Nom de Plume

One has certain expections from the author of Le Divorce, L’Affaire, and all those other les nouvelles — or should I be correct and say les autre nouvelles? You know, a wry skewering sense of humor, deft characterization … It’s far from flufff, but all les nouvelles have a certain lightness of touch. Lying Low, on the other hand, is completely different.

Written in 1978, Lying Low seems to be written by another person entirely. It’s really very interesting. There’s no question the novel is dated; it was rather like reading Alison Lurie. Still, it has a power all its own, and though I’m not going to say I liked reading it (it was really quite painful), it was also discovering the origins of a voice: more pensive, more concerned with the “life and death” matters.

The novel is about four people who share a house in a dusty California college town. Theo and her photographer brother Anton. Ouida, a South American woman dodging immigration, and Lynn (an assumed name) who has been roaming the country anonymously ever since she blew up a lab and killed a scientist.

Lynn is, of course, the lynchpin of the story: we follow as her separate identities start merging together and she realizes that the limbo she lives in is unsustainable. at the same time, however, she’s not the only person in hiding; instead, she is in some way emblematic of them all. The end is truly shocking, and I’m still not sure what to make of it.

One final musing: I wonder if Dana Spiotta read this before writing Eat the Document

What I’ve read this week:

Joanna Martin plows through the records, letters, and other documents of her ancestors, the Fox Strangways, to deliver a portrait of women and children of the 18th and early 19th centuries. Then we plow through 356 very long pages of Wives and Daughters: Women and Children in the Georgian Country House.

The book is divided into two main categories. The first describes the 4 women of the 4 generations of women her book covers. The second category is broken into different sections, such as education, household management, servants (so difficult to find in those days), and so on. The most interesting section, to me at least, was on health (though it STILL didn’t answer that burning question of what Georgian women did without Monistat). It’s pretty amazing that she had all these resources on hand to go through for firsthand accounts of what life was like.

But herein lies the problem, at least for me: There were fascinating characters and riveting snippets of information, but the scholarly tone laid a dull finish over everything. The bulk of the book was taken over by excruciatingly long lists of who earned what, the furniture in the inventory in each room, the exact cost of coal for umpteen houses during the winter of 1797 … I am sure there are far more scholarly people than I who delight in these details, but I wish they had been footnoted instead.
Also, I got the decided impression that the title was tacked on by the publisher to make this more appealing from a feminist perspective. And while it did favor women, the link between the title and the content often felt tenuous.

So in a fit of bookmooching, I got two Patricia Wrede novels (very entertaining froth and by the way, I loved The Enchanted Forest Chronicles). I found the first one, Caught in Crystal, tiresome. But The Raven Ring was a very nice way to pass an evening. Basically, a woman of the Cilhar, a very fierce tribe, goes to collect her mother’s belongings after she is killed under mysterious circumstances. Amongst the things is a ring that has been passed down in the family for seven generations. And everyone seems to want it. Our heroine Elerat teams up with a callow magician and an honorable thief to solve the mystery. Of course she does, and of course she finds love during the process.

Apparently, this is the sixth in the Seneca Falls mystery series, featuring a librarian sleuth in the 1860s.

And I am hooked.

Glynis has the town constable at her beck and call, and a dashing loner named Jacques Sundown in her bed (that is, when he’s around). And she’s the best sleuth in town. So when an upstanding citizen is murdered, the constable whisks her into the middle of the investigation, where she investigates and solvest he case.

This was such a great read less because of the mystery itself (though that was good too), and more because Monfredo does such a great job if infusing history into the novel. At no point is she didactic, but she makes the events of the day–the Civil War and the burgeoning women’s movement–and integral part of the story. I suspect I will be reading all of these.

I miss Steve when he’s gone — but at the same time, I relish the thought of climbing into a freshly made bed and reading til the wee hours of the morning. Remembering how much I loved Jacob Have I Loved as a child, and feeling the need for some comfort reading, I clambered into bed last night with a paperback and a snuggly little pug. It was strange; I had read this so often that the words echoed in my memory, but I was taken anew by its power. I cried. Honestly, I did. There were two main parts that got me. The first was at her grandmother’s malevolent whisper, “”Jacob have I loved, Esau have I hated” and she realizes it was God who was speaking. The second was when she bursts out at her mother when they’re washing windows, and her mother tells her that she’ll miss her more than she misses Caroline.

To humans, Jeff is an exceptionally good-tempered and friendly cat; to rodents and other small animals, he is death itself…

What Jeff Killed.

Steve’s sailing in Swiftsure this weekend, and I was prepared for another weekend of widowhood. But I’m headed up to meet him in Victoria tomorrow. We’ll spend the night and come back Monday. Should be fun.

Harry’s latest obsession is tennis balls, which somehow or another he manages to cram in his mouth. He wanders around the house like this:

Don’t even ASK how I came across this little gem.

Books, books, books.

I’ve kinda decided to stop posting reviews of everything I read because I always feel behind, then put upon, and then the blog languishes unto death. So for now, let me just say that the two best books I’ve read recently are Richard Power’s The Echo Maker (though I still liked In the Time of Our Singing better) and a strange little novel called Philosophy Made Simple by Robert Hellenga. It’s funny because as I was reading it, I told Steve that he would like it. A week later, he picked it up off the coffee table, and asked, “Would I like this?” It’s about a widower who leaves Chicago to go run an avocado farm in Texas, and is really quite charming.

Other than that, I finally reread Jane Eyre a few months ago, and although I had read a couple of novels in which various characters comment on Jane’s rage, what struck me the most was how modern she is, how self aware. Also that it’s a true romance, from the perspective that the disappointments bind two people together just as much–if not more–than when it’s all smooth sailing. She loses her innocence to Mr. Rochester’s spoiled bratitude, and hey, he gives up his sight and a hand. Flip, I know, but I have to tell you: Mr. R is such a BABY. (I tried reading Villette after this, but quickly lost interest.)

And for those of us who first encountered E.M. Forster through Merchant Ivory’s A Room with a View (and oh, that kiss): I’ve been on a Merchant Ivory kick lately, which has led to a complete reread of all things Forster. Oh, lovely, lovely days …

I am afraid I have done Mr. Demo a disservice, making it seem as though more of our house is in complete construction mode than is the case. I had lunch with Pete and Marc last week. Pete asked just how much of our house is livable. The answer is: quite a lot. Don’t believe me?** Maribel just finished scrubbing from top to bottom, so I feel no compunctions in posting pictures.

Welcome to Chez Smunshi with our unabashedly over-the-top art wall.

Admittedly, the chairs are a little bright. I’ve vaguely thought about having them recovered but that’s a) too expensive and b) way too much hassle. I did finally manage to get the rugs in the living room cleaned, which I picked up this morning.

Obviously, this is my office. My wallet is open because I just paid that stupid parking ticket from when I got towed three weeks ago. One of these days, I may actually get a real desk. And the floors refinished. And the ceiling repatched from the skylight leaking …

**Well, we think it’s livable. Those who prefer, um, uncluttered homes will no doubt hate ours. And given the state of the kitchen (and how long we lived with the bathroom), we all know how low our standards are.

Maribel, our cleaner, was on hiatus for several months, during which time I did the cleaning. But all of a sudden she’s back–and even though I swept, dustmopped, and mopped the entire freaking house on Saturday, you should SEE the amount of stuff she’s managed to unearth. And since we know that even Harry doesn’t shed that much in three days, we may as well admit (and yes, we’re sticking with the royal we here): We are terrible at cleaning.

And this is sexism at its finest. If a man isn’t that great at cleaning, he’s a bachelor. But, heaven forbid, if it’s a woman: she’s a slattern.

And just as an aside:
A few Thanksgivings ago, we were in Rockford gathered around some godawful Jesus loves me movie special. Jane, who is Steve’s stepgrandmother, got her hands on the remote, turned the volume down, looked piercingly at me, and said, “I just don’t believe a man should come home and night and be expected to cook dinner, clean the house, or do any woman’s work. It’s just not right.”

I mumbled something. Looking back, I wish I had said something funny, you know, “Well, you’d change your mind if you say the way I cleaned.” But in looking back, I can also see her point. She puts breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the table every day. She serves Harold at every meal. She grows her own produce and fruit. She picks, cans, jellies and pickles. She does laundry, makes the bed, washes all the dishes, and scrubs the house from top to bottom. And her real point–the words she doesn’t know how to say–is not that she doesn’t believe that men shouldn’t do “women’s work” but that she’s surrounded by a young female whippersnappers who work at jobs outside the home and in many different ways either consciously or subconsciously devalue the work she’s done her entire life. So when I think back on that, I always want to acknowledge in some way the work she does.

Then I get over it.

“Do you think you might hook up the kitchen sink?” I asked wistfully.

“Nope,” said Steve. “I’m going to jackhammer more concrete out of the backyard.”

Such is life. But the yard is looking gorgeous.

This is my all new Vegetable Jungle. I mulched, planted, and am now waiting …

Harry, warming a zucchini plant.

I have become totally addicted to auctions.

There’s a place in Renton that auctions off estates, and I’ve been going quite regularly–coming home laden with stuff I don’t need (and in many cases, I confess, that I don’t really want). It’s easy to get caught up in the heat of it all. The first one I went to found me with three Kaoru Kawano woodblocks. Sure, the price was right–but I don’t even really LIKE Kawano prints. I think he was a pedophile; all his little girls look really freaky. I’ve bought table linens, kitchen goodies (the $5 espresso maker was a real winner), random pottery …

But I have to tell you: I am really pleased with the carpet I just bought last Thursday.

Never mind the fact that I don’t need new rugs.

Now, I’m on a kick to become a carpet expert. I checked out a bunch of books from the library, and am thinking that it may be a Lesghi Shirvan carpet. Does anyone know anything about carpets? Am I right?

Also, I have two carpets that were my great great grandfather’s, and am pretty sure that they are a Fereghan …

and an Akstafa …

Anyone?

Ok, for all you who requested a photo of the dishwasher, here you go. But I warn you that it’s not terribly exciting, unless you’ve been washing dishes in the bathtub for the past three months. (And can I also add that I’ve never had one of those newfangled dishwashers where you don’t have to wash the dishes before washing the dishes? I’m in heaven.)

Much more exciting, however, is the fact that the pendant lights arrived and Steve hooked them up.

The rest of the kitchen is, as you can see, a disaster.

Last night, I was walking his royal furriness in Mount Baker. It was about ten, and I was walking on a relatively deserted street when I approached an SUV parked under a street lamp.

It was moving.

I could hear moaning over my Here on Earth podcast.

And when I looked, there were two people HAVING SEX in the driver’s seat.

And all I could think was, “Wow, that looked really, really uncomfortable.” I must be getting old.

Really old, because right now, the thing that excites me the most is …

(drumroll)

Our new dishwasher.

“You have to watch Rome,” our neighbor Geoff told us. “It’s amazing.” So Steve and I got sucked into the first season of Rome, and we loved it. We had a routine: a couple of nights a week, we’d hot tub, then get in bed with my old laptop (we don’t have a TV) and a Rome DVD from Blockbuster. Then we ran out of Rome, and we were sad.

“You like Rome?” a coworker asked Steve. “You’ve got to try Deadwood.” So then we got sucked into the world of Deadwood, seasons one and two. Steve started raving about how we needed a TV and cable. It ended, and we were bummed. We’ve tried other shows, but nothing is very good. I think we lucked out on those two shows, but it all goes to show just how awful most television is.

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

See, the thing is I’ve been going through a webistential crisis. I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m doing nothing more than contributing to the great cyberlandfill that is push-button publishing. (And on a semi-related note, I wonder if anyone has done a study showing the spike in natural resources required to maintain all the data centers that host the ever-growing number of blogs).

But that’s okay; I think I’m over it now. I took a break, and now I find I’m missing the blog.