Death by Green Bean

Help! I’ve been trying to remember more about a novel or short story in which a young housewife accidentally poisons her mother-in-law with botulism found in her poorly home-canned green beans. I can’t remember anything else at all, but that image has stuck with me for a long time. I’d love to can my own veggies and tomato sauce—my mother and grandmother still do it—but I’m too afraid to end up killing someone.

Why am I thinking about this? Thunder storms knocked out my power Friday afternoon, and when it still wasn’t restored Saturday morning, The Boy and I went to my parents’ to enjoy some light, heat, and television. We came back home yesterday afternoon, and I opened the fridge to discover fuzzy strawberries and the scent of death, as well as an exploded tube of Pilsbury cinnamon rolls.

In short, the paranoid maniac in me trashed just about everything in the fridge and freezer. Sigh. I’d feel better about having done that if I could go back and reread the botulism story.

On a happier note, though, we went to see Kick-Ass on Friday, partly in hopes that the power would come back on while we were gone. I didn’t care too much about Kick-Ass one way or another, but The Boy really, really wanted to go. It’s rated R, so I talked it over with his dad, and decided to take him (and another kid, actually, with his parents’ permission) as long as he understood that there might be things we needed to talk about when it was over.

It turns out that there wasn’t anything to worry about, but much to laugh at cheer for. The movie is two kinds of violent: One is as close as you can get to cartoon violence without animation, if that makes sense, and the other is realistic to the point of being cautionary. The boy who turns himself into Kick-Ass does so because he wants to help people instead of standing and watching or running away, and he gets beat up and nearly killed for his troubles. He’s afraid. His body has realistic limitations. And he cries. He shows what courage has to be for normal people, and the cost that courage brings.

The other violence in Kick-Ass is what seems to have so many critics feeling violent themselves, and that has to do with Hit Girl. Yes, the premise of a father who starts training his daughter as an assassin from the time she’s about five years old, is a terrible thing . . . in real life. But in the comics, which this movie most definitely is, it’s . . . not okay, but understandable and allowable.


Hit Girl is really eleven-year-old Mindy, who likes bowling, hot fudge sundaes, cocoa with marshmallows, and her dad. They have a close bond, and like him she wants to avenge her mother’s death and his wrongful imprisonment by bringing down the crime boss who plagues their city and caused it all. That’s a proper evolution story, and one that rightly troubles people in the movie—people who care about Mindy don’t like the idea that she’s Hit Girl, but it’s who she is. She’s smart, capable and earnest (what pre-teen girl isn’t?), and she’s a marvel to watch.

The best thing about her, though, is that she’s never, ever sexualized in any way. She kicks ass and deals blows and death and fear like all good comic book heroes, and quips her way into the hearts of those she doesn’t kill, but unlike any other strong comic book females I can think of, there’s not an ounce of sexy to be seen. And rightly so, of course, because she’s just a kid.

[Slight spoiler:] She ends up enrolled in school at the end of the movie, leaving viewers to hope against hope that she won’t lose her poise and confidence once the hormones kick in and boys begin to look at her without her costume and weapons.

The crack of her knuckles is promising.

An Explanation of My Hero Worship

I fell in love with Firefly's Captain Malcom Reynolds for many reasons, including his face, his build, and his grin, but mostly because of who he was. Mal wasn't Hero Guy in the large sense; he was a regular guy who was often called on to act heroically, and he did the best he could to rise to it, even if he didn't really know what the right thing was. He had to do things he didn't want to do, and hurt people he didn't want to hurt, and deny himself so many things . . . all because he essentially wanted to keep his home and family safe.

I will never be Hero Girl--I'll never be Buffy or Meg Murry or Hermione Granger or even Anne of Green Gables, but I am very much a woman on her own, struggling to figure out how to keep a home a family safe. I know the stakes aren't as high or precarious for me as they were for Mal, but his story is my story in a lot of ways. His struggles are my struggles--how to to lead when you're not sure of the right way? Which risks do you take? When can you relax when you always have to be looking forward to see what's coming next--what you have to protect your loved ones from, and what you have to be confident they can handle on their own?

Mal messes up and gets angry and frustrated and acts like a jerk sometimes. But he works hard to do his best, and THAT is heroic (and more than a little inspirational) to me.

I love Zoe and her strength and wisdom, I love Wash for his Wash-ness, and I love their marriage. I love that Kaylee is allowed to be a single woman who is capable and dirty and smart, but also girly . . . and totally sexual without the least bit of embarrassment or punishment. I love Jayne for his Janyne-ness and his arms and shoulders. I love Simon for his dedication to his sister above all else, and I love River because she's crazy and cool. I love Shepherd Book because he's wise and mysterious, and a great representation of a person of faith. I love them all because they can be so funny. But more than anyone, I love Mal.

And I don't care if there are spaceships. I don't care about aliens. I don't care about any of the setting at all, really. I love that hot guy, struggling the way I struggle, caring about the very same things I care about.

Most Excellent Kids' Book Alert

When You Reach Me, by Rebecca Stead.


Read it now.

What is Wrong with Me?

I spent the long Easter weekend with my extended family, and I think it broke me. I've tried several times to write about it, but I can't seem to do it. This is the first time The Boy has been old enough to notice what a bunch of freaks and idiots (and I don't mean the *good* kind of freak and idiot that I am and that I generally choose to surround myself with--I mean the bad kind) he is descended from, so you would think I'd have tons to write about.

I can't, though; I can't seem to commit to writing the bad feelings I have toward those people. I've certainly given verbal accounts to all and sundry--to my sister, who skipped out on us using her new puppy as an excuse, to C, who hasn't been around those people in years, but remembers them well, and to my friend P and my boss, neither of whom knows the people in question. Everyone laughs. Everyone rolls their eyes. Everyone sympathizes with The Boy and me.

So why can't I write about it?

A summary: The Boy started bugging me to drive to the Easter Destination (a Maryland suburb of DC) on Tuesday. I refused to entertain the idea of going down there before Friday at the earliest, which caused much grumbling disappointment. However, once we settled into our assigned sleeping arrangements on a torturous old futon, The Boy whispered, "You are a very smart woman for not letting us come early." I said, "Well, I've known these people for a long time."

And that was that.

***

The neighbors on the north side of my house have a pit bull, which we finally caught using our backyard as his toilet. Of all the dogs to leave off a leash, why a pit bull? Don't these people watch the news? The Boy asked me whether I'll say something, but I honestly don't see it doing any good, as people who allow an unleashed pit bull to use my lawn (AND FRONT PORCH--once) as a bathroom are probably not the kind of people who respond well to criticism. I'm putting my plans to fence in the yard into fast-forward, and I'll leave it at that.

Once the yard is fenced (and free from doggie land mines and threatening barks), I am going to grant one of The Boy's fondest wishes and get a trampoline. (As long as my homeowner's policy will let me, that is.) It's not as much fun as a pool, but it's much more affordable--and no one can drown on it. The Boy has volunteered to buy a trampoline-friendly basketball hoop with his own money, and I'm all for that. He and his friends can bounce and dunk themselves silly and then cool off with the hose. Summer will be all taken care of.

Speaking of summer, The Boy and I listened to the audio book of the Wimpy Kid book that has to do with his summer vacation (don't know if this is the third or fourth in the series) while we drove to Maryland. We both laughed out loud a few times, and were pleased to discover that the books are just as fun without the benefit of the illustrations. Greg is a good character--the author does a good job of making him the right mix of spoiled, suburban white kid brat AND funny, put-upon, young adolescent.

I also just listened to Sarah Vowell's The Partly Cloudy Patriot. I read it when it first came out, but beyond a few details, all I really remembered was that I enjoyed it. Like David Sedaris, Vowell is even more fun to listen to than to read. She's so smart and thoughtful, and while her sense of humor comes across well on the page, there's something about her voice (she's Violet Incredible, if you're unsure what I mean) that makes listening to her that much more funny and endearing. She should write text books and lecture. More people should know how awesome she is, because then more people would see how interesting and important and meaningful history and civics really are.

***

I guess that's it for me today. Time to return to my efforts to stay awake while doing tedious work in an office that is 9,000-degrees despite the fact that it's not at all hot outside and the cool air being sucked into the window by a little fan that's pointing directly at me. It's seriously like physics doesn't exist in here, because the temperature in this room will not alter. The life is sucked out of me in proportion to the sweat that soaks my undergarments as I sit at my desk. I went to college so I wouldn't have to sweat at work (an important lesson I learned as a flagger for a road crew in the summers), yet despite a BA and MLIS, here I sit and sweat. Thanks, Universe. You're the best.

Vacation: All I Ever Wanted

The Boy is on Spring Break all this week and next, and I've managed to only have to work for a total of three days up until Easter, so life is pretty spectacular. I've done lots of good housework, finished The Children's Book* and read Palace Circle**, bought some storage things from The Container Store that I think are going to really help my kitchen issues, knitted one spring scarf and started another, watched New Moon (1,000 times better than the book, which I hate so very passionately)***, saw Alice in Wonderland**** (which I enjoyed enormously--this was going to make it or break it with me and Tim Burton, and he's safe for now) and . . . I guess that's it.

Oh wait--no it's not: I bought some books today! I bought three books which include six of the Betsy-Tacy novels (I hadn't heard of these books until some internet people raved about them, and when I saw them all together today I scooped them up. I'm about 100 pages into the first one, and it's wonderful. I have no idea why these weren't in my school library when I was a kid, but they're the kind of books I'd have slept with.) I also bought the new Christopher Moore and a remaindered copy of The Lace Reader. It's a good thing Barnes & Noble doesn't provide shopping carts, because I was in a buying mood.

Sorry for all the footnotes, but my brain refuses to get organized . . . I'm in too much of a hurry to get back to Betsy!

_____

*Brilliant, dark, serious, interesting, funny. Byatt just rocks. She's brilliant. She tells stories within stories, makes me love and worry about her characters--all of whom are real and vital and flawed--and in this novel she looks hard at priorities and responsibilities, and . . . it's a very disturbing. But in a good way.

**Set in the same time period as TCB, but so much lighter and fluffier in comparison it practically floated. But fun and enjoyable, and recommended for a quick read.

***The boy who plays Jacob freaks me out, because he has the manly body, but a kid's face and voice, and I feel dirty when I can't help but admire that torso. Also freaky: His teeth are so white they're blue. Ew.

****We went to the 3-D IMAX version, because that was the one about the start when we got to the theater. I'd never seen a movie in this format, because I was afraid it would make me puke or give me a headache or both. It *did* give me a headache, but not until I took off my glasses at the end. No nausea at all, which was a relief. That said, though, neither the 3-D nor the IMAX did anything at all to enhance the story. Totally, utterly POINTLESS.

Bucket of FAIL

The Boy and some of his friends were on the loose this afternoon, and as all proper kids on their own do, they decided to get ice cream before going for lunch. They went to Ben & Jerry's, where The Boy and three other kids--one of whom is a girl--decided to try to eat this:



It's called The Vermonster, and it's free (and you get a free t-shirt) if you can eat it all inside of ten minutes.

From Wickipedia:

A Vermonster is a large ice cream sundae made by Ben and Jerry's. The name is a portmanteau of Vermont (the company's home state) and monster (indicating large size). It consists of standard sundae ingredients, but in such amounts as to (excessively) feed four people. It contains the following:

Twenty scoops of Ben and Jerry's ice cream
4 ladles of hot fudge
Whipped cream
3 cookies
A choice of 4 toppings
brownies
4 bananas
According to a Travel Channel show highlighting extreme foods (October, 2009), the Vermonster has 14,000 calories and 500 grams of fat.

Guess who came home without a t-shirt.

Hi There

It’s been a while, I know, but I’ve been busy. Work has exploded, which is a very good thing, and I’ve been busting ass at home trying to finally finish the move. See, I had to pay rent at the old place through this month, so I was taking my time getting the nonessential things moved. I had been slowly, reluctantly bringing boxes over, but last week I gave up and hired movers. Awesome decision, by the way, and totally worth the cash. But I did ask them to unload everything into my dining room to save time (and my money), so I’m still schlepping boxes.

And I keep getting distracted, because . . . THE BOOKS. I can’t decide which books should live in which rooms . . . and while most people might let that slide while they do more important things, like locate the crock pot or, I don’t know, uncover the dining room table, I want to play with my books. Do I want my most beloved books in my bedroom, so I can sleep with them, or do I want them in the living room, where I can see them all the time? Or how about behind the glass doors of the dining room built-ins? Because then they won’t get dusty! And clearly, each room needs a dictionary, but the other reference books can go in the office. Although maybe the books about television and movies should be in the living room?

See what I mean? The Boy’s books go in his room, and the cook books go in the kitchen (or maybe they should go into the dining room built-ins, because the kitchen isn’t exactly crying out to have more things crammed into it), and then . . . sigh. I just keep moving stacks of books around, because it makes me happy. Lugging shoes or clothes or (effing) Legos or bundt pans doesn’t thrill me at all, so I avoid it. (Speaking of books, when I’m not moving them I am reading A.S. Byatt’s The Children’s Book. I’ve had it for a while, but had been putting it off until I was in the right mood, and I LOVE IT. It’s rich and thick and layered (yes, I’m hungry—so what?), there are tons of people in it that need caring about, or disliking, or worrying over, and even though I’m not entirely sure where it’s headed, even after two hundred pages, I am in love.)

Anyway, the apartment is empty but for some trash and recycling that I couldn’t fit in the alley Sunday night and a china cabinet that I have to post to Craigslist (unless anyone local wants it—it holds a ton of crap and it has lights). I feel like I am NEVER going to be fully out of there, but I guess that’s to be expected after six years, right?

**

Did you see that the awesome Betty White is going to be on SNL? While it's sad that there are only two Golden Girls left, I get the feeling that Betty (my eldest Birthday Buddy) and Rue are fairly sanguine about being old, and that makes me kind of happy in a weird way. I mean, the Golden Girls are excellent role models--they're positively counter-cultural revolutionaries in this era of Forbidding Women to Age--but it's nice to know that the actresses are also great role models. They own being old ladies, and all that entails, and I'm glad to see it. It gives me hope that I will be a sprightly, caftan-sporting old broad who can happily slam a door in someone’s face. (Yes, Betty is my Birthday Buddy and I love her, but my Golden Girl of choice is Dorothy.)

And speaking of celebrities, did you see Judd Nelson at the Oscars? He looks so unlike my precious, bad-ass Bender that I may not have recognized him if he weren’t in the context of the other Hughes-ians. Duckie and Ferris haven’t aged enough for a change to have registered, and Anthony Michael Hall filled out a bit but looks much the same. Judd Nelson, though, looks like he spent a lot of years living pretty hard. Maybe not Mickey Rourke hard, but something along those lines. (Ha! Lines! See what a cool drug reference I just made there? I’m so hip.) Here’s hoping some casting director noticed him and offers him a similar come-back role.

**

Okay, moving, reading . . . oh: Knitting. I haven’t knit more than six or seven rows of anything since I moved. I tried the Class Sock in the Sensational Socks book, and it was moving along fairly well, but my carpal tunnel struck and I dropped it. Then I picked up some lovely silk yarn from my stash, in beiges and creams, and pale pinks that I thought might make a pretty spring scarf, but I created a disaster when I tried to roll the hank into a ball while sitting in the car waiting to pick up The Boy from reffing. So I’ve been trying to untangle that while I watch TV, but I’m not getting very far. Because all I want to do is read The Children’s Book!

I’ll get back to it one of these days. You know, once I’ve finished the book, finished unpacking, painted the living room and dining room, put some stuff on the walls, started the outside work on the house, and figured out which rooms my books should live in.