Forgive me, friends, for I have sinned.
I did not actually read Go the F**k to Sleep. I listened to it on Audible. And you should, too. Especially if you have children.
My bestie, Michele, told me about this book yesterday when I told her that I had just returned from the "Everything Must Go" sale at my local Borders and was mourning the loss of print media (which is somewhat ironic because of my Kindle dependency, but distressing nonetheless). Michele said that one of her fellow teachers found this book at a Chicago-area Borders (also closing) and purchased it as part of a baby shower gift. Until I heard Samuel L. Jackson reading it aloud, I thought it would be some kind of Life of Pi for tots type of thing. So wrong. So incredibly wrong.
In somewhat related news, two of my friends are currently expecting. Nothing says "Welcome to the world" like a darling Calvin Klein onesie and a copy of Go the F**k to Sleep. So guess what, ladies? :)
Here is the link to the read-aloud. Enjoy! And turn down your volume. Trust me.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeKxIaG_f_c&has_verified=1
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
If You Were Here (Jen Lancaster)
Dear Jen,
If You Were Here, I'd cheerfully reminisce with you about the evening we spent together at Barnes and Noble. I, along with 300 or so of your devoted fans, listened to you read an excerpt from this long-awaited piece of fiction and then waited in an impossibly long line inside the sultry San Diego bookstore (why was it so hot in there?) so we could briefly chat and pose for a photo while you signed my book. I've looked forward to meeting you, Soul Sista', for over two years. Well worth the wait.
If You Were Here, I'd enthusiastically share North Shore Chicago survival tactics with you so that you could navigate the Northbrook Whole Foods without getting arrested. My husband, Brian, was born and raised in the Land of All Things John Hughes, attended "Shermer High School" and could teach PhD-level courses in dealing with the often pushy and condescending residents of that area. By association, I can now do the same.
If You Were Here, I'd shamefully admit to you that I read only two (well, three) books this spring as I anticipated the arrival of yours this summer. And I haven't read another since.
If You Were Here, I'd proudly boast that I caught your every John Hughes reference while reading the book (I think). What a privilege to have experienced his films before Judd Nelson permanently rocked the drug dealer look and before Emilio Estevez's Charlie Sheen lost his mind. Winning!
If You Were Here, I'd candidly tell you (because I think that Soul Sistas should be able to be candid) that, despite my unending adoration for you, this book was rather sub-par. In fact, if you hadn't signed my copy, I might be tempted to sell it to my favorite independent bookseller, Changing Hands, in an effort to recoup at least a portion of the money I spent on it. And this makes me incredibly sad.
If You Were Here, I'd selfishly suggest that you write another memoir. I miss your sassy recollections and long for the next installation of what could be your own reality show. Fiction is not your forte. It's not mine, either, so no judgment. I'm just being honest here (see previous paragraph regarding candor). And, at this point in the conversation, you'd gently (or not so gently) remind me that your next book is, indeed, a memoir. Good news for both of us!
If You Were Here, I'd sincerely thank you for the obvious hard work you did to get this book published, regardless of my personal opinion.
If You Were Here, I'd now expertly roll the credits while "(Don't You) Forget About Me" played in the background.
See you next year.
With Sista-ly Love,
Diana
If You Were Here, I'd cheerfully reminisce with you about the evening we spent together at Barnes and Noble. I, along with 300 or so of your devoted fans, listened to you read an excerpt from this long-awaited piece of fiction and then waited in an impossibly long line inside the sultry San Diego bookstore (why was it so hot in there?) so we could briefly chat and pose for a photo while you signed my book. I've looked forward to meeting you, Soul Sista', for over two years. Well worth the wait.
If You Were Here, I'd enthusiastically share North Shore Chicago survival tactics with you so that you could navigate the Northbrook Whole Foods without getting arrested. My husband, Brian, was born and raised in the Land of All Things John Hughes, attended "Shermer High School" and could teach PhD-level courses in dealing with the often pushy and condescending residents of that area. By association, I can now do the same.
If You Were Here, I'd shamefully admit to you that I read only two (well, three) books this spring as I anticipated the arrival of yours this summer. And I haven't read another since.
If You Were Here, I'd proudly boast that I caught your every John Hughes reference while reading the book (I think). What a privilege to have experienced his films before Judd Nelson permanently rocked the drug dealer look and before Emilio Estevez's Charlie Sheen lost his mind. Winning!
If You Were Here, I'd candidly tell you (because I think that Soul Sistas should be able to be candid) that, despite my unending adoration for you, this book was rather sub-par. In fact, if you hadn't signed my copy, I might be tempted to sell it to my favorite independent bookseller, Changing Hands, in an effort to recoup at least a portion of the money I spent on it. And this makes me incredibly sad.
If You Were Here, I'd selfishly suggest that you write another memoir. I miss your sassy recollections and long for the next installation of what could be your own reality show. Fiction is not your forte. It's not mine, either, so no judgment. I'm just being honest here (see previous paragraph regarding candor). And, at this point in the conversation, you'd gently (or not so gently) remind me that your next book is, indeed, a memoir. Good news for both of us!
If You Were Here, I'd sincerely thank you for the obvious hard work you did to get this book published, regardless of my personal opinion.
If You Were Here, I'd now expertly roll the credits while "(Don't You) Forget About Me" played in the background.
See you next year.
With Sista-ly Love,
Diana
Saturday, February 12, 2011
How to Bake a Perfect Life (Barbara O’Neal)
From the time we are able to eat solid food, Italian girls are expected to help in the kitchen. We start with simple things: folding paper napkins and tucking them under the plates at dinnertime, ripping lettuce and tossing the salad, scattering colorful sprinkles onto Christmas cookies and placing them gingerly into the tins. Years pass and we advance to mixing, rolling and frying meatballs for Sunday sauce, flicking gnocchi off of the dough rope with our thumbs to toss into scalding water, pushing pizza dough to the far corners of the pan without making it tear all while pretending that there is no place we’d rather be than in the kitchen (forget hangin’ with friends at the mall, we’d rather be cooking!). Complaints were scolded and then dismissed by knowing words from our mothers, aunts and grandmothers, “You need to learn to cook. One day you’ll have a family of your own.”
Good Italian girls cooked. Judged by the number of hours we spent in “learning” from our matriarchs and, eventually, by the quality of the food we produced ourselves, my sister, my cousins and I entered the culinary competition early and without our conscent. To my own mother’s embarrassment and chagrin, I was never interested in learning to cook. The kitchen was prison and I longed for parole without caring about the deficit I’d face when I was a married adult. The best thing to make, as far as I was concerned, was reservations!
I’m not sure when my attitude towards all things culinary shifted. The change was subtle, like shrimp transitioning from Dove white to Flamingo pink when being sautéed for scampi. Cooking ignited my competitive spirit. Suddenly, I must barbeque the ribs that always fall off the bones (a secret I’m unwilling to reveal), roast the most succulent Thanksgiving turkey (brined, massaged, rubbed, buttered and basted strategically each year), to win the egg roll contest at work (I beat a guy born in Shanghai!), to concoct the most delectable garlic dill sauce for the grilled halibut (which is, in a word, AMAZING), to bake the most enviable Christmas cookies (and package them in the most darling treat boxes I can find each year). I am a cook. I am a baker. And I now feel an inherent need to be identified by both labels.
Those who know me best know all about my glorious metamorphosis. Most grateful is Brian, who loves to eat whatever I cook, and my mother who is thrilled about passing the holiday dinner torch to me—a daughter who was, for a time, an incredibly lost cause in the kitchen. Third on this list is Linda, the recipient of the sometimes luxurious leftovers I save for our office luncheons each week. It was Linda who recommended How to Bake a Perfect Life.
Besides baking, I have almost nothing in common with this book’s protagonist. Other than the kitchen, the setting (Colorado) is no place I’d choose to be. But this book reminds me that food provides sustenance, creates comfort, builds community, promotes joy, and symbolizes love.
Mangia!
Good Italian girls cooked. Judged by the number of hours we spent in “learning” from our matriarchs and, eventually, by the quality of the food we produced ourselves, my sister, my cousins and I entered the culinary competition early and without our conscent. To my own mother’s embarrassment and chagrin, I was never interested in learning to cook. The kitchen was prison and I longed for parole without caring about the deficit I’d face when I was a married adult. The best thing to make, as far as I was concerned, was reservations!
I’m not sure when my attitude towards all things culinary shifted. The change was subtle, like shrimp transitioning from Dove white to Flamingo pink when being sautéed for scampi. Cooking ignited my competitive spirit. Suddenly, I must barbeque the ribs that always fall off the bones (a secret I’m unwilling to reveal), roast the most succulent Thanksgiving turkey (brined, massaged, rubbed, buttered and basted strategically each year), to win the egg roll contest at work (I beat a guy born in Shanghai!), to concoct the most delectable garlic dill sauce for the grilled halibut (which is, in a word, AMAZING), to bake the most enviable Christmas cookies (and package them in the most darling treat boxes I can find each year). I am a cook. I am a baker. And I now feel an inherent need to be identified by both labels.
Those who know me best know all about my glorious metamorphosis. Most grateful is Brian, who loves to eat whatever I cook, and my mother who is thrilled about passing the holiday dinner torch to me—a daughter who was, for a time, an incredibly lost cause in the kitchen. Third on this list is Linda, the recipient of the sometimes luxurious leftovers I save for our office luncheons each week. It was Linda who recommended How to Bake a Perfect Life.
Besides baking, I have almost nothing in common with this book’s protagonist. Other than the kitchen, the setting (Colorado) is no place I’d choose to be. But this book reminds me that food provides sustenance, creates comfort, builds community, promotes joy, and symbolizes love.
Mangia!
Monday, January 31, 2011
Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses (Claire Dederer)
My favorite yoga studio is Carmel Valley's Sculpt Fusion. I can say this today after practicing there for over a year. I could not say it after taking my first Vinyasa class taught by my now favorite yogini, Anna. Allow me to describe the experience.
Brian was hard at work--as usual--and I was left to my own SoCal devices (as usual). Earlier that week, Brian and I noticed Sculpt Fusion in the same plaza as the incredible and delectable Taste of Italy restaurant where we spend every San Diego Friday night together and which (this is fascinating) serves the BEST grilled fish tacos I've/we've ever eaten. No lie. I digress.
Anyway, Sculpt Fusion looks pretty much like every other yoga studio I've experienced. How many would that be, you wonder? Here is the short list: At One (Scottsdale, Arizona), Harmony Yoga (Redondo Beach, California), Bikram Tempe (Arizona), Summits Chandler (Arizona). And, like all other studios, it offers a free unlimited week to locals. I signed up and chose Anna's class as my first.
Anna teaches her Level I (which would really be a level III anyplace else) Vinyasa Flow class on Friday afternoons. And because there isn't a class scheduled after hers, she usually runs longer than the advertised 60 minutes. This I learned from a fellow yogi. No problem, I thought. If I could once handle "Chappy's" scream of "Asses to PCH (Pacific Coast Highway)!" during downward facing dog at Harmony, I could handle this Anna's disregard for the Sculpt Fusion schedule. In a word: wrong.
The SF yoga studio is heated to a balmy 98 degrees. Sometime in the middle of each class, about 40% humidity is added to the air. I was completely unprepared for the climate in there, much less the rigor.
Anna, welcomed all of us and directed us to begin our Ujjayi breathing. Shortly after, she strolled about the sultry studio giving gentle commands in Sanskrit for poses that, when strung together in a seemingly endless sequence, are anything but gentle: Tadasana (Mountain Pose), Uttanasana (Forward Bend), Chaturanga Dandasana (Push Up), Parivrtta Ardha Chandrasana (Revolved Half Moon), and more, more, more. Click here for a complete list of poses and descriptions: http://yoga.about.com/od/yogaposenamesinsanskrit/Yoga_Poses_Alphabetically_by_Sanskrit_Names.htm
I left class exhausted and drenched to my core with sweat. I actually felt physically sick for many hours afterward.
Brian eventually arrived home that evening and asked me what I thought of class. I emphatically announced that I would never return. I couldn't endure another moment of Anna's torture.
Eighteen months later, I cannot get enough of Sculpt Fusion. I'm addicted. In fact, I was there three days in a row this past weekend and loved every excruciating pose and every sweaty moment. My body craves these poses, the sweat, the heat in ways I never thought possible. I am a yogini traversing a yoga journey.
It should now come as no surprise as to why, despite the fact that it is most definitely NOT a Debbie Downer book, I chose to read Poser. I loved, loved, LOVED the title! And I loved that the author uses yoga and the poses as a metaphor for her own life. I applaud the cleverness of this idea (as well as the darling stick figures in each chapter that illustrate the poses) and wish I'd thought of it myself. Cha-ching! Unfortunately, the book drags--just as my ass did after my first class with Anna--and that is rather disappointing.
Similar to yoga, books provide an escape from reality and an introspective personal journey. Like the poses, books offer a myriad of possibilities from which to choose. When one doesn't work, we can try others. And that is exactly what I plan to do.
Namaste.
Brian was hard at work--as usual--and I was left to my own SoCal devices (as usual). Earlier that week, Brian and I noticed Sculpt Fusion in the same plaza as the incredible and delectable Taste of Italy restaurant where we spend every San Diego Friday night together and which (this is fascinating) serves the BEST grilled fish tacos I've/we've ever eaten. No lie. I digress.
Anyway, Sculpt Fusion looks pretty much like every other yoga studio I've experienced. How many would that be, you wonder? Here is the short list: At One (Scottsdale, Arizona), Harmony Yoga (Redondo Beach, California), Bikram Tempe (Arizona), Summits Chandler (Arizona). And, like all other studios, it offers a free unlimited week to locals. I signed up and chose Anna's class as my first.
Anna teaches her Level I (which would really be a level III anyplace else) Vinyasa Flow class on Friday afternoons. And because there isn't a class scheduled after hers, she usually runs longer than the advertised 60 minutes. This I learned from a fellow yogi. No problem, I thought. If I could once handle "Chappy's" scream of "Asses to PCH (Pacific Coast Highway)!" during downward facing dog at Harmony, I could handle this Anna's disregard for the Sculpt Fusion schedule. In a word: wrong.
The SF yoga studio is heated to a balmy 98 degrees. Sometime in the middle of each class, about 40% humidity is added to the air. I was completely unprepared for the climate in there, much less the rigor.
Anna, welcomed all of us and directed us to begin our Ujjayi breathing. Shortly after, she strolled about the sultry studio giving gentle commands in Sanskrit for poses that, when strung together in a seemingly endless sequence, are anything but gentle: Tadasana (Mountain Pose), Uttanasana (Forward Bend), Chaturanga Dandasana (Push Up), Parivrtta Ardha Chandrasana (Revolved Half Moon), and more, more, more. Click here for a complete list of poses and descriptions: http://yoga.about.com/od/yogaposenamesinsanskrit/Yoga_Poses_Alphabetically_by_Sanskrit_Names.htm
I left class exhausted and drenched to my core with sweat. I actually felt physically sick for many hours afterward.
Brian eventually arrived home that evening and asked me what I thought of class. I emphatically announced that I would never return. I couldn't endure another moment of Anna's torture.
Eighteen months later, I cannot get enough of Sculpt Fusion. I'm addicted. In fact, I was there three days in a row this past weekend and loved every excruciating pose and every sweaty moment. My body craves these poses, the sweat, the heat in ways I never thought possible. I am a yogini traversing a yoga journey.
It should now come as no surprise as to why, despite the fact that it is most definitely NOT a Debbie Downer book, I chose to read Poser. I loved, loved, LOVED the title! And I loved that the author uses yoga and the poses as a metaphor for her own life. I applaud the cleverness of this idea (as well as the darling stick figures in each chapter that illustrate the poses) and wish I'd thought of it myself. Cha-ching! Unfortunately, the book drags--just as my ass did after my first class with Anna--and that is rather disappointing.
Similar to yoga, books provide an escape from reality and an introspective personal journey. Like the poses, books offer a myriad of possibilities from which to choose. When one doesn't work, we can try others. And that is exactly what I plan to do.
Namaste.
