I am a lifelong snoop.  I’m the kind of person who cranes to see into lit living rooms if I happen to be strolling outside at dusk and spy a house with open curtains.  I eavesdrop.  When I babysat as a teenager, I’d check out the medicine cabinet and open up every single kitchen cabinet, just to explore.

Is it any wonder that I am a big fan of the memoir?  A memoir answers the questions that are often impolite to ask.  What was it like growing up in a crazy family?  How did you survive the wreckage of your parent’s divorce?  Why did you get divorced? (I am always inappropriately curious.)

Lately, I’ve been reading only memoirs.  Here, in no particular order, are the ones I’ve read most recently:

Blackbird by Jenny Lauck.
This book describes a “childhood lost and found.”  Written from a child’s perspective in first person present tense, you don’t just read the story.  You swim in it.  If you click that link above, you’ll find Jenny’s website with information about her and her books.  She is a Buddhist now.

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
My friend, MaryKay, told me about this book a long time ago.  I finally came across a used copy in a thrift store (I am so cheap sometimes) and read it.  Without flinching, Jeannette relates her childhood raised by eccentric, unstable parents (her father a gambler and alcoholic and her mother a mentally ill artist).  What amazed me was the sense I got that Jeannette never really felt self-pity.  Anyway, excellent read.  You will not believe the situations her parents put their children through.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
Has everyone in the world read this book?  Again, it took me awhile to find a cheap used copy, but finally, I joined the masses in reading this bestseller.  (Julia Roberts is playing Elizabeth Gilbert in the movie version.)  I found myself almost immediately repelled, unfortunately.  Not by the writing, which was lovely and amusing and palatable, but by the writer’s description of having a crisis on the bathroom floor.  (I’m not really spoiling anything since I’m the last person on earth to read this book, plus, this happens at the very beginning.)  But when the writer experienced her emotional crisis (she didn’t want to be married anymore and didn’t want to have a baby), she prays and that prayer leads her to divorce her husband (in a nasty, drawn-out, horrible battle), have an affair and then embark on her trip around the world that is chronicled in this book.

I just don’t relate to a complete shirking of responsibilities and vows and obligations.  Also?  Her current book is about marriage and seriously, really?  Don’t even get me started.

But the book itself was well-written and all that.  I just don’t love feeling judgmental while reading but I couldn’t help myself.

Lit by Mary Karr
Have you read Mary Karr’s memoirs?  She wrote The Liar’s Club (about her childhood), then Cherry (about her adolescence) and now Lit (picking up where Cherry left off).   I really loved The Liar’s Club–I read it quite a few years ago.  Then, in preparation to read Lit, I read Cherry.  And I am reading Lit right now because I’m going to a conference where she’ll be speaking. (Personally,  I did not love Cherry but I needed that bridge from one book to the next.)

I am enthralled by Lit.  I can’t do it justice, really, other than to declare how much I adore her memoirs, but here’s an article in the New York Review of Books that can speak for me.

Thin Places by Mary DeMuth
A few years ago, I met Mary at a writer’s conference.  She taught a workshop I attended.  I have been watching her writing career ever since.  She is a novelist, but also writes non-fiction.  Her most recent release is a spiritual memoir called Thin Places.  This memoir recounts the various times in Mary’s life when she’s felt closer to God, “places where she was acutely aware of God’s presence.”  Since I’ve been in the midst of a memoir-reading marathon, this particular one (in comparison) felt more like a devotional book with short chapters recalling non-sequential events in her life.  (All the other memoirs I’ve been reading are more or less in chronological order.)  But I loved the insight into Mary’s life and her descriptions of her life and family.

Mary’s writing is lovely as she shares vulnerable experiences in her life. And she is a fun person to know in real life, too.

I’d like to give someone a copy of Mary’s book, Thin Places.  If you’d like to win a copy, leave a comment with your favorite memoir.  If you don’t like to read memoirs, just state your favorite book.

* * *

(I received a copy of Mary DeMuth’s book to review, but no other compensation for any of these books.)

Last summer, my husband and I decided to go to a movie.  I scanned the movie listing on my iPhone.  “The Hurt Locker has gotten really good reviews,” I said. I really wanted to see it.

“What’s it about?”

I read him the description and he declared he didn’t want to see that movie.  So, instead, we saw some forgettable movie.  Seriously, I can’t remember what we saw instead.

And then, before I could see it, “The Hurt Locker” disappeared from theaters.  I hate it when that happens.

In recent months, “The Hurt Locker” garnered various nominations and my regret over not seeing it escalated.  I strive to watch all the movies nominated for Academy Awards . . . and so, after “The Hurt Locker” was nominated, I rented the movie on DVD and watched it at home even though I hate watching movies at home on DVD.  I get interrupted too much.

Every time we’d hear something about “The Hurt Locker”, I’d tease my husband.  He ought to trust my judgment about movies.  After all, he is the man who dragged me to “Welcome to Mooseport” one year.  I have never taken him to a dud of a movie (to my best recollection).

So today, we went to the local independent theater where “The Hurt Locker” is showing again.  Watching it the second time around was even better than the first.  My husband loved the movie.

And when it won “Best Picture” and “Best Director” (among other awards tonight), I rejoiced . . . and not just because this gives me ammunition for years and years of teasing.  But mostly because it gives me ammunition for years and years of teasing.

Husband = Zero.

Wife = All the rest of the points.

We own three cats.  Each one sports an oddity.

Roy is a paranoid female shaped like a 10-pound deer, only gray, black and stripey.  She hates me and runs from me as if I’m Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” chasing her with an ax.

Chestnut’s back legs twist in slightly and she has only half a tail which ends in a hook.

Only Smokey has long hair, including tufts between all her toes.  She weighs fourteen pounds and if you attempt to lift her, she squeaks.

We adopted them from a neighbor down the street whose pets obviously did not practice safe sex.

Despite my pleas, I am usually the only one who cleans the litter box.

So, now that you know the cast of characters, let me tell you about last Friday.

Last Friday I was upstairs in my bathroom when I heard the horrifying sounds of a cat fight.  I ran downstairs to find Smokey and Chestnut tangled under the kitchen table in a cloud of hissing fur.  I began screaming like a lunatic, waving my hands, moving kitchen chairs away from the table.  They stopped mid-attack and hunched into defensive poses, making scary cats noises.  Chestnut had her back against the wall, emitting a low growl.

Smokey sprang back onto Chestnut and I screamed so loud that one of my impossible-to-wake teenagers emerged from his room.

Chestnut ran for safety with Smokey in hot, hissing pursuit.

I continued my ineffective screaming (STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!) and waved my arms.  Chestnut escaped and ran upstairs to Zach’s room.

Smokey followed.  So did I.

Chestnut hid under the bed and Smokey leered at all of us, ready to rip us into bloody ribbons.

By this time, both teenagers were on the scene.  We hid Chestnut from view with blankets and shooed Smokey out of the room.

You’d think that would be enough drama for one day but you’d be wrong.

Later in the afternoon, another attack.  Smokey was definitely targeting Chestnut while ignoring Roy entirely.  So I called the vet.

The vet couldn’t see Smokey until Monday, so all weekend, we kept the cats separated through an elaborate system of open and closed doors.  We’d enclose Chestnut in the laundry room (home to the food, water and litter box).  Then we’d take her back upstairs and close her into a bedroom.

Why the vet?  Well, I wanted to make sure that Smokey wasn’t ill.  I wondered if maybe Smokey’s aggression was caused by . . . . I don’t know, cancer?  a broken leg?  schizophrenia?

So, at the appointed hour, I retrieved the animal crate from the storage room.  I placed it on a chair, sneaked up on Smokey and tried to stuff her into the crate.  However, the crate slid backward and Smokey suddenly caught on and made herself enormous by extending all her legs.

As you may know, you only get one chance to shove a cat into a crate.  But, being hopelessly optimistic at the worst times, I tried again.  Twice.

Then I grabbed my  head with both hands and yelled, “WHAT DO I DO?  WHAT DO I DO?”  I circled the storage room looking for a solution.  None appeared.

So, like a crazy woman, I declared my hatred of the cats and then my teenager informed me that I was hateful and I retorted that I was stressed out and seriously, these cats have been nothing but trouble!  Because I am mature in times of trouble.

I needed to get that cat to the vet.

Fortunately, brilliant ideas come to me even when I am out of control.

The picnic basket.

I grabbed it, had one teenager handle the cat and the other slam the lid closed.  I sealed it with duct tape while the cat began to howl.  Then I worried the whole way to the vet’s office that the cat would suffocate–which would both solve my current problem and present a whole new problem.  (”Sorry kids, I killed the cat.”)

My daughter, Smokey in the picnic basket and I waited in the vet’s office for almost an hour past our appointed time.  An hour!  Finally, we were shuffled into a room and at long last the veterinarian arrived.

I backed away from the basket, fully expecting Smokey to spring from the basket like a Tasmanian Devil as soon as the lid lifted.  But she did not.  She just peered up with wide eyes and flattened herself into the basket.

Bottom line?  The cat is fine.  The vet launched into a gory story about his own cats who once fought bloody fights for supremacy.

I said, “Even after six years?  They are fighting for dominance after six years?”

And he said yes.

That cost me $38.  But at least now I know that Smokey doesn’t have a physical excuse for her behavior.

Yesterday while I was on a telephone call for work, the cats ran under my desk, Smokey in pursuit of Chestnut.  I instinctively jumped up and blurted, “CAT FIGHT!” which is always an awesome interjection on a business call.

I highly recommend getting two bickering cats to liven up your life if things have become boring and listless.  Nothing gets your heart racing like a pair of snarling, growling, screaming, meowing, hissing, freaked out cats pouncing and circling and attacking.

It’s just as fun as it sounds.

My lilacs have embryonic blossoms and emerging green leaves.  The daffodils are in bloom.  The crocuses have begun to fade.  The forsythia I planted last year is still alive.  The reddish leaves of the Bleeding Heart are unfolding.  Spring.  I love spring.

But I am alarmed at how fast the seasons come and go.  I know, I know!  That’s the theme that runs through this blog, my constant disbelief at how life slips through my fingers.  I can’t grip it, can’t turn it over in my hands, can’t examine it at length. Christmas turned into Valentine’s Day and Easter will pop up for a split second before summer pushes its way to the front of the line.

The worst of it all is that if you miss an opportunity, it’s gone.   That little kid who wanted a piggy-back ride now needs a shave.  The baby boy you rocked on those sleepy early mornings now sets his own alarm and gets ready without any interference from you.  Your baby girl doesn’t let you dress her like a doll–she has her own opinions about clothes and in fact, has a few things she’d like to tell you about your personal style–or lack of it.  And she’s only seven.

No one sits on my lap anymore.  We’ve all moved on.  Only they are moving on and I’m standing still, looking at their backs.

When I left home, I was eighteen.  I boarded a Greyhound bus for a three-day journey to college.  I didn’t look back.  I’d waited my whole life to board that bus and start my life . . . my childhood had seemed an eternity to me, so it never occurred to me that it had flown by faster than the speed of sound for my parents.

So, March marches on like those African ants you’ve heard about that ravage everything in their path.  Look closely before it’s all gone.  Gather up the stuff that matters.  Read the little kids a storybook while they still clamor for your attention.  All too soon they’ll be counting the days until they can get away from you.

Blink.  They’re gone.

I can’t sleep.

I’ve used to pride myself on my ability to sleep soundly.  I once slept through a hurricane in the Outer Banks.  The girls in my college dormitory never kept me awake.  My husband’s snores never bothered me.

And now?  I go to bed at 1:30 a.m., arrange myself carefully in my nest of pillows, close my eyes and lie awake.  Sometimes a parade of unhelpful thoughts march through my mind.  Oh yes, I do need to send off the paperwork to the tax guy.  I mustn’t forget to make that phone call.  Why haven’t I scheduled my mammogram and dental cleanings?

Then I put a halt to those thoughts.  I roll over, carefully so I don’t disturb my slumbering husband.  I have to lug my body pillow to the left of me, so my roll is something of a three-point-turn.  Finally, back in the pillows, this time facing the left and my clock radio which emits a yellowish light.

I rotate the clock radio away so the light isn’t in my eyes.  I tuck the covers under my chin.  I must breathe fresh cool air all night.  Feet must be under covers, nose must be free.

At that point, if I’m very lucky, I sleep.

But this week, at that point, I begin to hack up a lung.  I try to muffle the sounds so the snores continue their rhythm.  I settle back down and begin to cough again.

Lather, rinse, repeat, every ten minutes.

Finally, I wonder if the DayQuil will help and I stagger to the bathroom to swallow those gigantic orange capsules.  (We have no Nyquil.  The cough syrup I found in the cabinet expired last November.  I am doomed.)  It’s past 3 a.m.

Then I wake up and it’s 7 a.m.  so I must have slept.

Tonight–soon–when I crawl into bed, I will remind myself that tomorrow I should buy some cough medicine . . . and then I’ll remember that I forgot to schedule my mammogram . . . and then I’ll decide lying on my right side is what is keeping me awake, so I’ll make a quarter-turn, lug my body pillow to the left, make another quarter-turn, nestle my head on my down pillow, make a final quarter-turn and start coughing.  And so the adventure that used to be Sleep begins.

I just can’t wait.

You would think that by a particular age (say, forty-five), you might have found your niche.  You’d have People, a circle of friends that would open and admit you without question and understand you without cross-examination.  You’d look into faces that would reflect your own age, your own story, your own world.

I mean, it seems like other people have found their tribes.  They know how they fit in.  They don’t stare at themselves in the mirror and wonder if they’ll ever really, truly fit in.  They aren’t too old or too young or too fat or too quiet or too busy to have friends like them.  They find themselves in a crowd of people and they blend in . They don’t have to explain or wonder.

Or maybe I’ve idealized other people’s realities.  Am I making stuff up?  Is everyone having parties that I’m not welcome to join?  Has everyone joined hands in a wide-ranging network that excludes me?

Furthermore, will I ever stop thinking I’m the only one who isn’t invited?

Do I have a group?

When I was young, I was pretty grown up.  I didn’t have time for frivolity.  I couldn’t see the point in dances and football games and gossiping about boys.  I found safety in the school library.  I was just biding my time until I could be an adult.

When I was a bride, all I wanted was to be a mother like my peers.  Instead, I buried my 47-year old father.  Infertility blocked the door to motherhood for years.

When I finally became a mother, I was an old mother.  The oldest kindergarten mother . . . all the other mothers were so young.  And that was when my now-16-year old boys were five.  I am definitely the old mom now, finding myself around mothers who are young enough to be my daughters.  It’s weird.  I forget that they must think I’m ancient.

My peers have children in college and I have a daughter in first grade.

I just never quite fit in.  I’ve always been out of sync, out of step.  I’ve never had any rhythm, really.

I’m funny.  I’m a good listener.  I can make small talk.

So why does it bother me that I don’t have an entourage . . . a posse . . . a group of my own?

I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out.  Meanwhile, I’m just going to assume this post was written by  my inner-ten-year-old.

Early Wednesday morning, a friend of mine had her first baby, a beautiful baby girl.  She opted for the surprise, so we didn’t know until after the baby was born that it was a girl.

So, I hurried down to buy baby girl clothes, lots of flowers and pink stripes and ruffles.  And then, I included the assortment of Johnson’s Baby Products I was lucky enough to receive for this review.  They include Johnson’s Baby essentials such as PINK Baby Lotion, Gold Baby Shampoo, Head-To-Toe Wash, and Desitin.  After all, who can even take care of a baby without these items?  (Rhetorical question.  No answer necessary).   It’s such a fun thing to give or receive baby products when there’s a newborn involved–especially to a new mom who is the last person who has time to run to Target for them!

As the press release reminds us, “All these products provide a first-time Mom with the essentials she needs from day one in addition to making an experienced Mom’s hectic routine easier by serving several purposes. For example, did you know Johnson’s Baby Powder doubles as a deodorant or a dry shampoo to remove oils and grease in a hurry? Moms could also consider saving space when traveling by using the same shampoo as their baby or by using baby oil as shaving cream.”

(Oh my!  Baby oil as shaving cream!  Wish I’d thought of that before!  I have been known to use baby shampoo myself–hasn’t every mom?)

If you check out the Johnson’s Baby Products website, you’ll find coupons and information.

You’re welcome. 

And now for the all-important disclaimer:  “I wrote this review while participating in a blog tour campaign by Mom Central on behalf of Johnson’s and received samples of Johnson’s Baby products to facilitate my review.”

You may or may not know this about me, but I love “The View”.  I remember watching it when it first aired.  My son (who turns 12 next week) was a baby and so I would be awake in the dark hours of the super early morning (like 3 a.m.) with a newborn when “The View” appeared on television in northern Michigan.  I loved it from the start and I have been a loyal watcher through all the changes throughout the years.  (Even the Rosie years, when to watch was to cringe.)

I haven’t watched every episode, but now that I have a DVR, I record them and watch when I can.  Which rocks.  Because, honestly, I love to be in the loop.  I love to watch celebrities (and people whose main claim to fame is reality television or tabloids) interact with the women on The View.  I love Hot Topics.

So, somehow, I’ve found myself acting as an Ambassador for The View (thanks, MomCentral!).  I entered a sweepstakes to win a trip to NYC and you can enter, too.  (Go here to MomCentral and enter.)   From time to time, I’ll be talking about The View.  (I’ll be totally watching on February 23.  The Octomom will be on . . . and mainly, I will watch because I love to see Whoopi’s face when she has to talk to various people and discuss topics she finds pointless.  Oh!  She makes me laugh!)

And now, for the disclaimer:

“I am a participant in a Mom Central campaign for ABC Daytime and will receive a tote bag or other The View branded items to facilitate my review.”

Watching the Olympic games leads me to believe that I could totally land a triple toe loop.  I could glide around that short track without crashing into the cushioned walls.  But my real strength would be snowboarding the half-pipe.  How do I know?  I have snowboarding hair, that’s how.  Plus, I could never appear in public wearing a white shiny skin-tight leotard, but the snowboarding baggy outfits would be perfect for me.

In other news, I believe I have caught the cold my two youngest children have been harboring under their grimy fingernails.  Why?  Why on a Thursday night, only a day away from some blessed time off?

*

I have never been a morning person.  Never.  Even though once in college I registered for a 7:30 a.m. class (Old Testament–and believe me, if you are going to take an early morning class, I do not recommend Old Testament . . . a better choice would be, oh, Coffee Drinking 101 or Advanced Square Dancing).

Even when my infant twins insisted on a morning wake-up call of 5:30 a.m., I was not a morning person.  My husband–my hero–would get up early with them so I could sleep a little longer and then shower before facing a long day of baby care.

Somehow, I’ve reached that lovely time of life when all the children in my house understand “sleeping in.”  (In fact, the twins, now teenagers, have turned “sleeping” into an all-day sport.  They do school at home, lucky for them.)

And now, I’ve truly turned into a night-owl with a job that ends at midnight.  I can easily stay awake until 2:30 a.m., sleep a few hours, wake up to take my daughter to school and then go right back to sleep.  I basically nap in the morning, just like the babies used to do.

But yesterday, I showered and left my house by 9:30 a.m., because at 7:30 a.m. I received a text message announcing the birth of a baby girl.  We hadn’t known if it would be a boy or girl, so I had to shop for girl clothes.  After the girl-clothes shopping frenzy, I stopped at Target for wrapping paper and then dropped by Barnes & Noble to buy some algebra study helps.  (Because, lucky me, I am revisiting algebra all over again as my teenagers take it.)

All of this and I was early to meet my friend at her apartment.  We then went together to meet our friend’s new baby–she’d been almost two weeks past her due date and the very night before she was to be induced, she went into labor.  And seven hours later, her baby daughter was born.  Perfection.

Is there anything more lovely then a brand new human being?  (I am torn whether it is more lovely if the newborn belongs to someone else or if it’s more lovely if the newborn is yours . . . because I have grown very fond of sleep.  I have had my own newborns . . . and now they fight with each other and tattle on each other.)

Anyway, I did all that and was at my computer ready to work by 1 p.m.

Today, however, all I did was take my daughter to school, take a morning nap, and work.

Then I realized I am getting a cold.  Fun.  But not as much fun as landing a triple toe loop.

Reading now:  Eat, Pray Love
Listening to:  Television late-night Olympic coverage

*

Every night when I clock out from the website where I work, I think, “Oh, I should blog.”  That is immediately followed by, “Oh, I’ll blog tomorrow.”

And tomorrow?  No time.  I sleep.  I run errands.  I start working.  Split shifts kind of manage to make you feel like you’re working all the time.  I start at noon, I end at midnight . . . and the hours between shifts are consumed by cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, exercising (on very disciplined days), hanging out with my husband, reading and that sort of thing.  Never blogging though.

So tonight, I’m here even though it’s 1:30 a.m.  For your reading pleasure, I offer a haphazard  bunch of paragraphs.

My husband didn’t work today and the kids were home.  We slept in, then he stayed home with the kids while I went shopping.  I went in this order to my favorite stores:  Bed, Bath & Beyond (to see if Yankee candles were put on 75% clearance–they were not), Marshall’s (to buy a cheap Yankee candle for the master bathroom), Target (to buy a cable for my new computer and  a bunch of other stuff I didn’t know I needed until I saw it) and then Fred Meyer (only the Best Grocery Store Ever).

At Fred Meyer, I picked up eight pansies, a lupine, a columbine, mini-daffodils about to bloom and four “Steppables”, some kind of plant resistant to kids stepping on them.  After I put the groceries away, my daughter and I ripped the dead petunias from the pots and replaced them with the assortment of new flowers.

While this sounded  like a fun project, it wasn’t all that much fun because I realized that most of my garden tools have disappeared yet again.  It’s a seasonable problem I have.  I buy hand-tools and rakes and shovels and by the next season, they have vanished.  My husband suggested that perhaps the raccoons are to blame.  Maybe they have a well-stocked tool-shed somewhere nearby.

Soon, I will new tools because it’s practically spring!   The big question is this:  will my lilacs bloom this year?  I pruned them last spring and then some guys we hired to clean up our yard pruned them again.  A little too viciously, if you ask me.  I’m just hoping for blooms this year.

*

Yesterday, my husband and I went to the local independent theater to see a movie.  I worried out loud that we were running late and he said, “It’s Valentine’s Day.  Who’s going to be seeing a depressing movie like ‘The Messenger’ today?”   Well, I’d tell you but I am busy snagging the only two adjacent seats left in the theater.

The movie itself was good–rated R for good reason though (sex, nudity, language).  It’s about the men in the military who notify the next of kin that their soldier has been killed in action.  (I liked “The Hurt Locker” more, but that’s neither here nor there.)  This movie’s screenplay was nominated for Best Screenplay and Woody Harrelson was nominated for Best Supporting Actor.

And the popcorn at this independent theater has real butter.  I know.  I KNOW!

*

On Saturday, my 11-year old participated in lacrosse  camp all day.  While he and my husband were gone I decided to clean the 11-year old’s room.  While he has “cleaned” it himself recently, it had been awhile since I’d sorted through his clothes and toys and books.  It was time to purge, sort and organize.  Bonus:  I found several missing teaspoons covered in lint.

I worked for three grueling hours.  I was grimy and exhausted when I finished.

He came home from the camp, appeared in his doorway and said, “Did I give you permission to clean my room?”

Now that is gratitude.

Fortunately for him, I cleaned it for my own sake and not his.  Plus, I think he was kidding.  I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt because he’s such a good kid.

*

Do you ever wish you could give unsolicited advice to people who need to hear what you think?  But it would be completely inappropriate so you can’t say anything?

*

When I watch the Olympics, I am pretty sure I could do that.  I could totally skate the short track.  And a triple toe loop?  No problem.  What is it about the Olympics that makes me utterly delusional?  My back is sore from planting flowers in a few pots.

*

I haven’t forgotten that I promised to talk memoirs.  That will involve a lot of links, so maybe tomorrow.  (Ha ha!  See how I lie to myself?)  Really, though, maybe tomorrow I’ll get to that.

In the meantime, tell me this.

Do you read memoirs?

If so, what’s your favorite?

p.s.  We had only a light dusting of snow this year.  Some blame a particular weather pattern but I know the real reason.  For the first year in our twelve years here, I bought two snow shovels.  Sorry.  And you’re welcome.