tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39822204021357880002024-03-14T01:35:20.151-07:00belle, interruptedWEARING PEARLS IN THE DESERT.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.comBlogger136125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-38183387867632280682015-06-24T17:40:00.000-07:002015-06-25T09:31:48.537-07:00"Blessed are those who mourn..."<blockquote>
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” -Matthew 5:4</blockquote>
Yesterday, my Facebook and Twitter feeds were awash with posts about a particular section of Joel Osteen’s 2004 book <i>Your Best Life Now</i>. I don’t know what happened that this came up again now, nearly a decade of the book was published, but the fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter. It deserves discussion.<br />
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A bit of background: In an anecdote that spans a few pages, Osteen describes a bereft couple – he names them Judy and Phil – who continue to grieve the loss of their only son 15 years after his death. He contends that the couple’s self-indulgence and self-pity are to blame when, after an initial burst of condolence and caring, their friends stop offering words and acts of comfort, and when the couple remains demonstrably grief-stricken despite a period of longing that he deems to be socially acceptable. By way of an explanation for their prolonged grief, he asserts that it is not genuine, but rather a carefully crafted attention-seeking device: “They relish the attention that it brings them. They’ve lived that way for so long, self-pity has become part of their identity.” He dismissively categorizes these parents as “people who thrive on self-pity” because they “like the attention too much” to stop grieving.<br />
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Despite my discomfort (to put it mildly) with Pastor Osteen’s words, I originally decided not to post or comment because as a person who has not experienced the loss of a child, I felt like it wasn’t my place and because I felt unqualified to offer meaningful or original insight.<br />
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I’ve reconsidered.<br />
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Unlike Pastor Osteen, I have stood in that most painful and sacred space with a bereaved parent, and I’ve listened. I have held the hand of a bereaved mother as she shared intimate details of her child’s brief life with me, and I have looked at the dear, sweet faces of babies who died before they learned to walk or talk or ride a bicycle, or before they were even born. I have opened my heart and my consciousness to loss, and in so doing, I’ve learned that no one – not doctors, clinicians, friends, family, or clergy – can dictate the manner or length of another person’s grief. From all of that, I have gained a clearer understanding of the bereaved parent’s experience, though I would never presume to claim that experience as my own.<br />
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Perhaps most importantly, I am also a Christian who is deeply disturbed by the decidedly un-Christian behavior of Pastor Osteen.<br />
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Here, I’m not talking about the words he wrote in his book. He wrote them more than 10 years ago, and it’s entirely possible that he’s now more educated, more circumspect, and less hasty in drawing conclusions about grieving parents. What disturbs me is his reaction – or perhaps lack thereof – to the community of mourners who have asked repeatedly for him to explain and, indeed, apologize for the hurt he’s caused. Comments to his Facebook and Twitter pages have gone ignored, but for the quick and decisive deletion of nearly every unfavorable comment. He also quickly blocks critical users from both pages.<br />
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Today, having apparently decided not to offer thoughtful comment, Pastor Osteen passively aggressively tweeted the following: “You only have so much emotional energy each day. Don’t fight battles that don’t matter.” Now, I obviously can’t know Pastor Osteen’s thought or intent in crafting this tweet. If it wasn’t responsive to those asking that he reconsider his perspective on bereavement, then it was tremendously inauspicious timing. If it was, though, then what message does that send? Certainly not one that I hope would be espoused by a person I trust to serve as my spiritual guide and leader. More importantly, it reinforces his earlier message that bereaved parents and their pain are inconsequential, if not to the world, then most definitely to him.<br />
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To Pastor Osteen, I would ask, “If you, God forbid, lost a child, how long would you grieve? How much of your life would be affected by that child’s absence? How often would you think of your dead child, wishing he or she were still with you? When would you ‘get over’ that profound loss?” To those questions, if he answered honestly, I suspect he would say, “Forever. All of it. Every day. Never.”<br />
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Of Pastor Osteen, I would ask the following: Please react openly, not defensively (Matthew 12:25). Please remember the power of your words – to encourage, to educate, and to harm (Ephesians 4:29). Please remember that when Jesus taught the Sermon on the Mount, he promised us that mourners will be comforted, and that The Father’s comfort comes without caveat and without an expiration date (Matthew 5:4). Please understand that when we ask you to explain, we do so hoping to engage, as God directed us, and not to accuse (Matthew 18:15-17). Please grant us the courtesy of an explanation (Hebrews 12:14-15). Please know that the grief and loss community offers more love and kindness than you can imagine because life has taught us the awful lesson of 1 Corinthians 13:8 – that “love never ends,” not even with death. Please do not dismiss us because we disagree, but rather open your heart and take a moment to consider things from our perspective (Philippians 2:4). <br />
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To read an open letter to Pastor Osteen from MISS Foundation founder (and my wonderful friend and mentor) Dr. Joanne Cacciatore, click <a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2015/06/be-like-little-children-open-letter-to.html">here</a>. <br />
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To view the page from his book referenced in this blog, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/862675497152160/photos/pb.862675497152160.-2207520000.1435160253./862676593818717/?type=1&theater">here</a>. <br />
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If you are a bereaved parent, or a person seeking greater understanding of traumatic loss, please visit the MISS Foundation website <a href="http://www.missfoundation.org/">here</a>. <br />
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If you are a social worker, mental healthcare provider, psychologist, nurse, counselor, or other licensed professional who wishes to learn how to help those suffering from the traumatic death of a loved one, please click <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/">here</a> to learn about the Compassionate Bereavement Care Certification offered by the Center for Loss and Trauma in partnership with the MISS Foundation and the Elisabeth Kubler-Ross Family Trust.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-788055257462440802014-11-23T22:03:00.001-07:002014-11-24T17:38:00.583-07:00Being thankful, on purpose. <div class="verse" style="margin-left: -150px; padding-left: 150px;">
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">{</span><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2 Corinthians 12:9-10} </span><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">{</span><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Isaiah 43:2} </span><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I took some hits last week - to my physical stamina, my professional self-confidence, and my faith that good always wins. Since this summer, I've been working on a violent sexual assault case, one of the worst I've encountered in my career. And for the first time in my career, a trial of mine ended in complete acquittal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On the most basic level, my pride was injured, but while another loss may just have left me indignant, this one left me disillusioned and heartbroken. I love trial. It's a rush, and satisfying to know that in the end, the truth wins. I am comfortable in a courtroom, maybe more than in any other space. I know what to do, or at least I've thought that I had a pretty good handle on it. I like wearing the white hat. I like being on the side of the broken and abused because I love watching as people find their voice and realize that they can heal and be strong and overcome. That being hurt is something that happened to them, but it's not who they are. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I knew there were weaknesses in the case, but I felt like my co-counsel and I confronted them as best we could and helped the jury move past them. I say all the time that juries regularly surprise me but almost never in a good way, and that's never been more true than this case. I've never left a courtroom feeling like justice lost, like a criminal had escaped conviction, like a victim wouldn't see her tormentor held accountable...like evil won. It's not a good feeling. It feels very much like a death. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The victim was so brave and so inspiring. I've read all the police reports so many times I've practically memorized them, and I've heard her tell her story before, during our trial prep meetings. Nothing prepared me, though, for watching as she told a jury of strangers what had happened to her on, as she describes it, the worst day of her life. As she testified, I actually struggled to maintain my composure, which has never happened to me during trial. I went home that night feeling physically sick because I couldn't stop thinking about what she had endured. This woman said repeatedly that she thought she was going to die. She talked to God and said her mental goodbyes to her babies, and she did her best to make peace with the fact that in that moment, her life was ending. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And then after her testimony was all over, she hugged me and thanked me for believing her, knowing that we were days from the end of trial and from a verdict. She thanked me and she smiled, and then she left everything in my hands. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I can't shake the feeling that I failed her, that there was something I should have done or said that would have made all the difference. At the end of the day, though, I can't pinpoint what it might have been, and my education and experience tell me that there's nothing substantive I missed. The proof was there, and for whatever reason, this jury just didn't believe her or didn't care about her. That makes me feel gross inside. And yeah, it makes me very angry. I keep repeating to myself the advice my dad gave me before my first trial: "Alane, the prosecutor never loses. The prosecutor presents the case and gives the victim her day in court. That is winning. That is everything." He's right, but that doesn't stop this from feeling very wrong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I love Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday. </span>This is meant to be a season of thankfulness, a time for taking stock of life's blessings and articulating them in a purposeful way. I'll admit, though, that this year, I'm struggling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That's not okay. So, I decided to force a little thankfulness, and as so often happens, I forced it for about half a minute, and then suddenly realized I wasn't forcing it anymore. I'm much better at sorting through my thoughts by writing about them, and after days of being emotional and disconnected, it's reached the point where I have to process this experience somehow. Hence, this blog, and a list of things about this past week for which, in hindsight, I am grateful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1) A very supportive boss. He will mime vomiting if/when he reads this because he's no good at accepting compliments unless they're about his appearance, but I really, truly have a fantastic boss. He's funny and encouraging, and he took over most of the day-to-day tasks that I'm typically responsible for, without me even asking, because he knew I'd been doing trial prep around the clock for weeks. He stayed at work late on a Friday to wait with me on a verdict, and when it didn't go the way we wanted, he walked me to my car and didn't make me talk about it. That's a gift, folks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">2) Really amazing friends. Two of my best friends in Phoenix sent me funny messages every single day, boosted my confidence even when I wasn't really feeling it, and distracted me from the worst parts of trial with baby pictures. Friends are family that you choose, and choosing them is one of the best decisions I ever made. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">3) More about friends. I'm lucky that my old boss is now my friend. She reminds me to take care of myself, and to take it easy on myself when work gets rough. She has listened carefully and given thoughtful feedback when I've asked her advice, and on Friday, she not only took the time to tell me I did a good job, but she also sent me a video of her littlest baby girl, covered in peanut butter, and chattering into the camera. She checked in on me over the weekend, and she did all of that while in the midst of facing the loss of her father-in-law, explaining that loss to her two very young children, and helping them learn to grieve for the very first time. I don't know how to ever thank her properly for that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">4) My mom. Pragmatically, I don't tell her much about my cases beyond the bare bones (the basic charges, and maybe a few details just for reference). Despite that, she prayed for me and for our team, and she checked in multiple times a day, and when I called her so tired I literally couldn't string words into a sentence, she told me to hang up and go to sleep. And when I told her the verdict, she said she knew I had done my best. That without knowing the details, she felt confident enough in me to say that...well, it means the world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">5) More about family. I spent most of yesterday with a cold washrag on my face because I had a horrible headache, probably due primarily to exhaustion from lack of sleep the preceding days. My cousin texted to check on me tonight and then sent me a bath-time video of her toddler telling me to feel better, complete with blown kisses. Love and laughter are the best balm for a bruised heart, and I'm thankful for those who take the time to send them along. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There's more to say, and maybe I'll make it a point to add to this list later. For now, I'm thankful that I feel peaceful for the first time in a while, and I'm thankful for another night of rest before an abbreviated work week. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">xo,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">avb</span></div>
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avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-76308267827727047672014-05-09T15:03:00.001-07:002014-05-09T17:33:59.013-07:00Happy Mother's DayI don’t have children, but there are so many babies in my life whom I can’t imagine loving any more than I already do if they were mine biologically. I have celebrated their births and birthdays, their first steps and their first words and their first days of school. I have tended their boo-boos, dried their tears, sung them lullabies, and grieved more than a couple of heartbreaking losses and too-early deaths. I have watched their mothers endure difficult pregnancies, pain, exhaustion, and exasperation while prioritizing the lives and happiness of their babies above their own, and I have witnessed them do so without a second thought, without caveat, and without bitterness or regret. They have fought fiercely for the title of Mama, Mommy, Mom, Mum. Motherhood hasn't come easily or effortlessly, or without cost, to any woman I know. I proudly name these warrior mamas among my family, my closest friends, my most favorite people … my heroines.<br />
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For reasons that I cannot comprehend, it’s become posh to criticize motherhood. Mommy bloggers passive-aggressively insinuate themselves into positions of mock authority and through a computer screen, anonymously berate working mothers and stay-at-home mothers, mothers of only children and mothers of multiple children, mothers who breastfeed and mothers who don’t breastfeed, mothers who co-sleep and mothers who place their sleeping babies into cribs, baby-wearing mothers and mothers with strollers, mothers who are indulgent and mothers who emphasize discipline, home-schooling mothers and mothers who sacrifice to pay private school tuition. No mother is immune from their venom; no mother is ever good enough.<br />
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I would like for us to acknowledge collectively that being a good mother does not mean adhering to a singular chronology or design. Good mothers are everywhere, and they are just as perfect and just as imperfect as the children that they parent. I love that I get to celebrate mothers this weekend because now more than ever, it is my fervent wish that these women feel valued, respected, appreciated, and empowered. So here’s my message to all the mothers I love:<br />
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You are doing a good job. Your babies are fed. Your babies are sheltered and warm. Your babies are held and cuddled, loved and adored, and well looked after. Whatever choices you’ve made, don’t capitulate. You are doing everything right. You are a shining example of what a strong woman should be. You are a blessing to your children, and you show your children in a million ways that they are blessings to you. Your kiss heals in an instant, and your voice comforts the greatest fear. Your lap is a refuge from every storm, and your house will always be home. Your smile is “good morning, sunshine” and “good night, moon” and every sweet, timeless moment in between. Your hands offer the softest touch and the strongest support. With your hugs, your arms celebrate every victory and soothe the worst hurt, but won't do their most difficult job until later, when they let go. I think that you are spectacular, astounding, and miraculous. And I believe that if you ask your children, you will find that they think so, too. avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-4885045855307678362014-02-04T14:39:00.000-07:002014-02-04T17:07:33.950-07:00Dancerby Colum McCann<br />
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"I suppose one finally learns, after much searching, that we really only belong to ourselves."</blockquote>
I can't think of a better way to spend a sick day than covered in quilts, reading a great book. I've been meaning to read McCann for a while now -- years, probably. A friend from law school and I recently reconnected via Facebook, and then Goodreads, and when she told me that TransAtlantic was her favorite book from last year, I decided that it was time. I'd planned to read TransAtlantic first, but as I was flipping through the first few pages of Dancer, I was hooked.<br />
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Now, here's the part where I admit that before yesterday at approximately 7:45 pm, I'd never heard of Rudolf Nureyev. The first section of the book is a heavy and exhausting description of a Russian wartime winter. It's mesmerizing, and disgusting and so beautifully written I nearly cried. If it weren't for the title of the book and a few snippets of some Amazon reviews that I glanced through, I wouldn't have even known until quite a ways in that the plot centered on ballet, and if I hadn't recognized Margot Fonteyn's name about halfway through the book and then Googled, I probably wouldn't have realized at all that the central character is a real person, and that this novel (such as it is) is a fictionalized account of his life (it's not entirely fictional; I'd liken it more to a Capote-esque non-fiction novel).<br />
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It's difficult for me to articulate what McCann's strength is because I think he's good at everything. He tells this story from multiple perspectives, sometimes first person and other times third person, and we hear from a variety of people -- sometimes an omniscient unknown narrator, but primarily the characters themselves: Nureyev's teachers, his housekeeper, his lovers, even the man who makes his ballet shoes. The chronology is clear, but it sometimes takes a few minutes to realize whose voice we're hearing, whose agenda or biases we're being expected to adopt. <br />
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We hear only once from Nureyev himself, and it's only in a group of carelessly written passages, mostly lists of tasks, practice schedules, reminders. Sparse as it is, this section gives wonderful insight into how obsessive and driven he was about his craft. Strangely, it's not from the artist himself but from those who surround him that we learn about his humanity, his kindness, his worries, and his greatest successes other than ballet.<br />
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I really loved this book, and yes, I then spent hours on YouTube watching Nureyev dance. I know less than nothing about ballet, but when it comes to storytelling, McCann is definitely a master.<br />
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<br />avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-56120557547953040522014-02-03T22:39:00.001-07:002014-02-04T15:45:25.024-07:00Sweet Toothby Ian McEwan<br />
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Finishing Sweet Tooth was my consolation accomplishment for never having finished Atonement. It's a difficult book to categorize, but I did really enjoy reading it.<br />
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From the Amazon.com synopsis: "Cambridge student Serena Frome’s beauty and intelligence make her the ideal recruit for MI5. The year is 1972. The Cold War is far from over. England’s legendary intelligence agency is determined to manipulate the cultural conversation by funding writers whose politics align with those of the government. The operation is code named “Sweet Tooth.”<br />
<br />
Serena, a compulsive reader of novels, is the perfect candidate to infiltrate the literary circle of a promising young writer named Tom Haley. At first, she loves his stories. Then she begins to love the man. How long can she conceal her undercover life? To answer that question, Serena must abandon the first rule of espionage: trust no one.<br />
<br />
Once again, Ian McEwan’s mastery dazzles us in this superbly deft and witty story of betrayal and intrigue, love and the invented self."<br />
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I have to assume that part of the reason I liked this book was because it combines so many of my favorite things: it's set in England and during an interesting time historically, there are various literary allusions, and there's a bit of mystery to it. There is, of course, a little bit of a love story thrown in for good measure, but I found that the book's plot is driven more by tension than anything else. </div>
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Now, while I was entertained, I wouldn't go quite as far as the Amazon reviewer. I didn't find it terribly dazzling or superb; I did, however, enjoy the internal dialogue about the extent to which a person can reinvent herself and then find that, rather than helping to avoid a dilemma, her duplicity has instead caused a worse problem. At the risk of sounding flippant, I will admit that I was just relieved that something -- anything -- happened in this book because Atonement was a study in fictive inertia if ever there were such a thing.</div>
avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-28022310238447338602014-02-02T11:37:00.001-07:002014-02-04T15:29:00.139-07:00Marula OilAbout two weeks ago, I replaced my nighttime moisturizer with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Marula-The-Leakey-Collection-Facial/dp/B00FDUL08I/ref=sr_1_2?s=beauty&ie=UTF8&qid=1391365309&sr=1-2&keywords=marula+leakey" target="_blank">Marula Oil</a> at the suggestion of the Sephora employee who had to deal with my (quite evident) aggravation upon learning that they no longer carry <a href="http://www.renskincare.com/" target="_blank">REN skincare</a> in-store. Aggravation notwithstanding, I am so glad they didn't have it because I think this has been the most advantageous skincare change I've made since I started using <a href="http://www.renskincare.com/p/3094/Mayblossom+T-Zone+Control+Cleansing+Gel" target="_blank">REN cleanser</a> a few years ago. (I still use that cleanser, by the way, and I can't recommend it highly enough. I also still use <a href="http://www.renskincare.com/p/3109/T-Zone+Balancing+Day+Fluid" target="_blank">their amazing daytime moisturizer</a> during the summer.)<br />
<br />
Marula Oil is, I learned, the only naturally moisturizing oil that also contains natural antibiotic properties. This explains, of course, how it manages to moisturize while preventing blemishes, decreasing pore size, and overall, improving my complexion. It is not at all greasy; in fact, the reviews indicate that a substantial number of people use it as their makeup primer because it soaks in and mattifies within about 30 seconds. I haven't tried that yet because inasmuch as I do believe that a high percentage of my recent breakouts were due to over-drying and over-exfoliation on my part, I'm still not yet comfortable with spreading layer after layer of moisturizer on my combination/oily skin.<br />
<br />
I use Marula Oil in conjunction with <a href="http://www.sephora.com/miracle-worker-retinoid-eye-repair-cream-P377330?skuId=1482546" target="_blank">philosophy's Miracle Worker eye cream</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Astara-Blue-Flame-Purification-Mask/dp/B000YZDVYS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1391366152&sr=8-1&keywords=astara+blue+flame" target="_blank">Astara's Blue Flame Purification Mask</a> (about once or twice a week), and so far, I'm a convert.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-48641124905616561472014-02-02T00:00:00.001-07:002014-02-02T15:45:37.636-07:00The Oscars: NebraskaFor all my talk about how I didn't want to see this film, about how staring at Bruce Dern for two hours couldn't be anything but aggravating, about how black-and-white movies in the year 2014 are pretentious...I loved it. In fact, it may be my favorite so far. Bruce Dern isn't the least bit annoying, and June Squibb is just precious and delightful.<br />
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The acting was so genuine, and -- yes, I admit it -- so very unpretentious, that I forgot what I'd been dreading about it. It made me miss my grandparents so much it still hurts. There is a calm and simple sweetness that pervades every second of this film; I watched all the way to the end of the credits just because I wasn't ready to leave yet.<br />
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I can promise it'll make you cry, more happy tears than sad ones. I can promise it'll make you appreciate your parents, even when they call you 12 times in a day to ask how to work their new iPad. I can promise it'll make you hate those sweepstakes idiots even more than you probably already do. I can promise that if you were raised in a small town, you'll find yourself yearning to move back there to raise your babies (this feeling may be more fleeting than the others; it was for me).<br />
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I can also promise that if you're under the age of 65, you'll be the youngest person in the theatre. I was -- by several decades.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-71880841188725372402014-02-01T23:20:00.001-07:002014-02-01T23:21:11.046-07:00The Oscars: American HustleI think we can all agree (at least, we ladies can all agree) that we'd watch a film consisting entirely of Bradley Cooper eating sunflower seeds for two hours as long as he occasionally gazed into the camera with those sky-blue eyes of his. Likewise, I think that most of us would agree that Jennifer Lawrence could read the ingredients list on the side of a granola box, and there we'd be, enraptured, screaming for an encore. Except it'd more likely be the ingredients list on a bag of Doritos, which is one of perhaps nine thousands reasons why we all want her for our best friend.<br />
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As such, I was completely devastated that I didn't love this movie. I was prepared to inhale it, hang on every syllable, and find myself so addicted that I wanted to watch it again immediately. That is not at all what happened. I left feeling a little bit confused, a little bit disconnected, and a lot let down.<br />
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I can't really pinpoint what went wrong. The cast list is impressive (except that I will admit that for as much as I loved Amy Adams in Junebug, I hated her at least twice that much in both The Master and Doubt, and for reasons wholly unrelated to the characters she was playing). The costumes are hilarious. Hair and makeup must have loved coming to work every day. And the premise was good, not the least reason for which is the whole based-on-a-true story hype that worked so well last year for Argo and Zero Dark Thirty.<br />
<br />
Part of the issue, I think, is that where Argo and Zero Dark Thirty were perceived as accurate yet entertaining, docudrama-esque retellings of pivotal American events, American Hustle just feels kitschy...like a cheap and flowery retelling of a story without a hero. There's no one to cheer for in this film, and coming from a girl who prosecutes crime for a living, when you can't root for the cops, there's a problem. And if you can't root <i>for</i> the cops, you should at least be able to root <i>against</i> them (The Town, Training Day, The Departed).<br />
<br />
I didn't love it. It's not Best Picture material. I don't know what else to say.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-65394607334537911492014-02-01T22:52:00.000-07:002014-02-04T15:29:00.149-07:00The Oscars: August: Osage CountyWow. I've seen Meryl Streep in everything from Death Becomes Her to The Bridges of Madison County, from Doubt to The Devil Wears Prada, and everything in between. I have never seen her like this. She is raw, mean, bigoted, selfish, and self-absorbed. She is brilliant.<br />
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A family emergency, which soon turns into a family tragedy, brings a family together in their small Oklahoma home town, and it doesn't take very long to figure out that these are family members who are quite happy to remain apart. Each of three sisters is complicated and struggling in her own way, which is of course exacerbated by sadness and their mother's illness and substance dependence. The film begins on a dark and heavy note, and though there are glimpses of levity (Benedict Cumberbatch and an organ featuring prominently in one of them -- but my fixation with Benedict Cumberbatch is a story for a different day), it mostly remains there for the bulk of the substantial running time.<br />
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I'm not a huge Julia Roberts fan, and I haven't really missed her since she moved to Taos, had a bunch of kids, stopped making romantic comedies, and apparently forgot that prairie skirts are ugly (I say that because she's wearing one in 80% of the photos I see of her in tabloids). That said, she was achingly good in this film, and I find myself hoping that she completely abandons any future films of the Oceans Eleven ilk in favor of more roles like this one. She also has incredible skin, which I fixated on for most of the movie because though there are close-ups galore, she is mostly makeup free.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-77386867300799382482014-02-01T22:34:00.001-07:002014-02-03T21:57:13.162-07:00The Oscars: Blue JasmineSince the Golden Globes, where Woody Allen received some sort of lifetime achievement award, there's been a great deal of discussion about his alleged sexual abuse of his adopted daughter, Dylan Farrow. I say alleged because although Dylan remains steadfast in her accusations, no charges were ever brought against him. I regretfully admit that until recently, although I knew in general that such allegations were made, I knew no specifics and generally took no position one way or the other. That is to say, I watched his films (and love Midnight in Paris) and gave no thought to the abuse Ms. Farrow maintains that she suffered.<br />
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That changed today. <a href="http://kristof.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/02/01/an-open-letter-from-dylan-farrow/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0" target="_blank">She penned an open letter that was published in today's New York Times</a>. In it, she details not only the abuse, but also its subsequent physical and psychological manifestations in her life, and as an adult -- arguably free of the influence that her mother supposedly wielded when she was a child -- Ms. Farrow bravely and clearly names Allen as her abuser. Her words are concise and largely free of the vitriol to which I believe she's more than entitled.</div>
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So, about Blue Jasmine. It's lovely, and Cate Blanchett is stunningly broken and fragile. I found it to be an almost frame-by-frame modernization of "A Streetcar Named Desire," though Allen replaces Williams's allusions to promiscuity and sexual violence with an illegal white collar investment scheme. I truly loved watching it, which I suppose is nice, since it's the last Woody Allen film I'll be seeing.</div>
avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-70585859386769026122014-01-31T22:05:00.001-07:002014-02-04T15:05:02.194-07:00Cousin-FriendsJust before Christmas, my younger cousin, Rebecca, was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s healthy and energetic, and she has a perfect, beautiful 16-month old little boy, Charlie. Rebecca and I probably weren’t the closest as children; her brother Rob and I are the same age, so our interests were typically more aligned. Rebecca is two years younger than Rob and I, and even though that age difference is practically non-existent now, it seemed more significant then. We became much closer during college though, so much so that our Grandmama spoke often about how happy it made her for us to be friends as well as cousins. We christened ourselves “cousin-friends," and well, I could never have imagined how meaningful and important that hybrid relationship would become, not only with Rebecca, but also with my other cousins with whom I am blessed to share friendships. Of course, I’m sure Grandmama knew; hence, her happiness.<br />
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Rebecca shares many traits with our Grandmama, and mostly, it’s the ones that I strive to emulate but never quite master: her reserved determination, her limitless kindness, and her ability to turn just about anything into a story. My most favorite memories of our college years are the times she cooked spaghetti (with Worcestershire sauce) and the time that we played Chinese fire drill in front of the Alabama Theater so that I could parallel park her car. These may not seem like major life events, but let me tell you, mention either of them to us, and I guarantee we’ll laugh… a lot.<br />
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Rebecca had a double mastectomy the day after Christmas, and just this week, she had her first of eight biweekly chemo treatments. I am in awe of her strength and positivity, though I suppose I am not really all that surprised by it. She’s always been the funny one, the sweet-spirited mischief maker, the little girl who always wanted to make people laugh and who grew up to become a young woman who always manages to find the good in everyone. Since her diagnosis, Rebecca has spoken frequently to acknowledge the power of prayer and to ask that her friends and family join in praying for her healing; she has repeatedly voiced her confidence in God’s ability to heal. She doesn't complain, and almost never mentions fear or worry, and to me, this has been perhaps her greatest testimony.<br />
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Ephesians Chapter 3 has been on my mind quite a bit lately. It was written by Paul while he was in prison, and during this time of struggle, Paul writes not about his physical suffering but instead about God’s righteousness and faithfulness. Isn’t that incredible?<br />
<br />
I haven’t figured out God’s ultimate purpose in putting Rebecca through this awful ordeal — putting all of us through it — and it’s probably not for me to know or understand anyway. I am certain, however, that I have learned a lifetime’s worth of lessons about grace, gratefulness, faith, courage, and humility.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."</span></i><br />
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I love you, Becca.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-35614357125754174572014-01-31T11:57:00.002-07:002014-02-04T15:45:25.020-07:00The Goldfinchby Donna Tartt<br />
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Donna Tartt's first novel, The Secret History, is one of my favorite books ever. I've read it probably a dozen times, and as I type this, I realize that I am suddenly gripped by the urge to read it again. I was sorely disappointed in her second attempt, The Little Friend, to the point where I didn't even finish reading it. As such, I was somewhat guarded in my excitement leading up to the release of this, her third novel.<br />
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The Goldfinch is about the adolescence and early adulthood of a boy orphaned by an act of terrorism (I'm giving away some of the plot here, but not so much that it'll be any less devastating when you read it for yourself). There are guardianship woes and frequent changes in setting, enough so that you don't get bored by the surroundings, so to speak. His story becomes entwined with that of the title piece of artwork, and mayhem ensues.<br />
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On Goodreads, I rated it 3 stars, but as I said there (and the rest of this is taken directly from my Goodreads review), I think that if half stars could be awarded, I'd have rated this book 3.5, which is to say that it's very good but could have benefited from a more active editor. There are pages upon pages upon pages that are so perfectly written that I want to read them again and again. And then there are the last 100 pages, which I think could have been condensed into perhaps ten. <br />
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Tartt is gifted with description. I felt the dampness and old money of New York just as vividly as I felt the glaring, blinding light and heat of Las Vegas. I enjoy that that action is told from the perspective of someone whom we can't really trust because he has been, essentially, plastered since adolescence, first with grief, then culture shock, then drugs and alcohol. I appreciate Tartt's indulgence of this perspective and that she's skilled at changing the facts just when I think I've grasped hold of them.<br />
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She's just as gifted with pacing and detail, self-indulgent allusions notwithstanding. Tartt is well-read, exceedingly clever, and quite smart...and she really, really needs for her readers to know that, I think. The novel is littered with quintessentially English exclamations like, "Well done, you!" and references to "tinned crabmeat" and "pyjamas," which reveal what I believe to be the author's embarrassment of or uneasiness with her Mississippi upbringing. There were times when I wanted, truly, to throttle her and say, "Listen, Donna, we both know this isn't how Americans -- let alone Southerners -- speak or spell, regardless of their wealth, education, or social position." <br />
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More often, though, I felt a kinship borne primarily of our Southern-ness and apparently shared obsession with the BBC. After all, how would I know that Brits use "tinned" in place of our more colloquial "canned" if I didn't spend a great deal of time reading P.G. Wodehouse, watching "Fawlty Towers," and inhaling everything Julian Fellowes produces, both on screen and in print.<br />
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In short, this novel falls somewhere between The Secret History and The Little Friend, though considerably closer to the former than the latter.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-17994559102984160282013-10-02T07:34:00.000-07:002014-02-04T15:38:18.624-07:00CrêpesI'm probably the only person I know who goes on vacation and looks forward to cooking, but with the schedule I keep at work and all of my various volunteer activies, I do very little cooking when I'm home. In addition to just frankly wanting to avoid the mess, it just plain isn't practical to cook for one person. I enjoy cooking, though, and it is typically relaxing for me, so I was excited to get to make some stuff while I was in Cape Cod. <br />
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The most exciting were these c<span dir="auto">rêpe</span>s, which I made using <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/335089/simple-crepes" target="_blank">Martha Stewart's recipe for Simple C<span dir="auto"><span style="color: black;">rê</span></span>pes</a>. For the filling, I used ricotta cheese, which I topped with two separate fruit mixtures made from pears and bananas mixed and heated with dark brown sugar, butter, a tiny bit of salt, and vanilla.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGbmuW7nwIB8eKxFJkfJ0_TEC2vBFhdci4FvCdlwdJUh-VAVc8pfib4WiZc5Vd19nqDwQFQxyCO6F1Mvogop0p0cOKmoMWlMCfHJ3r2n7_UlQ8F-0D5fzFza-YVDKxYdRB_tZr7fGs2s/s1600/banana+crepes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_305534="null" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGbmuW7nwIB8eKxFJkfJ0_TEC2vBFhdci4FvCdlwdJUh-VAVc8pfib4WiZc5Vd19nqDwQFQxyCO6F1Mvogop0p0cOKmoMWlMCfHJ3r2n7_UlQ8F-0D5fzFza-YVDKxYdRB_tZr7fGs2s/s200/banana+crepes.JPG" height="200" width="200" xsa="true" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banana <span dir="auto">Crêpe</span>s</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rCoX7e1n8psBR7i94ZD7hb5_XnCXrII6MwHcx1z6owxxn-2DytMi0wjaLvyV5NjpQtV4z6212PVni-HHMN6zjZFu21pEy8DXdEOO-UuFy7tF89RFOpkGUQvYb131vxzhFLdgtRROWtg/s1600/pear+crepes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rCoX7e1n8psBR7i94ZD7hb5_XnCXrII6MwHcx1z6owxxn-2DytMi0wjaLvyV5NjpQtV4z6212PVni-HHMN6zjZFu21pEy8DXdEOO-UuFy7tF89RFOpkGUQvYb131vxzhFLdgtRROWtg/s200/pear+crepes.JPG" height="200" width="200" xsa="true" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pear <span dir="auto">Crêpe</span>s</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-5506350359827201602013-10-02T07:20:00.001-07:002013-10-02T07:22:19.924-07:00I finally found a mascara I don't hate.And here it is: <a href="http://shop.nordstrom.com/s/guerlain-cils-denfer-maxi-lash-mascara/3425342?cm_cat=datafeed&cm_ite=guerlain_'cils_d'enfer'_maxi_lash_mascara:641180&cm_pla=makeup:women:lash&cm_ven=Google_Product_Ads&mr:referralID=bad7e1c1-2b6c-11e3-a8bc-001b2166c62d">'Cils d'Enfer' Maxi Lash Mascara by Guerlain</a>. Before I finally found it, though, via a Sephora sample, I was forced to endure two weeks using <a href="http://www.sephora.com/lash-lifter-gel-volume-mascara-P379421?skuId=1501295">Marc Jacobs Beauty Lash Lifter Gel Volume Mascara</a>, which somehow managed to make me look like I had perhaps four eyelashes, all of them shorter and straighter than my mascara-less natural lashes. The Guerlain doesn't quite live up to Chantecaille, but it's half the price and close enough.
avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-44898127319205547752013-09-30T17:37:00.002-07:002013-10-08T20:24:00.420-07:00October is Infant & Child Death Awareness MonthI hate the title I just gave to this post. <br>
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But, it's true. October is, in fact, Infant & Child Death Awareness month, and for that reason, I invite you to visit The Miss Foundation's website to get more information about this incredible organization of which I find myself so blessed to be a part. And while you're there, I'll also ask you to consider making a donation to help fund low-cost bereavement counseling, family information packets, crisis intervention, and other life-saving services for families that depend on MISS. You can click on the badge to the right of the screen, which will take you directly to MISS's website, where you'll find a link for donations. They're tax deductible. :-) <br>
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If you'd like to spread a bit of awareness of your own, then just <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.missfoundation.org/awareness">visit this site</a> and feel free to choose the badge you like best to use (for free) as your Facebook timeline photo, or your profile pic for Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or whatever your preferred social media site happens to be. And share the page with your friends so that they can do the same. Hugs and love.<br>
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avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-63124049592672586562013-06-18T06:48:00.000-07:002013-06-19T13:06:30.011-07:00Mascara<a href="http://www.barneys.com/Chantecaille-Faux-Cils-Longest-Lash-Mascara/00505014540189,default,pd.html?gclid=CMD4-aTc7bcCFep7QgodO1QAqQ" target="_blank">Chantecaille Faux Cils Longest Lash Mascara</a><br />
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I was in Barney's a while back and bought a couple of things, and I got a sample of this mascara. I fell in love almost immediately, which means that I was fairly well traumatized when I found out that it costs $70.00! On to the next mascara...although I fully intend to ask for another sample very soon.<br />
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<a href="http://www.sephora.com/noir-couture-P375170?skuId=1442607" target="_blank">Givenchy Noir Couture 4-in-1 Mascara</a><br />
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Last week, I went to Sephora, and this was the mascara recommended to me by the child in clown makeup who latched onto me when I walked in. I found the brush terribly intriguing, but <a href="http://avb-belle.blogspot.com/2008/12/givenchy-phenomeneyes-mascara.html" target="_blank">Givenchy has been known to do this to me before</a>: catch my attention with something shiny, i.e. a strangely-shaped wand, and then completely disappoint me when it comes to everyday use. <br />
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Such is the case, yet again. This mascara makes my eyelashes clump together like crazy. "Separation" was the one specification I insisted on when I listed off the attributes I look for in a mascara; it's more important than lengthening or volumizing for me because my eyelashes aren't short or thin. They are, however, prone to clumps, so I need a mascara that won't exacerbate that. Moreover, even if I wanted lengthening or volumizing, I'd prefer <a href="http://www.sephora.com/diorshow-iconic-mascara-P218791?skuId=1107051" target="_blank">DiorShow</a> over this Givenchy because to be honest, I didn't even observe any noticeable lengthening or volumizing. It mostly just colored my eyelashes brown and then made them stick together. It didn't curl or anything.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-68425287936244307212013-04-15T19:41:00.001-07:002014-02-04T15:05:59.275-07:00Boston: Another Lesson in PerspectiveLike so many others, I spent my afternoon riveted to CNN, hoping to hear that maybe the bombings in Boston weren’t as bad as everyone first thought. Instead, the opposite happened. Right before 5:00, I refreshed the website and learned that an 8-year old child was one of the two fatalities, and my heart just sank. Tears came to my eyes, and I couldn’t stop myself from imagining what had brought that precious little boy to Boston this morning. Was his mom or dad among the runners, and was he waiting impatiently to watch him or her cross the finish line – craning his little neck to see over all the adults, screaming his heart out with excitement and 8-year old joy? Had he painted a sign to congratulate his sister or his nanny or his teacher? Was he just starting out as a runner, and did his parents plan this special field trip to watch one of the most prestigious marathon events in the country? Or did he just happen to be there – wrong place and a very wrong time?<br />
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I reacted similarly to the shooting in Connecticut. I remember talking to my mom on the phone that night, and just sobbing as we talked about it. Parents send their children to school every day. EVERY day. They dress them and feed them breakfast and pack their lunches, and put them on a bus or drive them to drop-off, and leave them in the capable hands of teachers to learn and laugh and play. Going to school is an unavoidable part of most children’s day, and we don’t think of it as being a dangerous or risky place to be. That day, like today, began normally and happily. And ended in terror, trauma, astonishing heartbreak, and death.<br />
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I notice that days like today have a universally uniting effect, as they should. People come together, offering words of sympathy and comfort to the victims and their families, and for a moment, we forget that we spend the majority of our time fighting over really stupid things. For a few days, we look past the politics and our private agendas, and we remember that we’re all people, that we all grieve our losses the same way. We cry out of genuine concern for complete strangers, and we pray for them to live, to recover, to somehow move past what has happened to them. For a few days – maybe a few weeks at best – we are the best iteration of ourselves. How great would this country be – how great would the world be – if we could retain our sense of perspective without having to re-experience traumatic loss and be reminded of it? Why does empathy need to be rebooted?<br />
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The short answer, of course, is that I don’t know. But I’m reminded all over again of why MISS is necessary, and will continue to be necessary, so long as children are lost tragically and senselessly, and so long as their parents have to continue trying to recover from that.<br />
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(Yep, you can still donate to MISS's Kindness Walk, and help to ensure that whenever a senseless act of evil happens, MISS can be there to offer comfort and support for the parents left behind. Here's the link: <a href="https://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/AlaneBreland/missfoundationkindnesswalkandsafetyfair">https://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/AlaneBreland/missfoundationkindnesswalkandsafetyfair</a>.)avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-26182669593799859842013-04-10T14:06:00.003-07:002014-02-04T15:45:25.017-07:00Nemesisby Philip Roth<br />
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Alright. So I finished my second Roth novel, and I think the only logical conclusion at this point is that I’m just not as smart as all those people who love Roth. I say this because I just have to be missing something. I started reading Nemesis in January, and I found it to be a quick, albeit boring, read. I took about a two-month break in the middle of the second section, simply because I basically forgot about it until I was reviewing my Goodreads list and realized that I’d never finished it. After picking it back up again, it took about an hour to finish.<br />
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The plot is set in 1940s New Jersey in the midst of a summertime polio outbreak. In the first section, we meet Bucky, a phys ed teacher at a playground where the neighborhood children spend their days. World War II is in high gear, and Roth goes to great effort wanting us to understand just how dejected Bucky was to have been rejected from the military due to nearsightedness. One by one, many of the playground children contract polio, and Bucky’s relationship with God begins to deteriorate as he struggles to accept a God that would allow innocence to fall victim to pain and death. Eventually, Bucky gives in to the pleadings of his girlfriend, and he joins her at a summer camp in the mountains, which is where the second section takes place.<br />
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When Bucky arrives at Indian Hill, he immediately begins to feel guilty for leaving his job at the playground. This guilt intensifies when he learns that the epidemic spread throughout the neighborhood even more after he left to such an extent that city authorities were considering a quarantine. Bucky vacillates between feelings of relief and elation at having escaped the nightmare of the city to spend the summer with his love, and guilt and misgiving over what he views as his abandonment of the boys back in the city. He becomes particularly attached to one teenage boy, who days later begins to exhibit the first symptoms of polio and eventually requires hospitalization. Bucky shares with camp leadership his suspicion that he is the carrier of the virus, at which point he is sent for a spinal tap.<br />
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In the third section, we learn that the spinal tap was positive, and that after the initial symptoms began, Bucky then spent months and months recuperating from polio, ultimately losing the use of his left arm and recovering only partial use of his left leg.<br />
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For as much as I stubbornly refused to dislike Lucy in When She Was Good, I just could not bring myself to find anything appealing in Bucky. He’s a narcissist, completely convinced of his own importance. He ruins his own life by insisting that he is to blame for not only the polio outbreak at Indian Hill, but in his old neighborhood as well. He hems and haws about God, and his own martyrdom, and how his broken engagement was the only way to ensure that his almost-fiancée could lead a full life. By the end of the book, I was hoping that he would just die and get it over with. No such luck.<br />
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Are there really people like this? People who cannot process reality, who need someone to blame so badly that they will fault themselves when left with no alternative, and who end up in some emotional quagmire from decades before? I don’t know. I do know, however, that I didn’t particularly enjoy reading about Bucky, and I didn’t find him all that interesting or dynamic. In fact, I find him insipid, unintelligent, and very, very annoying.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-81204408010543355442013-04-09T09:54:00.003-07:002014-02-04T15:53:49.208-07:00ArgoBook by Antonio Mendez. Film directed by Ben Affleck.<br />
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A book review and a movie review, all at the same time!<br />
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I saw Argo (the movie) last October when I was visiting my friends Brandy and John in Colorado. Brandy and I had planned to go and visit some mountains and some snow, but it rained instead. Everybody knows that rainy mountains aren’t nearly as much fun as snowy mountains, so we opted for a movie day instead. I am embarrassed to admit that I knew little to nothing about the Iran hostages prior to seeing Argo, so it was even more of a learning experience for me than it might have been to a more knowledgeable viewer.<br />
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I agree with the reviewers who thought that the manufactured tension at the end of the movie was a little bit tiresome, but overall, I loved Argo. The casting was perfect – especially Alan Arkin and John Goodman – and I agree with all those people who were dumbfounded that Ben Affleck didn’t receive a Director nod at the Oscars. I’m not generally able to pinpoint good directing as the reason I enjoy a film, but Argo is an exception to that. I suppose that Best Picture is a pretty good consolation prize, but in all honesty, I thought Zero Dark Thirty deserved Best Picture just as much as Argo deserved Best Director. Oh, well – I’m not in charge of either decision.<br />
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My mom and I were in DC last weekend, and while we were there we visited the International Spy Museum, which is across the street from the National Portrait Gallery. We weren’t able to go when we were in the District last summer, but we’d been told that it was a fun museum. At some point during the lead-up to awards season, I read that Antonio Mendez and his wife, both former CIA operatives, were on the board of the museum, which further intrigued me. In all honesty, I can’t say that I was all that impressed with the museum itself; I chalk it up to an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, my absolute inability to figure out the preferred direction of travel inside the museum, and the fact that way too many people (and too many children, in particular) were there. I eventually started following every exit sign I found and made my way to the gift store (I do love a gift store, y’all), where I found autographed copies of Mendez’s book Argo: How the CIA and Hollywood Pulled Off the Most Audacious Rescue in History. I bought one for myself and one for my dad, who loved the movie as much as I did.<br />
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This isn’t the book that the film is based on. That’s The Master of Disguise, which was written after the operation was declassified in 1997. Mendez wrote Argo in 2012, after the film had already been completed. As anticipated, the book fills in all the details that the film glosses over. It’s an easy read, albeit lengthier than necessary (I found myself wondering whether Mendez had an ineffective editor or a page number quota that he couldn’t reach without pages and pages and pages of backstory). In any case, I loved learning about how CIA operatives are trained in forgery and disguises; it’s like Mission Impossible, only real.<br />
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In a nutshell, here’s what we learn from both the book and the film versions of Argo: the CIA is crazy smart; you can’t hide from them, but they can very effectively hide from you.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-16776210820415016422013-04-08T18:31:00.005-07:002014-02-04T15:09:02.669-07:00If you're able to donate...please donate.I am participating in The MISS Foundation’s 3rd Annual Kindness Walk & Safety Fair on May 19, 2013. As part of that effort, I am also raising money, and my goal is $500.00. That goal may increase, depending on how many generous friends I have. ;-)<br />
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I know, I talk a lot lately about MISS. But, I guess, if you can’t use your own blog to promote your own causes, then what’s the use of having a blog, right? Here’s the thing: MISS doesn’t get much support, and the reason for that is probably pretty simple. Our cause is a sad one, and by giving money, our donors are contributing to ongoing support of bereaved parents and advocacy for issues relevant to child death, but not to a potential cure. St. Jude’s appeals to your heart by showing you photos of adorable bald babies who are suffering through the horrors of cancer treatment; you want to help the adorable bald babies beat cancer, so you give money. March of Dimes and child advocacy centers and dozens of other organizations use the same technique; pick up any one of their brochures, and you’ll see groups of happy, healthy kids who have benefitted from their services. They have success stories, and they use them to make more success stories. It’s a great method, and we’d use it if we could. But, we can’t.<br />
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You can’t help the babies that make MISS necessary, and none of us are mean enough to show you pictures of the babies that make MISS necessary. Dead babies make us necessary. We don’t have success stories because no parent ever successfully recovers from a child’s death. If children never died, MISS wouldn’t exist, and believe me when I tell you that Dr. Jo (our founder) would be thrilled to find herself jobless tomorrow if someone could invent a miraculous cure for dead babies.<br />
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Here’s the good part, though. MISS doesn’t discriminate. We help every parent who comes to us, searching for the smallest speck of light in the blanket of darkness that is losing a child. No matter what caused the death – stillbirth, car accident, cancer, some other congenital defect, homicide, suicide, tragic accident, whatever. No matter the age of the child at the time of death – infants, toddlers, children, teenagers, adults. Parents and families who come to us get help. End of story.<br />
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MISS doesn’t stop there, though. In fact, when I first talked with MISS’s CEO, Barry Kluger, about why I wanted to become a part of the Executive Board, I told him I love that MISS isn’t just about hand-holding and crying and grief. The hand-holding is vital, and it’s the heartbeat of the organization, but it’s not ALL of the organization. MISS is about activism. Dr. Jo is perhaps the loudest voice speaking up against a change to the DSM5 that would medicalise grief. Barry has co-written an amendment to the FMLA that would extend its protections to employees following the loss of a child. These are professionals, y’all – smart, smart people who teach me daily, not only about grief, but also about intricacies of psychiatry, medicine, chemistry, and yes, even the law. I learn from them, but much more importantly, others in positions to effect change look to them and learn from them and model them.<br />
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Where does your money go? Or perhaps more importantly, where doesn’t it go? Salaries. Save one part-time administrative employee whose salary is paid by a generous donor, MISS operates entirely on the considerable devotion of its volunteers. Our volunteer pool is primarily comprised of bereaved parents; they come to MISS for help, and after they get help, they give it back. Parents are offered a number of counseling sessions gratis, after which they pay a very nominal amount to continue services; that nominal amount goes directly to the counselors. In terms of overhead expenses, MISS has one office, for which rent and related costs must be paid; that office is small and used both for individual counseling sessions and group meetings. When MISS representatives travel – either to advocate on behalf of the organization or to participate in training seminars – they pay their own expenses. Donations go directly to supporting the mission statement of the organization itself, and not into the pockets of its representatives.<br />
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So, now that I’ve said that, I am going to ask you for money. For as little or as much as you want to give. We will appreciate every single dollar, and we won’t waste a penny, I promise you.<br />
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<a href="https://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/AlaneBreland/missfoundationkindnesswalkandsafetyfair">https://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/AlaneBreland/missfoundationkindnesswalkandsafetyfair</a>avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-46190365855029965582013-03-18T18:36:00.000-07:002014-02-04T15:45:25.021-07:00 Gone Girlby Gillian Flynn<br />
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At this point, I think that just about everybody in the world – and most definitely anybody who might be reading this blog – has read a plot summary of Gone Girl. It’s been on just about every bestseller list there is, and if your reading habits are in any way similar to mine, then Amazon steadfastly shoved it down your throat until you finally gave in and ordered it. When I reviewed it on Goodreads, I said that I’d had more fun reading Gone Girl than I have reading any other book in recent memory. I stand by that statement. I read a lot of crime fiction. A lot. I’ve gotten to the point where formulaic who-dun-its just don’t hold my attention, so even though I thought for a minute that Gone Girl might be just such a book, I found out differently after I finished reading the first section.<br />
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Some people have trouble liking books when they don’t like the narrators, and some people have trouble liking books when they can’t trust the narrator. I don’t suffer from that, though, and I generally enjoy books more when their narrators are flawed, just like real people are flawed. People have their biases and their own agendas, and I’m not sure why we so often presume that those very human traits will not exist in even our most beloved characters in our most beloved novels. Even more to the point, we know that eyewitness testimony is often some of the most unreliable evidence that exists, especially when eyewitnesses are telling us about events they perceived as traumatic. Even if a person isn’t actually trying to mislead, he or she is just as likely to benignly misremember and give us bad information.<br />
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Anyway, the plot of Gone Girl relies almost exclusively on misinformation, incorrect assumptions, inaccurate perceptions, and quick judgments. It’s full of surprises, and even once the surprises are over, it was icky enough and creepy enough to hold my attention until the end. Loved it. LOVED.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-89860937341590188872013-03-16T16:23:00.001-07:002014-02-04T15:10:33.772-07:00Happy birthday, Grandmama. March 16, 1929. My Grandmama was born 84 years ago today. I think about her all the time - when I am getting dressed and remembering how she took me to school every morning when I was growing up, when I'm getting a manicure and remembering how she used to ask me to file and paint her fingernails for her when I was home from boarding school on the weekends, when I try to make biscuits like hers but always fail, and mostly, when I look at pictures of all her great-grandbabies that have been born since she died and smile knowing how much she would have loved to spoil them as much as she spoiled my cousins and me. <br />
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I was very lucky growing up. My grandparents lived just across the street, and I probably spent as many nights at their house as I did my own. Grandmama would meet me at the road, and we'd walk back to her house together. She was a really great grandma; I'm sure lots of people think this, but I think she was the best grandma in the whole world. We would watch Wheel of Fortune, and play Scrabble (I have her to thank for my winning record in Words With Friends), and iron pillow cases (I don't know why), and shell peas, and can figs, and do a thousand other everyday things that always felt special because that's the kind of person she was. She taught me so much. How to sew a button, to season an iron skillet, to make cornbread. To celebrate every little thing that makes you smile, and to be kind to people, always. <br />
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I miss her every day, but I know she's with me. I hear her voice in my head on my happiest and saddest days. I try to be a person who would make her proud, and even though I don't think she would care one way or another about the "lawyer" part of my job, I know that she would be proud that I work hard to help children. Everyone who knew her knows that children were her heart - any children, all children. I am proud to have inherited that from her...and her iron skillet. Happy birthday, Grandmama. I love you. avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-74021504390967177272013-03-15T19:02:00.001-07:002014-02-04T15:45:25.028-07:00When She Was Goodby Philip Roth<br />
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Philip Roth is one of those authors that people have been telling me for ages I should read. I was visiting with one of my favorite families over the holidays, and I was once again implored to pick up a Roth novel and give it a go. I think, however, that in my zeal to load up my new Kindle, I may have picked the wrong one to start with. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it, because I did; it’s just that I didn’t finish it and have the irrepressible urge to read every single word he’s ever written. <br />
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From the inside book flap: “In this funny and chilling novel, the setting is a small town in the 1940s Midwest, and the subject is the heart of a wounded and ferociously moralistic young woman, one of those implacable American moralists whose "goodness" is a terrible disease. When she was still a child, Lucy Nelson had her alcoholic failure of a father thrown in jail. Ever since then she has been trying to reform the men around her, even if that ultimately means destroying herself in the process. With his unerring portraits of Lucy and her hapless, childlike husband, Roy, Roth has created an uncompromising work of fictional realism, a vision of provincial American piety, yearning, and discontent that is at once pitiless and compassionate.”<br />
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Here’s the thing. I get the distinct feeling from all the reviews I’ve read that I’m supposed to dislike Lucy. For example, she’s described variously as chilling, controlling, unforgiving, inflexible, unsympathetic, and deeply flawed. I completely disagree with most of those descriptions, and I can’t decide if it’s because I missed something, or if it’s because I started out liking her and just refused to stop, or if it’s because I’ve had a few of those same things said about me and believe that maybe they’re not altogether negative characteristics to have. <br />
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Mostly, I guess, I think they’re one-dimensional observations about a character who is decidedly three-dimensional, and if we’re going to crucify Lucy for having a little bit of a nervous breakdown, then she also deserves to be recognized for her intellect and strength. There’s a scene where she’s sitting at her kitchen table, pregnant with her first child, watching her mother fall apart – again – not because she was beaten by her persistently drunk and unemployed husband, but rather because he left the house after the beating and hasn’t come back home. When he finally raps at the door, Lucy meets him there and does what her mother has never had the backbone to do for herself: she tells her father to leave and not to return. I reread those pages several times, struck not only by Roth’s description of such an awful, debilitatingly moving moment, but also by his ability to make me feel it from multiple perspectives at once. I felt Lucy’s exhilaration and adrenaline, but I also felt her mother’s shame and her father’s humiliation. It’s magnificently written, really.<br />
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I suppose, if I try really hard, I can see how some people may think that Lucy’s mean or hard-hearted, but…well, not really. What choice does she have? Her grandparents are classic hands-off enablers, her mother is a co-dependent victim and apparently not willing or able to change that, and Lucy spent her childhood watching the chaos around her and hoping for the best. Yes, she’s puritanical, but we see that all the time when children are parented by neglectful substance abusers. It’s no small wonder that she takes some pretty drastic action once she finally realizes that she’s an adult and can exercise some control over all the lazy, complacent people who have raised her.<br />
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I wish I had read this book in college because there are so many facets and intriguing little details that would have made for a great term paper. At the same time, I’m also relieved that the term paper part of my life is over.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-19801735779107367542013-03-13T19:12:00.000-07:002014-02-04T15:45:25.013-07:00The Round Houseby Louise Erdrich<br />
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Why did I read this book? My reasons are pretty simple, really. I am a woman, and therefore concerned about women’s issues in general, but especially crimes committed against women. I am a prosecutor, and my case load consists almost entirely of violent offenses and sex crimes. I work on an Indian reservation, so I’m woefully aware both of the brutality and injustice suffered by Indian women who are victims of violent crime, and of the technical stumbling blocks that often arise and sometimes prevent an offender from being held responsible.<br />
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I’ve read a couple reviews that compare this book to To Kill a Mockingbird, I suppose because it explains and embraces Native American culture in the same way that Mockingbird does for small-town Alabama. I can’t speak for how accurate that is because I didn’t grow up on a reservation, and in any event, I imagine that all reservations are different, the same way that all small Southern towns are different. I can tell you, though, that Erdrich knows her stuff. Her Indian Law assertions are right-on, and the way she describes tribal interaction with police officers and prosecutors who are “outsiders” is definitely consistent not only with what I’ve experienced, but also what has been shared with me by those who practice in other communities.<br />
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I am taking this plot synopsis from an Amazon.com review because I can never seem to synopsize without editorializing: “Our narrator - an Ojibwe lawyer named Joe Coutts - recalls his 13th summer from the perspective of time. Joe's position as the only child of tribal judge Bazil Coutts and tribal clerk Geraldine Coutts kept him feeling loved and secure until his mother is brutally and sadistically raped as she attempts to retrieve a potentially damning file. Although the rapist is rather quickly identified, the location of the rape--in the vicinity of a sacred round house - lies within that "no-man's land" where tribal courts are in charge and the neighboring Caucasians cannot be prosecuted, no matter how heinous the crime. Thrust into an adult world, Joe and his best friends Cappy, Zack and Angus are propelled to seek their own answers.”<br />
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I found this book to be both touching and uniquely effective in both entertaining and teaching. Moving, thoughtful, well-paced. The end is heartbreaking, and all too often absolutely within the realm of possibility.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3982220402135788000.post-14243917477618562202013-03-07T07:56:00.002-07:002014-02-04T15:12:21.745-07:00Like Truvy in Steel Magnolias, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion!”When I blog, I try to strike a balance between light-hearted frivolity and discussion of serious topics about which I feel passionately. I do this for two reasons, first because I think that a blog devoted solely to either extreme would become tiresome after a while, and because Southern women (like women everywhere) have to navigate both worlds all the time, so I want my blog to represent us accurately. We often find ourselves laughing hysterically at a funeral or crying at a baby shower, and while either of those may feel wildly inappropriate someplace else, in the South, it’s just how it is. <br />
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I find that, in general, some people are pretty eager to dismiss Southerners as stupid, and I don’t think that pinning down the cause of that is as easy as rewinding to the Civil Rights Movement and pressing the play button. I hate that part of my home state’s history, but I’m still proud of the progress made since then, and the ongoing struggle and those that are fighting through it. I’ve tried to figure out just what it is about Southerners, and Southern women in particular, that makes people feel so entitled to judge us. Is it the big hair and the heels and the bright lipstick? Is it the accent in general, or maybe that we regularly use words like “sugar” and “honey” when referring to humans? Does it just drive everybody insane at the grocery store when we talk about “sacks” and “buggies” instead of “bags” and carts”? <br />
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Now, I have a friend who would agree with Suzanne Sugarbaker – that women who aren’t Southern are just jealous of women who are, and this jealousy accounts for their rudeness. I’m not really convinced that’s true, but at the same time, I do often feel like I have to overcome some preconceived bias before people will listen to me. Yes, it’s true that we take football just as seriously as we take church on Easter morning, and yes, when it comes right down to it, we are probably even more serious what we wear to either occasion. This is not about some misplaced sense of priority, although I think lots of people would make that accusation. The smartest and kindest women I know, without exception, are Southern, and for me, “smart” and “kind” are the highest compliments that exist.<br />
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Perhaps I’m just hypersensitive because I work in law, which punishes femininity and rewards severity. I admit that my natural response to conflict used to be softer, but after six years of constant confrontation, I’m harsher now – partly because I’m more sure of myself and my decisions, but also because harsh works and soft wastes time. Although I know lots of female lawyers who strive to be more like their masculine counterparts, I actually try very hard every single day to be more like my grandmother. And I guess that at the end of the day, that’s the point that I’m trying ever so circuitously to make: Southern women are soft and feminine and still effective, and I’m really, really trying to be more aware of that in my everyday life.avbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03196188768226152841noreply@blogger.com0