Top Secret Twenty-One (Stephanie Plum) by Janet Evanovich

I did not go outside at all today, that's how good I felt. I stayed home listening to Janet Evanovich's latest Stephanie Plum novel. No, there won't be a formal review. But, it's got Lula, it's got Grandma, it's got Stephanie getting into trouble and in the Joe vs Ranger loop again, though not to an annoying degree. It's got a bit of international espionage and demon minion Chihuahuas. What's not to like? The audio reader for these books is so fabulous. I want to buy her a doughnut. Easier than having her children. And the book was a free download from my library as an audiobook. Yay!

Yes, Please, by Amy Poehler

I've thought for a while that Amy Poehler is a bright lady, skilled comedian, and good actress. Doing an audio-read of her memoir, confirmed all three of those to be true. I chose to listen to the audio for several reasons: it was read by the author; it had "guest appearances" in it by other notables (Carol Burnette, Patrick Stewart, Amy's parents, for starters), and it had some bonus material that the book lacks. Of course, I suspect the book has pictures, which my downloadable didn't, but I'll get my hands on a copy of the book someday, and look then. But until that time, I've had a wonderful glimpse into the fascinating mind of a fascinating woman.

I expected to crack a smile reading this book, and probably laugh. What I didn't expect was to be so drawn in to some of the situations and insights she presents. For example, she once was asked, at an audition, to talk about her most embarrassing moment. She refused. She also didn't get the part, but she did dispense this nugget: when someone asks you what your most embarrassing moment was, or any other question you don't want to answer, you don't have to answer it. Too often we (especially women) try hard to please and end up allowing ourselves to be pushed into some place where we are uncomfortable. It's okay to say no. The day after reading that scene, I was interviewed for something. When the interviewer said she wanted to start with four questions, I immediately recalled this section. "Okay," I replied. "As long as it isn't what's my most embarrassing moment". There was a moment of silence, and the interviewer said, "I'd like to start off with three questions."

Another piece I found endearing was hearing Amy speak about her family. I knew she was a mom (who could miss it, when she was playing Hilary Clinton and pregnant, or doing doing that famous rap on SNL when Sarah Palin was on the show, and Amy very, VERY pregnant. Look it up if you haven't seen it), but to hear her talk about raising these two boys, was a treat. I love the traditions she has with her boys, like hunting  the moon. The genuine love she has for her brother and parents was also quite heartwarming. She hasn't lost touch with who she is or where she came from. Nice.

So, did I like the book? Yes, please.

Tags: audio, biography-autobiography-or-memoir, great-title, listened-in-the-car, made-me-laugh-out-loud-for-real, made-me-look-something-up, read, thank-you-charleston-county-library, took-inside-to-listen

Memories of Christmas Trees Past

Yesterday, I pulled Christmas out of the storage closet. While the menorah we got as a wedding present lives in our hutch off-season, Christmas hides away in big plastic containers which hold all those decorations that have been part of czuk (and pre-czuk) holidays. There's the creche my guys got me in Bavaria back in 2001. Our Nativity scene routinely contains gnomes, teddy bears (because every baby boy needs a bear),  matrushka/matroyshka/nesting dolls, miniature nutcrackers, and several variants of Caganer figures (look it up, a Catalan tradition, sent to me by BookCrossing friend in Spain). This year, we've added a manic-neko (Japanese beckoning cat.) I can hardly wait to see what the crew that seems to do a yearly meme, adding additional figures to the scene does for 2014. One year we got the ever traditional Christmas lobster added. Here's this year's scene:

While we've had the traditional live tree, we've explored other options these past few years, such as our 2011 tree. It was at the start of a project to catalog our books and was made entirely of books from authors we personally knew at the time, or of BookCrossing books that needed to be released. The true family collection, which turned out to be around 7,000 books, remained untouched. Just heard back from one of the novels, which was released via BookCrossing in 2012. It's now in Austria.

In 2012, I chalked a Christmas tree on a piece of wood I'd painted with blackboard paint. 2013, I painted over the chalk with white acrylic and it did double duty for a second year.

Now we're in a new place-- the challenge is on.

The Art Of: The American South comes to Charleston

Yesterday, I got to tell stories.

I got to laugh.

I got to talk with four people I didn't know before, but am happy to add into my life.

It was a good day.

So what happened? Thanks to a referral from a friend, I was put in touch with four lovely folks who are on a road trip, heading to Art Basel in Miami (lucky stiffs!), gathering stories "about the art and objects southerners keep in their homes."

I won't spill the beans as to what we talked about, but the questions they asked tapped into some lovely memories and emotional recall for me. It refreshed the realization of the part art played in my life from very early in my childhood, and how it has grown and expanded, now opening into a world where I can shyly, but legitimately claim "artist" as part of who I am.

Our home is filled with stories, with art, with love. To be able to share those memories with these four lively, warm, and wonderful minds was an adventure. To send them on to meet others who I find inspiring in generosity of spirit, and world class creativity, was also a joy. And then to have them tumble back here to spend the evening in the czuk home, sipping local beer (or javaczuk's Negronis) just made it plain fun.

So, if you want to follow a visual trip through the south, click on over to The Art Of: The American South . You might even see one small bookczuk, curled up on the sofa, sharing memories. Thank you Bailey, Greg, Josh, and Erin. You're now a part of my story. And when I look at your tumblr, or instagrams, I see the heart of the American South, through the fresh eyes. Y'all come back, anytime.

Food: A Love Story by Jim Gaffigan

I read Dad is Fat when it came out, and really loved it. I like Gaffigan's voice, and looked forward to reading this. There were parts that were vastly amusing, but on the whole, for me, it didn't match his first book. The old "it would have made a great article" syndrome applies. The things that appealed to me were the personal experiences and the bits about his family. The dissertation on types of foods and restaurants, not so much. It wore thin, though I did find myself craving an all-beef hotdog while reading.

On the whole, though, I think Gaffigan is a talented artist, and seems to be a dad involved with his kids, and a man able to avoid many of the pitfalls of fame.

Thank you to Blogging for Books, and to the publisher for sending this copy my way.

Tags: blogging-for-books, foodie, i-got-bored, i-liked-the-pictures, mixed-feelings, ok-but-not-great, read-for-review, thought-i-was-gonna-like 

A Mango-Shaped Space by Wendy Mass

I am a synesthete. Different fibers, texture, and touch, as well as music, have color for me. My ability has varied at different points in my life, but I know that Mozart is filled with blues and yellows of Van Gogh's Starry Night, my mother's touch when I was had chicken pox was like milk chocolate, and a caress can be the color of midnight blue velvet against the nap. As my hearing has diminished, and my bilateral tinnitus has increased, my color perceptions aren't as clear, but I still treasure the honey gold hue of my son's laugh when he was a child. To read this story , about a girl with synesthesia learning to understand how her world is colored, was wonderful.

Mia has a different type of synesthesia than I do. Her world is more vibrant as numbers and words take on color, texture, and hue. At the same time, she faces issues that confront most of us: the pain of grief, the despair of loss, the confusion of growing up, the recognition of being different.

Handled with sensitivity and compassion, Wendy Mass guides the reader through Mia's world, sharing information, intuition, and understanding.

A lovely story.

Tags: kids-of-most-ages, places-i-have-been, ya-lit  

A Cuppa Love

Back in the day, maybe fifteen years ago, my elder brother and I wandered into what was, in his view,  the height of coffee culinary cuisine. There was something about the coffee that was served there which he adored.  Javaczuk and I speculated it was because when left to his own devices, he often left the mocha pot on the stove long enough so that the house reeked of slightly burned beans, or that in Erico's mind, coffee could never be too dark or too bitter. He liked to add condensed milk to his, which counteracted both the dark and the bitter. Our thoughts were somewhat confirmed, because his favorite name for the establishment we were in was "Charbucks".

We were standing in line, when my eye was caught by some  stainless steel travel mugs. I'd been in search of a travel mug, thwarted because many used natural rubber latex in the seal, which, for me, with a severe latex allergy, would have meant that any beverage in the mug would become a true killer cup. But these mugs had silicone seals on the cap. They were colorfully painted, and curved in such a way that they felt good to hold.

Let me back up to explain that just the day before, Erico had found me in tears, self esteem completely gone. Thanks to the steroids that had actually saved my life when my respiratory function plummeted (a gift from that severe latex allergy mentioned above), I had gained a significant amount of weight. (How significant? Let's just say I stopped getting on the scale when I passed a number on the scale that is 40 pounds heavier than my current weight. And I got even heavier, until I was well enough to start exercising regularly again.) I was in tears, because in desperation, I'd pulled out my maternity clothes to find something to wear, and even those were tight on me. I felt like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, Pillsbury Doughboy, and Bibendum's sister.  I wallowed, waddled, and wept. It was as if I gave ginormous new meaning.

Let me tell you something about my brother, Erico. He was a master story-teller. He could spin a yarn like nobody's business. Paul Bunyan and Blue had nothing on him. His response to his little sister in a melt-down was not to cajole and coddle me. He told me stories. And by the time my son got back from school, my mother up from her nap, and my husband home from work, we were deep in story-land. It was a wondrous thing and I was no longer a huge ball of mess, just huge.

That day at Charbucks, Erico grabbed up one of the pink travel mugs and announced he wanted to get it for me. It reminded him of me, all pink and curvy.

I carried that mug many places. Sometimes it held a beverage I brought from home, sometimes a brew I picked up from one of the wonderful coffee places that have sprung up here in Charleston. In 2008, when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, the pink of the mug took on new meaning. The following year, when both she and Erico were no longer with us, it became a talisman that gave me happy memories when I sipped from it.

But as with anything that gets constant use, there is wear and tear. That pink paint got chipped and scratched. By this year, it was looking a little ratty. Other mugs, sexy and sleek, beckoned, but I held on to my pal, even though it was rather tattered looking.

One day, while talking to a friend, whose art I love, a scheme was launched. He would repaint my mug for me. I told him of Erico, and of "pink and curvy" and placed the mug in his care. I knew this was right, for though I love the memories associated with the giving of the mug, I am not the person I was back then. I've shed the weight, reshaped my life, and kept the memories. I am stronger, and hopefully, a better person. It was only fitting that this talisman transition, too. 

It's still got some pink, kept the curves, the memories,  and a gotten a touch of the vibrancy of street art I love (there's some stenciling along with the spatter). With this mug travelling with me, I'm ready for new roads, new adventures. Thank you, Crosby Jack, for painting new life into a old companion. I've been blessed with wonderful brothers, lots of memories and good friends.