January's top 10 most expensive sales on AbeBooks

Signed copies of the Harry Potter books outsold first editions by Faulkner, Trollope, and Teddy Roosevelt.

Right now, Faulkner is rolling over in his grave, cursing his decision to go the idiot manchild route instead of the wizard route.

Perfect Evidence of My Imperfect Memory

Well, I was planning to write about the books I've read so that I can finally update that sad little "Books in 2010" list in the sidebar, but wouldn't you know it? I didn't plan well and forgot to bring my stack of recent reads out of the bedroom. And now poor old Rusty is asleep and I don't have the heart to clomp around gathering them.

So in lieu of my penetrating and always-fascinating insights into the modern novel, I thought I'd follow up on an idea that was twigged by my last post, where I talked about my shitty memory. As proof of this fact, I thought it would be fun (well, fun for me; you're on your own) to go through the archives and see how many books I flat-out cannot remember reading. Prepare to be amazed.

From 2005
Dear god. Apparently I read Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul 2. Wow. I may reel from this for days. Apparently it made me weepy. Apparently I have a heart of stone because I remember none of this.

Sadly, I also don't remember reading Barbara Kingsolver's Prodigal Summer. Blasphemy! But let's be honest with each other here: as awesome as she is, we all know Kingsolver doesn't always hit 'em out of the park. I'm not going to be too tough on myself.

From 2006
And I read... a Candace Bushnell novel? Really? I mean, I'm the only person who has the passwords and stuff to post here, and I'm reading a post about Lipstick Jungle right here, so I guess I read it. Huh. I would feel shame, but I'm too busy being confused.

Did you know Margaret Atwood wrote a collection of vignettes called Moral Disorder? You did? Because I didn't. Or at least, I thought I didn't until I realized that I read them four years ago. Go figger.

From 2007
And then there's the collection of Eudora Welty's early short stories, A Curtain of Green. I'm sorry, Eudora. You may belch like a champion, but you still deserve better than me.

And we all know how 2008 and 2009 went.

So there you have it. Perfect evidence of my imperfect memory. As if I needed to be humbled further.

50 Books Reprise

Well, that was one of the worst new year's resolutions ever. I can't believe there was a time when I used to update this site every day. Holy crap.

So I was looking at the growing stack of completed books beside my bed and realized that every single one of them is a re-read. And I realized that, not only do I seem to be unwittingly reading only books I've read before, but I have no desire to read something new. What's the deal with this?

I'm not concerned about it or anything, mind you. In fact, I'm kind of embracing it. I've always been a re-reader. Up until a few years ago, I had always assumed that anyone who reads a lot – and who values good books – must also re-tread a lot of bookish ground. I was surprised to learn that, in fact, I'm the oddity.

I re-read for a lot of reasons. The fact that I have a terrible memory is a big one. I have to read a book at least twice for the ending to stick, and I can be just as shocked by sudden plot twists the third time around as I was the first and second. (Note: This also happens to me in real life.)

Comfort is another big reason. Like most of you (I'm guessing), there are times when I read prescriptively. I'm blue, so I need some P.G. Wodehouse. I'm blah, so I need some Tolkien. Etcetera. The older I get, the better I am at assessing my mental state and writing out a little literary Rx for what ails me. This is an unanticipated benefit of aging, and one that I'm grateful for. Hopefully it will prevent me from ever stumbling again as catastrophically as I did during The Already Horrible November During Which I Read The Death of Ivan Ilych and Got Even More Depressed. (My man Rusty remembers this as The Month I Found Doppelganger Hiding Under the Bed and Had to Poke Her Out With a Broom.)

But comfort and addled brains aside, I love re-reading books because they serve as benchmarks for me. I remember that I first read Pride and Prejudice when I was seventeen, the same age as Elizabeth Bennett. She seemed impossibly alien to me then. I've read Pride and Prejudice, oh, about ten or so times since then, and the older I get, the more I understand Elizabeth. And dear god, now that I have kids, I'm even starting to get Mrs. Bennett. Help me.

The Pride and Prejudice I read twenty-three years ago is a completely different novel from the one I read last year. I can't imagine what it will become in the decades ahead. This is terribly exciting to me.

I think any book truly worth reading once is worth reading again and again. So I've decided that this year, barring any encounters with brand-new books I must read, will be the year that I try to re-read fifty of the best books I can remember (ha!) reading over the past decades. Exciting!

Coming up next: The Hobbit.

Corn Dodger? But I Hardly Even Know Her.

Hey ho, if you love the Little House series and you love food, then you should check out The Little House Cookbook: Frontier Foods from Laura Ingalls Wilder's Classic Stories.

What's that? You've never heard of this awesome book? Well then, it's a good thing I wrote a review of it right over here.

Why I Am Smarter Than the Average Doctor, Thanks to Children's Literature

Question:
What do the following children's books have in common?

• All-of-a-Kind Family by Sydney Taylor
• The Little House novels by Laura Ingalls Wilder
• The Moffats by Eleanor Estes
• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
• The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

Answer:

1. They were all written at least sixty years ago.
2. They all contain characters who came down with that dreaded Victorian malady: scarlet fever.
3. They were the reason why I, having read them all, correctly diagnosed Sam with scarlet fever last week. The doctors were skeptical, but in the end a throat swab doesn't lie.

Now, in all fairness to modern doctors, it's not like scarlet fever gets a lot of airplay these days. Most of us have moved on to trendier, contemporary ailments like ebola, hanta, and flus both avian and swine-ish. But not over here at Chez 50 Books. Staunch traditionalists and hardcore nerds, we're firmly dedicated to reviving the classics. Last year, it was impetigo. Next year, we're thinking maybe the vapours? Or perhaps a wandering uterus? It's still up for debate. It's not too late to cast your vote!

So yeah, I don't hold a grudge against the doctors... though I have every right to, because they may not think I noticed it, but I was VERY aware of the "Uh-Oh, Crazy Mom Alert" looks and barely veiled eyerolling, even over the phone.

The good news: We caught the illness early, gave it a serious penicillin smackdown, and by watching Will vigilantly, were able to catch it even earlier with him, before he got all rashed up.

The bad news: No velveteen rabbits got a chance to become real.

In Which I Attempt to Catch Up on Two Years of Reading. (Can It Be Done?)

So I looked over at my sidebar to figure out where I left off my annual book count, and realized I haven't updated the bloody thing since December 2007. 2007! I've lost two years! I thought I'd only lost one, but two! And dude, I can barely remember my own kids' birthdays or what I had for dinner last night.* I can't remember what I read two years ago.

Lest we all expire from suspense, I can assure you that I did reach 50 books in '07. I just can't recall what those last few stragglers were. I hope they were good. As for 2008 and 2009, I can make a few deductions based on cross-referencing the messy stacks on my nightstand against my documented reads:

A lot of Bill Bryson's books. I love Bill Bryson. He makes me laugh. Reading half of his bibliography was part of my campaign to stave off a rotten case of November blahs. It was a marked contrast to what I read during the previous November, The Death of Ivan Ilych. Please, please promise me you will never do this, because -- and I say this without hyperbole -- that was the worst month of my life. If you must read Ivan Ilych (and I'm not saying you shouldn't, because it's great), wait till July, or at least May.

Oh, and speaking of Bryson, I finally read A Brief History of Nearly Everything and loved it. I can't wait for the sequel!

I finally read In Cold Blood, after stalling for, what... two years? It was chilling, but it was also really interesting. And it didn't scare the beheebus out of me the way I had dreaded.

I can't not read everything by Nick Hornby. Sometimes I'm kind of disappointed (A Long Way Down, How to Be Good), and sometimes I'm happy (High Fidelity, About a Boy), but read them all I must. I was a little worried about Hornby's recent novel, Slam, because I tend to prefer his earlier books, but Slam was wonderful, insightful, and totally heartwarming in a classic Nick Hornby kind of way. The main character is the most lovable character, next to Marcus from About a Boy, that Hornby has ever written.

Also from the "Finally Read" files: Freakonomics, which was fun and interesting, though I was kind of choked to find out later that a lot of Levitt's findings have since been debunked. Thanks for nothing, Levitt.

I know I went on a Murial Spark bender at one point, though I can't track down all the titles now. It doesn't matter, though, because you don't need specific recommendations for Spark. She's pretty prolific, so just grab every one of her novels that you find at the used bookstore and read them all.

I also went on separate Jane Austen and Carol Shields benders. How do I know this with such certainty? Because I do this every year.

I re-read the entire Little House series. I had planned just to read Little House in the Big Woods, mostly because I love the chapter about the sugaring-off party, but wouldn't you know it? I got sucked right into the Ingallses' lives. And let me tell you what: it sure put my petty little problems into perspective. Because you know what's worse than realizing you have a few competing work deadlines? Painstakingly building your house by hand in hostile territory, then being told by the government that you've built it two miles from the wrong side of a boundary and having to move out and leave it behind.

I read Miriam Toews' latest novel, The Flying Troutmans. It was okay, as her novels tend to be, but I guess I'm waiting for another A Complicated Kindness. You can do it, Miriam! I believe in you!

Oh, god, I just remembered that I read The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro. I say this with authority: this novel is the reason why the phrase "WTF?" was invented. Though the problem may have been me. Once upon a time, I think I used to be smarter.

Er, I know there are more books than these (many more! Insomnia is my friend!), but I'm kind of drawing a blank. I'll let you know if I remember anything good.

Next up... writing about the books I've read so far in 2010: The Year I Resolve to Be Better.

*After much struggle, I did remember what I had for dinner last night. But it took an alarmingly long time.

By Way of Catching Up

If you've been wondering (and it's okay of you haven't been; my ego can take it), here's what I was up to in '09:


Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

And now we're caught up with me! What the heck is new with you?

Well, Here I Am

And where are you? Still out there? Still visiting blogs? Or has everyone moved on to Facebook now? (I won't say Twitter because where I'm from, them's fightin' words.)

So it's been a while. I've been back here from time to time over the past several months, mostly to prune spam from the comments. (What the hell is it with comment spam, anyway? Can someone explain to me the point of the godforsaken stuff? On second thought, don't.) But now it's a new year... five years, actually, from the time when I first started up this here little site as a project to keep me sane as first-time motherhood approached. (Did it work? HAHAHAHAHAhahahaha... um, ha.)

There's a lot to catch up on, but it's late. I'm tired. Are you tired, too? I thought you might be. So let's make a date to talk soon. Very soon. About books!

The Books in 2009

See The Books in 2008.

Just So's You Know What I'm Up to These Days

I'm still blogging, just doing it over here. And editing the rest of the site, too.

Preschooler Refrain, or: Why Bedtime Takes So Long at Our House

"I think I'll go out to Alberta. Weather's good there in the fall. Got some friends that I could go to working for."

What friends? What kind of work?

"Still I wish you'd change your mind, if I asked you one more time"

I would totally change my mind.

"But we've been through that a hundred times or more."

We've been through that a hundred and ONE times.

"Four strong winds that blow lonely"

[tearfully] Why are the winds lonely?

"Seven seas that run high"

What are the seven seas? What does "run high" mean?

"All those things that don't change, come what may"

Why don't those things change?

"But our good times, they are gone"

Where did they go?

"And I'm bound for moving on. I'll look for you if I'm ever back this way."

I would look for you and I would find you.

The Books in 2008

Er, nothing to report here, I'm afraid. Books were read, but having a second kid knocked the wind out of my blogging sails. Given the choice between reading books and writing books, I went with reading. You understand.

Happy Whatevermas!

Is it possible to delurk from your own site? If so, hi! This is me, delurking to wish you and yours a belated happy whatevermas. I come bearing pictures! Specifically, pictures of what's turned me into a skulking, shadowy, and (dare I dream?) somewhat menacing presence at 50 Books HQ:

Wee Will is not quite so wee, having recently passed the nine-month mark and long passed the 20-lb mark. He's added standing and raspberry-blowing to his list of accomplishments. Frankly, I'm impressed that he's found time to master these skills, what with all the energy he's been devoting to practicing for the Olympic Speed-Teething Team.

And Sam is officially in big brother mode. Also: Big Brother mode. I finally get where Orwell got that particular turn of phrase. Is it wrong that we've nicknamed our own child Sammy the Rat? For whatever it's worth, we don't say it to his face.

They're sweet and funny and ever-so-cute, but they're also CRAZY. As I said to a friend who is contemplating having another baby: "If you find yourself with a bit of free time on your hands from time to time, I highly recommend a second child."

But enough about me. What about you?

No, Really... He Likes Books

Hola! Things are still nutty around here. The leaves are turning red (well, brown, but work with me). Toddlers are turning into preschoolers. Infants are turning into babies.

Specifically, infants are turning into loud, loud, let-me-just-say-that-again LOUD babies. To wit:



We do feel lucky to have such a jolly baby this time around, unlike his grouchasaurus older brother. It's just kind of funny that Will's happiness makes him sound exactly like Archie Bunker.

Now, Where Was I?

As you may have guessed (if, in fact, there still is a "you" out there after my long silence), I've been taking a little break from this site. Being a mom to two kids -- no matter how awesome said kids are -- kind of kicked my ass for a while. And I got the Apartment Therapy gig, which is great fun, but takes up the little free time I have. And I just signed on to start work on another site this fall, for a tremendously cool and inspiring show that'll be on the Food Network in the spring. And I finally cleaned my closet.

But I'll be back, I swear. I'm still tracking my reading, such as it is. (Bad news: Unless you count kids' books, I'm not going to hit 50 books this year, for the first time since I started this site.)

I've missed you guys (again with the hypothetical "you"). Stick around, okay?

Best Resignation Letter Ever

Stewart Butterfield, cofounder of Flickr, has resigned from the company, signifying a parting of ways with Flickr's new owner, Yahoo. And his McSweeney's-esque exit letter is one of the best things I've read in ages.

It begins:

Dear Brad,

As you know, tin is in my blood. For generations my family has worked with this most useful of metals. When I joined Yahoo! back in '21, it was a sheet-tin concern of great momentum, growth, and innovation. I knew it was the place for me.

Over the decades, as the company grew and expanded, first into dyes and punches, into copper, corrugated steel, synthesized rubber, piping, milling equipment, engines, instruments, weaponry, and so on, I still felt at home, because tin was at the core of the business.

After the war, as we continued to branch out into electronics, all manner of aeronautical frames, hulls and bodies, computing and tabulating machines, precision controls, and later, farther afield -- real estate, brewing, consumer finance, grain processing, lighting and salty snacks -- I took it in stride, for there was still a place for me...

It gets even better. Go here to read the rest.

Good for you, Mr. Butterfield. That's the kind of soul-satisfying "burn the bridges" epistolary action you only see from multi-millionaires. Or from Rusty.

We All Live in a Capital I

If you pay attention, you can see the exact moment when Sam starts phoning in his performance.

Cattle Calling

Hey all! I'm trying out for a blogger position at Ohdeedoh, Apartment Therapy's site for kids (well, probably more for their parents, but you know). I've been a huge fan of AT for years, so, as you can imagine, I'm thrilled and honoured to have made it to the shortlist. My first audition post is up today. Head on over and see if you can guess which one it is.

Latest Report from the "Context is Everything" Department

To be honest, I'm not even sure context would help with some of these:

"How many winds are there in Vancouver?"
"My orange blood protects my red blood from being burned by the sun."
"A long time ago, before dump trucks were invented, front-end loaders dumped their loads into monster trucks."
"I'm sitting on the step and watching the fairies."
"'I don't like the look of that guy!' That's what octopuses and squids and jellyfishes say when they see a shark."
"Airplanes are sometimes made of plastic and sometimes made of toilet paper."
"I love sitting with you and watching the world go by."

Life May Be a Vale of Tears, but at Least We Have All That Dark Matter to Look Forward To

If you want to hold tight to your last vestige of childlike optimism and faith that humanity is headed in a good direction, I strongly advise you not to read the June issue of Harper's cover to cover.

If, on the other hand, you want to put your own petty beefs into some kind of perspective, have at 'er.

Inside Eudora Welty's Bedroom (and Other Places You Never Thought You'd See)

“This is the phone that William Faulkner was summoned to while working in the fields, to learn the news that he had won the Nobel Prize for Literature. The writing above the phone is Faulkner's informal address book, preserved in his own handwriting.”

Faulkner's home -- as well as the homes of other Southern literary giants Eudora Welty and Flannery O'Connor -- is featured in a series called "A Sense of Place" by photographer Susana Raab. What's even cooler is that you can buy some of these prints in her Etsy shop.

To be honest, as interesting as I find this series, the idea of my own bedroom being preserved as a shrine freaks me out a little. Like, I hope somebody at least hides the porn. That won't go over well with the more sensitive tourists.

(via Apartment Therapy)

I Love Lynda Barry So Much, It Hurts a Little

When Barry created her "100 Poses of Marlys" series several years ago, I ordered one of the pieces, sending in my order with a fan letter so gushingly effuse I'd be embarrassed about it now if it weren't for the fact that I meant -- and still mean -- every word.

I still have the letter Barry wrote me back (enclosed with my signed original of "Graceful Pose Marlys"). It's a real letter, not one of those depressing form deals, and Barry is every bit as warm and awesome as you'd expect her to be. I can't even hold it against her that her novel, Cruddy, may have permanently damaged me.

So of course I read this recent interview with Barry in The New York Times from start to finish. It's a nice write-up, even if they did use the word "spunky" to describe Marlys. It's kind of too bad that she's become so reclusive (she and her husband live on a dairy farm, growing most of their own food and even chopping their own wood for fuel), but hey, whatever makes her happy.

On the plus side for the rest of us, she has a new book coming out, What It Is, which explains her method of making drawings and stories. I'll be grabbing a copy, but what I really wish is that I could attend Barry's workshop, "Writing the Unthinkable":

Taking the workshop, which Ms. Barry teaches several times a year, is a bit like witnessing an endurance-performance piece. Aided by her assistant, Betty Bong (in reality, Kelly Hogan, a torch singer who lives in Chicago), Ms. Barry sings, tells jokes, acts out characters and even dances a creditably sensual hula, all while keeping up an apparently extemporaneous patter on subjects like brain science, her early boy-craziness, her admiration for Jimmy Carter and the joys of menopause.

As Marlys would say, daaang.

Why You Should Never Discuss the Classics with Preschoolers

"Why did Moby Dick want to wreck the Pequod?"
"Well, maybe it was because the Pequod hunted whales, and he didn't want to be hunted."
"Why did the Pequod hunt whales?"
"Because a long time ago, people used oil from whales for their lights and things."
"Why did they use oil from whales?"
"People hadn't discovered electricity yet. Remember when we talked about how lights use electricity?"
"Why didn't people discover electricity yet?"
"I guess because it just hadn't occurred to them."
"Why?"
"Well, I don't know. What do you think?"
"No, what do YOU think?"
"I'm kind of stumped, actually."
"Why are you stumped, actually?"

And then my head exploded. The end.

(This post would not have been possible without this fabulous pop-up edition of Moby-Dick, given to Sam by our good friend Shona. It's making me reconsider my hard-line stance against reading the unexpurgated version.)

For Doppelsis

I know, I know. I don't update this site, I don't return emails, I don't send pictures of the kids. Things have been pretty hectic, and I keep forgetting to pull out the camera. But if you want to know what Will looks like these days, this picture should give you a pretty good idea:

(More photos, plus heartwarming story, here.)

I'm a Yuppie Douchebag and That's Okay

A quick physical inventory:

• Head - Ache-y and congested
• Throat - Scratchy
• Ears - Ouchy
• Back - Sore from non-stop holding of baby, who may also be getting sick
• All the rest - Well, flabbier than I'd like, to be frank

But today, right now, none of this matters. For against all odds, my elder son has just been enrolled successfully in the good preschool.

Yes, preschool concerns are a hallmark of your standard-issue yuppie douchebag. If wanting my kid to go to the school that looks like the inside of a charming ski lodge and has the awesome outdoor play area makes me a yuppie douchebag, then I accept that. Let the douchery begin!

An Open Letter to Everyone Who Told Me Two Kids Are Almost as Easy as One

Dear fellow parents,

Please inspect your pants. I believe careful examination will reveal that they are on fire.

Love,
Me

So, What Did You Do for the Long Weekend?

Me? I went and had a baby. This one, to be specific:

Say howdy to William Falco. Feel free to call him Will. Some of you may be wondering if there's some deep literary significance to either of his given names, like his elder bro's. Literature is stuffed to the gills with Williams, of course... Shakespeare, Thackeray, Carlos Williams. I like those guys a lot, but I think that, deep down, I just like the fact that Will's name is both a verb and a noun. Though, given how hard I had to fight with myself not to title this post something like "Where There's a Will, There's a Way!" he may not thank me for this later.

As for Falco, that was the name of Rusty's grandfather, who brought his family from Italy to the New Country on a steamship at the turn of the century. A bit of an adventurer, which merits a naming, I think. Plus, if you think I'm missing out on a legitimate opportunity to name one of my offspring Falco, then you don't realize what a child of the '80s I truly am.

Posting has been sporadic lately, but now that I've got lots of free time for one-handed typing (whoa! deja vu!), you can expect to see a lot more of me 'round these parts.

And a happy day to you.

"I Hereby Claim This Female Reproductive System in the Name of... Me!"

Time to learn stuff!

Braxton Hicks contractions are named after John Braxton Hicks, an English doctor who, according to Wikipedia, "first described them" in 1872.

And also according to Wikipedia, the G-spot is named after the German gynaecologist Ernst Gräfenberg who "first hypothesized its existence" in 1944.

And the Skene's gland, the gland ostensibly responsible for the elusive female ejaculatory orgasm? Again we look to Wikipedia to learn that these glands are named after the physician who "described them first in Western medical literature," one Alexander Skene.

Note the operative word "first" in all these claims. Because I'm sure not a single woman in the history of humankind ever noticed any of these things about their own bodies until they were pointed out to them. They were probably too busy doing EVERYTHING ELSE.

I Think I've Found My New Calling

From the LA Times:

The Los Angeles metropolitan area accounts for more than 5% of U.S. book sales, a figure surpassed only by New York City, according to Nielsen BookScan. But even though a study by the National Endowment for the Arts says Angelenos read more than their Manhattan counterparts, Los Angeles still ranks 53rd on the America's Most Literate Cities report measuring per-capita usage of bookstores and libraries, among other things.

Which is perhaps why a certain segment of the population in Southern California has begun to showcase the home library as an image-enhancing badge of literacy. The trend has even spawned a service: the library consultant.

Can you imagine? Getting PAID to tell people what books to read. This scheme involves two of my favourite things: being bossy, and receiving money for very little effort.

[via Apartment Therapy]

Oh, Sure, NOW I Find Out You Can Just Buy One on Craigslist

Coincidentally, "Ennui" Rhymes with "Almost Three"

So I just realized that when Sam plaintively tells us "I don't want to do anything," it means one of three things, depending on which word is emphasized:

"I don't want to do ANYTHING."
Translation: I am bored.

"I don't want to DO anything."
Translation: I am inconsolably sad for no apparent reason, though I invite you to try cheering me up.

"I don't WANT to do anything."
Translation: Your efforts are laughable.

And Then He Said "Eff You"

"Oh my god."
"I can't watch this right now! I'm all hormonal. It'll make me cry!"
"I'm crying right now."
"Baby."