For the Ladies

Parallel Lives: Five Victorian Marriages by Phyllis Rose


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This was an amazing look at five marriages from a feminist perspective:

-Jane Welsh and Thomas Carlyle
-Effie Gray and John Ruskin
-Harriet Taylor and John Stuart Mill
-Catherine Hogarth and Charles Dickens
-George Eliot and Geoge Henry Lewes

The author gives a brief account of each courtship and marriage and views much of what has been said previously about the couples through a sort of corrective feminist lens. Many of these people knew each other and we get to compare how they've conducted themselves--in very different ways--in essentially the same time and place in history. Very readable.

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Irish Hell

Angela's Ashes: A Memoir by Frank McCourt


My rating: 2 of 5 stars
I took an almost instant dislike to this book, and I'm not sure why exactly. I suppose it was like approaching an over-hyped movie. Titanic or whatever is never going to live up to the way it's been talked about, so there's sort of no way to enjoy it. But it didn't help that virtually everyone in the book was a child abusing ass. Aside from a priest the author met once, an uncle, and a kindly hospital janitor, everyone McCourt encountered--his parents, clergy, teachers, employers, doctors, relatives--were constantly screaming at him, beating him with sticks, neglecting him, blaming him, taunting or witholding. I suppose it's a simplistic way of appreciating a story, but it's hard to care about it when you're wishing all the characters straight to hell.

Meanwhile, McCourt's description of it all struck me as sort of flat. That's probably not surprising, but it makes it difficult to relate to him, too, despite his having almost no one on his side. My feeling is that if you're going to write the book of your ghastly childhood filled with unrelieved misery and neglect, that you should be offering us some perspective about it. This seemed to me just an unenlightened reliving of the damned thing, which serves no one but McCourt's therapist. Maybe he got some relief from just writing it down. I at least hope he is resting in peace now.

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The Magic of Summer

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke


My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This is a long but very enjoyable book. It tells the story of two men who are trying to bring "practical magic" back to England during the time of the Napoleonic wars. The author lends the story a sort of biographical credence with footnotes on the history of magic (within the world of her novel) and descriptions of one magician's service to the Duke of Wellington fighting the French. It's a fun read and I'd definitely recommend it.

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Target Women

Talking with a coworker yesterday about Sarah Haskins reminded me how much I lurve her. Check her out:



She does ones about yogurt commercials, jewelry commercials, cleaning product commercials. She's a lady-ist delight. Search "Target Women Sarah Haskins" for all the awesomeness.

iChing

OK, so I've been dreaming lately about being self-employed. Starting a business, working from home, peddling crap out of the trunk of my car . . . something like that. And, because I'm enamored of the shuffle option on my iTunes, I've decided that music should tell my fortune. We'll give it three chances to tell me where I should invest my life savings. Good times, eh?

1. If I Wuz U -- P.M. Dawn
Well, right off the bat the hinky spelling the title would seem to suggest that I wouldn't be doing any editing.
"Mirror mirror whatcha got for me?
Since I'm you and you're just so me
I know they've lost themselves instead
I know that destiny's face is red
I can see my rainbow's real sweet"

Oh, P.M. Dawn, you hippie weirdos. (I don't even know how this album got on here -- did it come with my computer? Does that happen?) Perhaps this choice just reflects my own lack of direction. But I don't like the idea that destiny's face is red. What does my destiny have to be embarrased about?!?

2. Come to Me -- Otis Redding
Otis wants me to come to him and be his love for he loves me so. He sounds kinda sad. Do you represent my potential sugar daddy, Big O? You know I'm not that kind of girl. He's down on his knees, though. Sigh.

3. Fox Confessor Brings the Flood -- Neko Case
Great, more obfuscation and ambiguity:
"Of the fox confessor on splendid heels, And he shames me from my seat"

Whatever dude, was the question too broad?

Fine, maybe we should just do a yes or no question. I really like the idea of running my own junkyard. Is that a good idea?

1. Mule Train -- Maddox Brothers & Rose
"Clippety clop clippety clop clippety clippety clippety clippety clippety and so on, etc."
"They'll keep going 'til they drop"

Hmmm, are you saying it might be fairly monotonous drudgery? That's not what it seemed like on Sanford and Son.

2. Right is Right -- Rufus
"Right is right, wrong is wrong." What is WITH all this equivocation. I asked for your opinion. God.

3. My House Has Wheels -- Southern Culture on the Skids
Well, that's irrelevant, but I do love a trailer. Do you think there's money in junked trailers? Winfred, S.D., would beg to differ.

Well, I believe this reading was inconclusive. If it'd been the Magic 8 Ball I was asking, it would have said "Ask Again Later." So screw it.

P.S. Send any questions you would like to put to my collection of 3,540 songs. Maybe you'll have better luck.

Soul Train Processional

I guess I need to shut up about how Minnesotans don't dance:



That is some Abeln-quality performance, y'all. Does anybody know how I can hang out with these people? Please don't tell me they're all from out of town.

Take This Job

Dude, d'you get that at the DMV?


It's my first day back at work, and I spent a lot of it sort of in shock. "Wait . . . this is my job? This kinda blows." I know. I'm such an ungrateful wretch. I should be glad I even HAVE a job. This is no time to be unenthusiastic. Now is the time for bright eyes, bushy tails, and ass kissing.

Also: I was so relieved when I finally found this "career." It took me a very long time to get around to it. The thought of trying to convince various hiring entities to take me seriously in some other format seems like a wearying, discouraging odyssey. Lord, preserve me. Literally. Just cook me down into a jam and seal me up with some parrafin. I could use the down time.

I think I should probably work for myself. I have trouble with authority anyway. Of course, if I was my own boss, I'd probably hate myself even more. But it seems like the sheer terror of having no safety net at all could give birth to some serious entrepreneurial brillance. Or homelessness.

If only I had the genes or temperament to snag me a sugar daddy. . . if only I could feel comfortable letting someone else take care of me. Stupid feminist work ethic.