Nom de Plume

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.