vivid dreams,” then FINE. We are not going to attach William to wires to make sure that he is not having vivid dreams, before allowing him to report a happy lack of side effect. BEEzus.