I think I'm turning stupid.

“I’m just so excited to have time to read again, you know? Like, stuff I really want to read, not stuff  I have to read.”

I can’t tell you how many times I said this in college. I can’t tell you how many of my peers have vigorously agreed with that statement, or how many times I have heard the same variation on a theme. Now that I am no longer in school, and not working a job that demands every last piece of my time, energy and, brain I theoretically have this free time to read the whole library.

Have I?

Hardly.

I haven’t finished a book for my book club since I joined. Most of my kindle library books expire before I even view them. Anything that requires more than 2 brain cells to process immediately gets an eye roll as I reach for my Roku remote, or iPhone. Since it is No Shame November round these parts, I will tell you all the only thing I have read of late is 50 Shades of Grey, for the second time. (writing about that is, to borrow a metaphor, “Like shooting fish in a mug with an automatic handgun.”)

I’ll get back on the literary horse eventually - but right now it’s been stabled for more personal writing. (see what I did there?)

So those of you who come here to read about books, it could be a while. You’ll have to pacify yourselves with stories of my own shortcomings, personal humiliations, and neurosis. You’ll also probably have to read a lot about my diabetes - the former and the latter are part and parcel.

Because Mondays are never hard enough on their own...

Those who know me would probably not be surprised by the statement, “before noon today I was on the kitchen floor, crying over a yogurt.”

The therapist I saw in high school made the seemingly innocuous statement, “you’re not really a crier, are you?” while I sobbed over the pressure of managing my diabetes. I never went back. partially because at 17 I wasn’t exactly responsible enough to make my own regular appointments, and partially because she was right. With the gaping exception of movies, the number of people who had seen me cry before the end of college was limited to what I could count on one hand. I could pinpoint the day in October of 2012 that I became a crier but that’s another classroom story for another time. Couple with the new birth control combo I was trying, I became the crier my therapist told me I wasn’t. Bathroom breaks, lunch, anytime NPR was on, the wine aisle of the grocery store, Chipotle, I burst into tears just about anywhere. In fact, I’m pretty sure most of Saint Louis has seen me fighting back tears, or not fighting them at all, somewhere.

So there’s a portion of you, not at all surprised by the statement, “before noon today I was on the kitchen floor crying over a yogurt.”

Let me tell you, there is nothing worse, as someone who does cry over spilled milk, to cry over dairy products because you have low blood sugar. Waking up cranky with high blood sugar ranks among the worst experiences ever. Even with the careful control and management I don’t regularly practice blood sugar can spike because it feels like it, because you didn’t count the carbs in your chinese food right, or you forgot that MSG sends your blood sugar through the roof. When you manage it less well high spikes are not uncommon. Really bad ones make me feel like Bruce Banner, seconds before he bursts out of those sweet purple shorts he seems to have an infinite supply of. The fact that my spell check lights up like a christmas tree on emails is enough to make me want to hurl the nearest object straight through the screen on my computer.

Fixing a high generally leads to a low, especially when you are impatient and cranky and up your insulin dose in an effort to make it fall faster (pro tip - this never works). This is how you end up standing in your kitchen, trying to find something to up the low blood sugar you have inadvertently given yourself. Low blood sugar, much like airports and hearing other people passive aggressively bicker, makes me anxious, indecisive, whiny, incapable, and utterly useless. Given the carte blanche to eat anything in the kitchen in an effort to raise said low blood sugar the choices are overwhelming. I spend more time worrying about what to eat, while my heart races, and I feel like I just want to lie in a fetal position on the floor until everything is fixed.

Sensing that this was about to happen today around 11:30, I thought I would head this off at the pass, and just eat right away, avoiding the low that was sure to happen. As a low is wont to do, it made me mopey and indecisive. Literally nothing, not even the discount halloween Peeps nesting in my pantry looked edible. Oscillating between fridge and pantry for a full 10 minutes, I finally decided on yogurt and granola. Every minute spent deciding on a snack renders closer to a useless puddle of tears. Since I am pretty much always 5 minutes away from bursting into a useless puddle of tears, lows are basically my nemesis. The struggle to get the yogurt lid off, then open the new package of granola took another 3 full minutes - in the incompetence produced my my quickly falling sugar. Finally securing a spoon, and the yogurt, and the granola, I faced the next dilemma - the granola chunks were too big to fit into the small mouth of the yogurt container. This was how I ended up sitting on the floor, holding a spoon full of yogurt, and a bag of granola. Low blood sugar has the added effect of reducing what ever brain cells are still firing to half speed. Moments away from tears I looked from the spoon to the granola thinking I had to find a way. Inspiration struck with neurons firing on half capacity, I decided that, yes, I COULD put the spoon in the granola! Surely the granola would stick to the yogurt and I would get a perfect spoonful of both yogurt and granola. For those of you who didn’t see that coming, let me tell you, that is not at all how it worked. The yogurt quickly spilled into the granola, leaving me with a bag now growing soggy and unusable with berry cheesecake yogurt. This, being the metaphorical straw to break the camels back, I did what any reasonable diabetic  would do, I sobbed into my already soggy granola and reached for the orange juice.

Boots is an incredibly judgemental roommate.

Elementary school bathrooms are my own personal hell.

Elementary school bathrooms are my own personal hell.

Not because they are always stuffy, and too hot. Not because the toilets are roughly half the size of a normal toilet and make you feel like an awkward giant. Not even because they always smell like pee, and always have a clogged toilet. No, until you have run a bathroom break for an entire second grade class, you have no idea how much your own personal hell can be elevated.

The many games of “will it flush?,” countless clogged pipes, and one small trash can fire will all live on as outer rings of my own personal hell. Yes, one of my second graders set a trashcan fire in the bathroom. No, it was not the worst elementary bathroom experience of my life. No, that accolade is reserved for what what I would like to call my most personally and professionally humiliating moment - but we all know this is only scratching the surface there.

Wrangling nineteen second graders to the bathroom is not an easy task when they lack any and all respect for you. How or why we got to said lack of respect is irrelevant, but the point is there was nothing I dreaded more than taking my class into the hallways. This task was complicated further by one of my favorite students, a special needs student who required near constant support. This bathroom break wasn’t going any better or worse than any other bathroom break. I had taken them to the bathrooms by the office, in hopes that proximity to the principals office would cast a pallor of decorum. In the end, as the one who ended up getting reprimanded, I can say it was a complete failure of a plan.

It’s the waiting for other classmates to use the restroom that really gets them going. When everyone has to go, no one wants to wait until last and there is a modicum of good behavior. Waiting for everyone else once you have had your turn though? That’s when kids get really squirrely. I had a class full of runners - the type to bolt. Especially given an open hallway. Naturally a pack of my boys started running around, including Akim, this favorite of mine. Knowing this was going nowhere good and fast, I made an effort to speed the last few stragglers through the bathroom. While pacing the increasingly loud hallway, making some semblance at giving directions that would be followed, I see Akim come running down the hallway, holding something out in his open palm.

It was a urinal cake. He was holding a used urinal cake. He skidded to an abrupt stop in front of me to ask what it was. I’m not sure whether it was the overwhelming nature of the shock, dread, and disgust or what that led me to tell him it was a urinal cake.

“Cake?” he asked as drew the urine soaked mint green round closer to his open mouth, as if to take a bite.

“NO. no, not that kind of cake.” I said as I put my open palm out, realizing I would be forced to take it from him. Upon realizing it was not a Little Debbie snack Akim dropped it right away and took off running. The rest of the class, oblivious to exchange had now grown to a dull roar and drawn the attentions of the principal, who was now standing in the hallway behind me, wearing his 3 piece denim suit in all its bellbottomed glory. Turning to face Mr.Taylor, urinal cake still in hand, and look of revulsion still on my face, I realized this wasn’t going to make things better.

“Miss Holdreith, you really need to get your class under control. I think its time you take them back to the room now.”

Back to class I went, urinal cake STILL in hand, no more quietly or orderly than we had arrived.

If my personal statements for grad school were really honest

Most schools want a 500 word essay on why you want to go into their program, and I don’t have the energy for institutional game playing or the interest in gushing about what I think they want to hear; so I’ve decided to write some honest personal statements.

“My desire to return to graduate school stems from a deep desire to retreat from the real world as much as humanely possible. Working a 9 to 5 desk job has been a soul sucking, mind numbing, and spirit murdering endeavor. I am convinced I will never find a job I enjoy, and the one small beacon of hope is this program. That being said, I am assured even with this degree I will still hate my job, and be coupled with crippling student debt. Yet here I am, willing to pay tuition and fees and apply my degree in a relevant field. Perhaps I will even apply said degree to achieve moderate local success, and I will plug your program as “life changing, personally challenging and a wonderful foundation for getting where I am.” Is that what you want me to say in this box?”

“Just like everyone else writing one of these, I too have a desire to change the world. You’ll even note I made an attempt at that my first year out of college. However, as you will also note my time teaching in the inner city was a complete and total failure. This time before I attempt to change the world I would love to have even a modicum of relevant training before being thrown to the wolves. My research indicates that your 2 year degree plan would more than provide me with tools, knowledge, and resources to actually, you know, be successful in any future world changing endeavors.”

“I am entirely bored out of mind at my job. To get a job in a field where I hope I won’t be bored out of my mind, I am told I need this degree and several years of relevant experience. Please let me in, my cat is so incredibly bored of arguing about policy issues with me. I think he might leave if I don’t find a more productive outlet for it.”

“I actually enjoyed reading microfilm of the congressional record concerning education policy in the US. As a member of what I’m sure is an unbelievably exclusive club here, I’m looking to make this into a career. Library science requires I keep far too quiet so, here I am.”

“I work in enrollment, I hear people tell me 500 times a day they want to go into teaching because they love kids. I promise you, I’m not here to go into policy because I love politicians, or constituents. I’ll be totally transparent here, and say I have every intention of climbing whatever ranks I can to enact as much iron clad policy that aligns with my personal position as possible. Acting in the spirit of my personal political hero, Alexander Hamilton, I seek to build a quasi-monarchical but still democratic system. Give a girl a boost onto that first rung?”

“Oddly enough the internet is flooded with seemingly witty tech savvy bloggers who think they have something original to say about popular culture. Saturated markets don’t make a great opportunity for another mildly amusing, neurotic, Carrie Bradshaw/Lena Dunham wanna be. However, I hear very few 20 something women of this persuasion want to go into politics, niche market anyone? I really don’t think Monica Lewinski used her position to anyone's advantage. I plan to use mine much more resourcefully.”

Ready Player One - Ernest Cline

I have to admit, reading Ready Player One, was a new experience for me. A very niche subject matter - 80’s pop culture, mostly video games - with a post-apocalyptic flavor and a twist of expected teen romance; it was predictable enough to keep from tearing through it at light speed for plot alone, but interesting enough to keep me reading through some severely slow moving and self pitying stretches. Not sure I liked it enough to keep it up, but too intrigued to put it away for good, it played out a lot like an over eager date - there’s nothing overtly wrong with the dude, but do you really wanna go on date number 3? In either case, nosy neighbor that I am the answer is yes. Unlike going on that 3rd date, I think the payoff here was worth it. (Much less guilt plays out in the end).

The first date is great - not spectacular mind you, but conversation keeps up and despite it all you find yourself excited about it. Even walking away from it, you know definitely nailed it, and he thinks you’re great. Despite it all, something is nagging at you. You have enough in common but you can’t shake the uncertainty . It’s exciting to bust out of a rut, to be free of sad whiny teenagers who won’t talk about their feelings. Right away Cline’s set up feels just like this. A slow build that pulls you in out of curiosity for what's to come, rather than having hooked you already. You even stay a half an hour later than planned - the dishes can wait another day. While not the first thing on your mind, the idea of a second date hangs in the back of your mind, giving you reason to smile throughout your work day.

Getting into the puzzle that the book presents is date two. Pleasantries and “oh what did you major in?” are out of the way, so you can get down to what is really important things - as in did he just catch that Clueless reference? Or “oh you don’t like 30 Rock? hmmm.” You can’t really put your finger on anything wrong, in fact stepping back everything looks great in perspective. The book introduces elements of romance, a really good bad guy, a quest, suspense, and obviously all the 80’s trivia a girl could hope for. I could not shake the feeling while reading that I was missing something though, beyond just the video game references.
Despite that feeling you keep going until you taper off at a point where the going gets slow. The electricity you though might be there is less the humming of a bug zapper and more the sad sparks of a dying, slightly damp firework. Cline has a lot of these moments (Just like date two. More of a fizzle than a bang. Actually.) where the going feels like quicksand. The action is well written enough that it certainly wasn't enough to stop me from reading, but my enjoyment of the book felt somehow retrained.

Date three is the big one. The point where things pick back up, or you find yourself alone sharing a low fat yogurt with your cat for dinner on a Saturday. (Boots says: One one paw I want the whole yogurt to myself, on the other I don’t want to share my hooman. LIFE IS SO HARD. I think I’ll just settle for chewing on someones toes). Gearing up for the end of Cline’s book was enjoyable enough - most of the loose ends are knotted up neatly (no thanks to you, Boots). Friendships re-bonded, battles won, grail quest wrapped up, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. Up through dates 1 and 2 things feel slightly unpredictable. Nothing was going terribly awry, yet nothing was going spectacularly well. Back on the date, everything finds itself on an even keel, which compared to the chaos of the rest of your life, is pretty enjoyable. Until you realize you are stuck and always will be stuck at an even keel. Cline’s book plateaus in the last third - becoming easily predictable, as if coasting on an even track, whereas the first 2/3rd really keep you slightly more on your toes. Thank god books end, and you don’t have to consider a 4th dates because lord knows I would be the whore of Babylon were that the case. I’m real book slut, I can barely stick to one I really love, let alone when it’s only getting a lukewarm reception.

It ends much as you would expect, as you've been suspecting, since the peak of the action. This book definitely left something to be desired - just like dates 4, 5, 6, etc. will if you end up on them, until you check out enough that he breaks it off with you. It is only after you google the book reviews over a glass of wine - or tell your girlfriends over brunch that its over, that you realize you were right all along. Until someone tells you that nagging instinct that something could be a lot better, it’s easy to settle into an even keel. That being said, this is a finite novel and not some guy you met on the internet. It was a nice change of pace from what I have been reading, with witty writing, and some pretty strong female characters.

Boots says: As much as I like to sink my teeth into a good book, I'm glad the human read this on a kindle. It means more room for me to smother mom, and a free hand to scratch my ears. It also means my fleshy servant eats and reads at the same time, which means less careful guarding to the dairy products.

The Spy Misteress - Jennifer Chiaverini

Readers, beware the “Buy 2 Get 1 Free” table at Barnes + Nobel. I know, I know, I feel it’s allure too - neat stacks of paperbacks, intriguing covers that call out “pick me! read me!,” and most irresistible of all getting that free book. The table is at its most dangerous when you don’t have a plan, when there is no goal, no target to be acquired. While you are just browsing it seems to inch its way right in front of you, offering a wide selection without overwhelming you like the shelves do. I am here to tell you it’s all a ruse. 30% of those books make the “Most hated High School reads” list, and the other 60% are there to be off loaded onto unsuspecting customers. They don’t live there because they are the most popular girl at the dance. These books are Anthony Michael Hall’s of the store - always the one left without a love interest, kinda cute if you squint, and usually a total saltine (plain, dry, and boring).

This is how I found myself dawdling through "The Spy Mistress." Nestled between the hits of 2004, and Catch 22, it’s subtitle “Inspired by a true story of civil war espionage” was enough to pull this history nerd in for the kill.

"The Spy Mistress" is The Other Boleyn Girl’s plain and humble stepsister. It has all the potential in the world to be full of suspense, steamy intrigue, and super hot civil war soldiers (Seriously, check  it   out). Instead it took cues from OJ’s “If I’d Done It” and detailed a very believable account of Elizabeth Van Lew’s involvement in espionage for the North during the Civil War. If you are a respectable person looking for a less boring version of an aside in your 11th grade history book; or someone who neither has 14 hours and the emotional fortitude to watch Ken Burns’ “The Civil War” I would recommend this book. As a character of ill repute, and someone looking for smutty intrigue this book was not what expected. I probably wouldn't read it again even if it were the only reading material available to me as prisoner of war in Fort Sumter.

Elizabeth Van Lew - a spinster in her 30s because her betrothed and true love died of some lameo virus like influenza or something - lives with her mother in Richmond. Initially outspoken, compassionate, and possessed of strong convictions and Union sympathies, I had high hopes that Elizabeth would be the hero I wanted. Alas, she is mostly a whiner, who happens to accomplish some pretty brave things. She and her mother live off her father's fortune left to them under the condition that the family slaves cannot be freed. The family slaves are described as deeply loving and devoted to their masters and perfectly content to stay - particularly when faced with Elizabeth’s many apologies for the conditions of the will. It is also oft mentioned that Elizabeth and her mother pay their slaves, there is no condition of the will preventing this, so they’re basically just servants, which is cool dudes. EXCEPT THAT IT IS NOT AT ALL.

Elizabeth carefully builds an underground network of Union sympathizers to get information in and out of Richmond. She uses the disregard for her station as a southern woman to charm and bribe her way into the local prison in order to exchange information with the Union soldiers being held prisoner. The Confederate officials, who are really due no kind light, are painted simply as exhausted and confused men. They are easily plied by Elizabeth’s pleas to treat the Union soldiers in the good faith that the good ladies of the North are doing the same for their boys. Essentially, without flat out saying so saying it, Chiaverini characterizes the Confederate men as compassionate foot soldiers who are just following orders. Many a valiant escape is organized by Van Lew and her underground spy network, which returns many a man back to Union soil. Somehow, though a foolproof method of transporting people North is devised, it seems to be used exclusively for white people. The only black people who show up in the novel are the slaves belonging to the Van Lew family, and as is said many times, they feel too much love and loyalty to even think of leaving. Again, it’s totally cool bros, the slaves are choosing this, so it’s okay. Their owners are just that nice, they want to stay and serve them forever.

Issues of historical lens and race aside, this book presents an interpretation of the few facts and sources of information we have regarding Elizabeth Van Lew, a real woman who took on crazy risks to support the Union, and has faced her own fair share of unflattering portrayal through the years. Chiaverini spends a lot of time in Van Lew’s head - lamenting the war and Confederate sympathies, planning an escape -  and plenty of quiet moments biding time in the Van Lew mansion. As a lover of history, particularly antebellum and Civil War America I made it through out of personal interest - rather than really loving the book. History nerds out there who enjoy reading with a critical lens, and soccer moms looking for a book club book read away. The rest of you should really just gird your emotional loins and sit down to watch Ken Burns’ The Civil War. It will take you roughly the same amount of time as trudging through this book and you will walk away a better educated person.

Don't leave your keys in the door, you never know who might find them

Having a house to yourself is pretty much EXACTLY like Risky Business as far as I am concerned. No roommates, no pants, no volume control, and certainly no manners or normal niceties observed. The summer after my first year of teaching, in a matter of a week I went from having a full classroom and a house full of roommates to living completely alone. It was amazing. Not to suggest that I feel anything but affection for my former students or house mates, just to say that after a year of near constant people, having a whole to floors to myself was a glorious luxury. I found a job as a swim instructor, ensuring I never really had to wear pants ( a life long dream come true), and there was no one to scold me for drinking my wine right out of the bottle (really, why get a glass dirty when you’re not even sharing?).

Living the bachelor pad dream, I spent entire weekends without speaking to anyone but the delivery guy, and entire evenings on the couch with nothing but Det. Elliot Stabler and a bottle of wine for company. All done, of course, while wearing pants as infrequently as possible.

With no attempting to eat urinal cakes, or jump out classroom windows on my watch, no one out to steal my keys to try and lock me out of the classroom, I let my personal awareness float away in a haze of chlorine and sunscreen. The keys thing though, is an issue for me even when I am on alert (there’s a reason teachers actually wear lanyards - they’re not just for college freshmen). I was on a first name basis with the campus security force in college because I locked myself out so frequently, and my roommate Jo got on average 3 texts a week asking if she knew where I had left my keys. So it should come as no surprise that I have a bad habit of leaving them in the door once I unlock it. The house I was living in was not in the best of shape, the was funky and the lock even funkier. When shuffling a pool bag, groceries, a couple books, and a towel getting inside the door was no small accomplishment; this frequently led to me dropping everything on the stairs, yelling at the door, finally getting it open, throwing all my things onto the landing and storming up the long flight of stairs to the kitchen. You’ll note that nowhere in this melodrama do I remember to yank the keys out of the door. Living with roommates, someone generally comes through the door yelling at you about leaving your keys in the door (again) and all is (mostly) well. Living alone, you have no such luxury.

Not long into my summer of solitude I left my keys hanging in the top lock. Dried out and eaten alive by pool chemicals, I couldn’t wait to take a shower, and stay dry for a full 12 hours. In my haste to feel human again my keys slipped my mind. 45 minutes later, I was well settled into the couch, watching Law and Order reruns with my dear friend Charles Shaw, in what had become my go to loungewear, underwear and a tee shirt. although I like to pretend my life is a sitcom, I don’t have a highly paid stylist to make sure that I look adorable even when I should be disheveled and gross - I just look disheveled and gross. Following the iconic “dun dun” or Law & Order I hear a door rattling and commotion. Assuming its the opening to the horrific crime about to be tried, I thought little of it until it seemed to be getting louder. The rattling and pounding of the  door stopped and the shouting sounded less like TV and more like someone in my house. There is nothing quite like an SVU marathon to make you fear the worst. Jumping up, wine bottle in hand I stuck my head around the door frame of the living room to peek out over the landing of the stairs. Hearing the still indistinct shouts even louder I approached the top of the stairs. Standing on the top step, dressed in nothing but an oversized college tee shirt and underwear (definitely not the cute ones either) armed with a bottle of 3 buck Chuck I found myself face to face with our downstairs neighbor who was rattling my keys and yelling in an attempt NOT to scare me as he returned them. Frozen to my spot - thankful it was not a serial killer, but I’d like to see any of you react quickly to the guy downstairs materializing in your apartment while you are pantless - I had nothing to say.

In what I can only assume was an attempt to be witty he said;

“Looks like I have a new car!”

Still startled, I must have looked confused because he clarified it was a joke, and he was just there to return the keys he’d seen in the door. Gathering the few wits I could I grabbed the keys and thanked him.  Before closing the door behind him, Mr. Downstairs turns around and says, “Come over anytime, I’d love to hang out.”

Judging you so harshly right now. - Boots 

Eleanor & Park - Rainbow Rowell

I hate it when reading makes you feel guilty and stupid. Not because of the content, mind you, but because the book isn't living up to your expectations. I'm in the middle of Eleanor & Park, and I was so excited to read it. It has been received with much acclaim, by a lot of people who I respect. It has been recommended by authors, reviews, and friends who have given me many wonderful suggestions in the past. I can't shake the feeling that I am missing something entirely, or that something is deeply wrong with me because I don't get the hype.

Set up is a small midwestern town in 1986, half Korean Lloyd Dobbler clone (if you didn't just get that reference go watch Say Anything RIGHT NOW and don't even think about coming back until you have) and chubby, quiet, red haired Eleanor who hides a miserable home life fall in love on the bus. The story is told through the perspective of both teens, flipping back and forth between the two through each moment. The raw emotions, the insecurity, self doubt, and infatuation of first love is absolutely there, but it's doesn't do enough for me as a reader.

There is a passage that struck me as I was reading, where both Eleanor and Park are sitting in honors English where they are reading Romeo and Juliet (why are they always reading Romeo and Juliet in teen novels? It's not poetic, it's pedantic. Even if it standard 10th/11th grade reading. So are a lot of things.) Mr. Stessman, the teacher, attempts to draw Eleanor out by engaging with her on why Romeo and Juliet endures as a beloved classic. Unsuccessful in soliciting the answer he wants from a cynical Eleanor he turns to Park who says, " "Because people want to remember what its like to be young? And in love?' "

Reading that shortly have paging through my massive stack of journals from college it struck me that maybe this is EXACTLY why I don't love most the YA fiction I'm reading right now. It's praised for its portrayal of young love, and the emotions therein. I do not need any reminder of blundered romances, the feeling that you've entirely ruined a relationship with one text, the feeling of making a mix tape for someone and hoping they like it; and also the total fear that they will hate all of it. I don't need a reminder of the pints of ice cream I ate, sobbing in a dorm room or the unavoidable "stupid boy grin" I get when I receive a text from a crush. (Think for 5 seconds and you'll know that look. Poker face, not a thing I do well.) Or rather, I want to read something that evokes the same feelings pulling out my journals do.

That brings me around to a huge BUT. This should make it that much easier to engage those feelings, it makes that much more disappointing that it falls so flat. There are compelling and emotional novels out there, and I have read them, SO WHY AREN'T THEY GETTING ALL THE ATTENTION? And thus we arrive at the rub of my constant grumping. All these books come so highly recommended but I am so sick of whiny white kids. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian is the only one of my recent favorite YA novels getting the accolades it deserves. Every single book list I've perused has an endless number of trilogies about post apocalyptic death games, or abusive and unhealthy love with supernatural beings. (I promise I will got off this soapbox sooner or later, bear with me) I promise you all, white kids in unfortunate circumstances are not the only teens out there, and I'm done reading about them.

Which brings me back around to my first point - I feel guilty and stupid about reading this book and how I feel about it. Clearly my opinion on the book is my opinion - and I get to make that decision, but am I missing something bigger - dismissing something because I am bored and frustrated with this kind of narrative. At the same time, I trust my gut to know what kind of writing I like, and really sparks a fire for me. This isn't doing that for me, and I trust that. What I don't trust is that I am coming down overly harsh because  "uughh more of the same" blinders. Thoughts? Feelings? Anyone? Bueller....Bueller?

Boots says: I love hardbacks with flimsy paper covers. Tastes like sad, desperate teenage love. I thoroughly enjoyed rubbing my face against the stiff corners of this book.

[MAJOR SPOILERS] The Fault In Our Stars - John Green

I won’t lie - I didn’t think it was great literature, but I sobbed like a baby. [MAJOR SPOILERS]

Unafraid of the hatred of a teenage Tumblr fandom, it does not bother my to say I’m on the fence about The Fault In Our Stars. I read it one evening after work, sobbing the entire way into my double order of spicy beef and noodles. Soggy eggrolls and tear sodden fortune cookies aside, after the initial emotional trauma of a tragic love story I didn't find myself particularly attached to the read. Those of you who know me at all, know that my highest rated Netflix category is “Romantic Tear Jerkers,” and I will cry at the slightest suggestion of something emotional. It should come as no surprise that I ruined my take out  with the salty tears of teenage heartache. John Green is inarguably a great storyteller, who has captured the essence of the teenage psyche in a way that many other authors have attempted and failed to write well. It is absolutely to his credit that he has reached so many millions of fans; as well as encouraged a love of books and reading in those who might otherwise turn on another episode of whatever replaced Jersey Shore on MTV. Green certainly tells a compelling narrative that pulled me in, but I can’t say I walked away from the book with anything more than a feeling of “well that time was better spent reading than watching Dirty Dancing for the 50th time.”

The plotline itself was highly predictable - privileged white young woman is slightly angstier than most as she faces living in perpetual cancer limbo. Neither in remission, not getting worse, Hazel just is.Arguably a much better reason to be depressing and angst ridden than most teenagers (especially you Bella Swan, I’m looking at you.) She immediately expresses her feelings that she is only a burden to those in her life, predominantly because all she will ever do is hurt people when she dies. This sets her on a course to eschew those she has not already committed to hurting, like her parents and instead spends all her time watching America’s Next Top Model re-runs (wait, do most people not do that?). My disappointment started here, as this really ruined the plot for the rest of the book. It was immediately apparent that she would forge a relationship, a romantic one, which will allow her to lower her guard on this front until that person does exactly what she fears she will do. Enter that someone, Gus. Gus Waters is the dreamboat of every well read, engaged, and intellectual teenage girl. Charming, eloquent, curious, good looking, and he plays basketball. From here unfolds the classic tale of star crossed lovers - only this time instead of a priest with some roofies and petty family feuds getting in the way, cancer plays the Montagues, and the Capulets. Now that I have spoiled the major plot twist for you all, you can read the rest yourself.

I did appreciate that both Hazel and Gus felt like significantly more relatable teenagers than characters in what I was reading in high school. Both are witty, and intellectual, engaged with their own feelings, and both have a distinct point of view carefully crafted from their own experience. It was refreshing to explore characters who were not typecast into Mean Girls-esque stereotypes, and who had opinions on more than the latest scandal circulating school. This made it that much more frustrating that the plot felt so pedantic. It was a gift to read such engaging main characters, and heart wrenching to watch them cling to each other as things fell apart, but I wanted them to have so much more. A rewrite of Romeo and Juliet with significantly less whining, (seriously, Juliet needed a solid reality check, from reality's hand to her face.) TFIOS left me feeling meh. It didn’t challenge me to think on another level, it didn’t leave me with any really big puzzles to chew on, it really just left me with some seriously sad and soggy fortune cookies.

I absolutely enjoy popcorn books, enjoyable reads that don’t leave a lasting impression, just like popcorn leaves you hungry a mere 20 minutes later. TFIOS was very much a popcorn book for me. Maybe I am too (prematurely) old and grumpy to really “get it,” although that’s a depressing thought, I had high hopes that Green would challenge his readers more. I’ve been watching his series VlogBrothers, a series of online conversations via video with his brother since high school, and I would highly recommend it. I have major respect for Green, from what to say about books and writing, and I love that he doesn’t talk down to his audience. In TFIOS Green has added a new dimension to the characters in a tired story, and treats teeangers as capable, intelligent, people with something to say. And yet, I feel he could have pushed it further. Personally, I wanted more, but I would most certainly recommend it to anyone looking for engaging characters, and doesn’t mind a good cry.

Boots says: I AM NOT A KLEENEX, and do not appreciate being used as such. It took a good 40 minutes of careful attention to my glossy coat to make it right after mom sobbed and snotted all over me. On the other paw, it was a short read so Mom had more time to pay attention to me,

Stuck in the woods with no flashlight

I don’t like the feeling of being held hostage by a book.

I am not one to abandon ship halfway through, unless it is truly terrible writing.

It frustrates me to no end to feel I’m not reading a book because I want to, or because I’m finding it enjoyable, but rather because I feel I have to know. For this reason, I have been known to finish a multitude of really awful books. Books that other people repeatedly ask me, “Why don’t you just stop reading it?” as I pause to complain out loud. Terrible content? I’ll probably finish it. Wildly offensive? Again, I’ll probably read it. Terrible writing, and totally boring are cardinal sins in my book(s). Perhaps I’m too nosy, but my insatiable curiosity (or sometimes disbelief that the book could get any worse) keeps me forging ahead in all but the most dismal of circumstances.

As an author it is a difficult thing to reveal enough information to keep a reader engaged, while also withholding enough to keep the same reader racing through pages. I mean no one would have read Harry Potter if JK Rowling had opened with “It;s cool guys, Voldermort is dark and twisted due to childhood of neglect. he can’t understand love, which becomes his ultimate undoing. Also Harry and Ginny totally end up doing it.” No one would have stood in line for hours to get their hands on the books. Think about best selling mysteries - Dan Brown (like it or not, he’s  a best seller), Agatha Christie, Gillian Flynn - they all keep us in enough suspense to keep reading, but lull the reader into a false sense of conclusion with various hints and side plots along the way. When done right I will stay up until 3 am to finish a book because I have to know what happens. When done wrong, and it can be done oh so wrong, I feel beholden and held hostage to a mildly grumpy jailer. Reading in short bursts and fits between loud rantings and ravings to Mr. Willoughby, I don’t enjoy a single part of the process. The feeling overwhelms the prose, the plot, and the characters. It causes the reader to lose sight of the forest - trees and all, for tunnel vision of being miserably lost in the woods and needing to get out.

I find myself in this predicament with my current read, and I find it all the more frustrating as the book comes lauded by authors, and book reviewers who I generally like and respect. It almost makes the feeling worse - as if I am too stupid to appreciate the book or I’m missing something bigger picture. At the moment the author continue to allude heavily and frequently to events just prior to the book that clearly have significance for where we are now. The allusions, however, are unfailingly the same on each page and do little to move anything forward, or provide much perspective.

The book is young adult fiction, and a romance, although one that deals with more than just the tribulations of falling in love at 16. The young woman appears to be struggling with family abuse and perhaps some abandonment. The novel unfolds alternating in perspective between the star crossed lovers (yes, I’m being deliberately withholding. To prove a point, and because I’m only 43 pages in and plan to do a full review) as they set out into their junior year of high school. Both misfits, and drawn together by circumstance - I am both intrigued and have high hopes for where the narrative will go. For now I remain in a Sisyphean nightmare of fervid reading and ranting until I can get some traction to find my way out of the woods.

Kittens don’t come with owners manuals, or on/off buttons

There’s a scene in “When Harry Met Sally” where Meg Ryan is out to lunch with Carrie Fischer and some nameless friend. Carrie is regaling her friends with her latest encounter with her married boyfriend. The gist is that she snooped through his things, found out he and his wife just bought a $1200 dining room set (hey this was 1989 people) and she wonders aloud if he’s ever going to leave his wife. Her friends answer with a resounding and emphatic chorus of, “he’s never gonna leave her!” using a tone of exasperation that suggests this is a conversation they visit frequently. As cliched lover of all Rob Riener films, I have spent many days hoping and waiting for my life to turn into one - and pondering how my life could already be set on a course for a big dramatic ending on the empire state building, or with a tearful speech full of quirky things only a soulmate could love. In recent years I mostly find myself coming to the conclusion that I am well on my way to being Carrie Fischer in that particular scene of When Harry Met Sally.

Ask my friends and they will tactfully deny they have had to have that exact conversation with me, while shortly there after agreeing with you that Robin’s “Call Your Girlfriend” elicits a “this is my sooooong” when it comes on at the bar.

If we’re going to talk about types, the more unavailable the better as far as my twitterpated heart is concerned. Drop a hint, or even not so subtly let me know that were it not for your serious girlfriend/commitment issues/arrested development/feelings for someone else we would totally be a thing and I’m stuck like glue. As the proud owner of a fixative, and one track mind, I frequently cast myself in the beginnings of next year’s regurgitated version of The Notebook. Until the next Mr. Darcy wanders into my field of vision it can be a morose time to be my friend once I realize that it’s never going to happen.

So I can tell you, my friends were thrilled when I said I was adopting a cat. I love my friends dearly, but I do believe they were getting a little bit exhausted from my incessant texts from my hermetic existence. Living alone, and working from home leaves a gal more than a little lonely. A cat, I joke, would be the perfect pet. It’s everything I want in a boyfriend -  always up for the chase but never wants to be caught, slightly aloof until they want something, and most importantly unavailable. Maybe, I even joked, the cat will fill my need for the distant beaus I generally sought, and I could finally finally find a guy who wanted to date.

Luck would have it that I had access to a liter of darling kittens who needed a good home. Naturally I chose the one most frequently found up in a tree or biting ankles. He had a little white chest that looked just like a tiny tuxedo, and a little white beauty spot above his lip on his dark grey face. Devastatingly handsome, big trouble, playing in poison ivy, it was true love at first sight. Unable to resist a self deprecating joke, I named him Mr. Willoughby after the Jane Austen character in Sense and Sensibility. Not only did his tiny formal attire fit the bill, but Mr. Willoughby is a scoundrel of my favorite kind - married to another in the city, preying upon the true affections of the genuine Marianne Dashwood. (Who is then married, in consolation,  to Snape, excuse me Professor Snape, in the Ang Lee adaptation.) The tiny kitten may have looked the part but much to everyone’s amusement he has not the personality of such a rouge. Rascal, rapscallion, hell raiser, general terror, absolutely but distant? Unavailable? Hard to get? NONE OF THE ABOVE. The charming little gentleman is the clingiest, neediest, most smothering, living thing I have ever met. Should I disappear from his line of sight for even the smallest fraction of a second he yowls at top volume. I have not peed alone in my house since adopting Mr. Willoughby. Every waking moment is a battle for my full and exclusive attention. Books, the iPhone, the computer, really anything in front of you that is not the small and furry kitten is viciously attacked. Even when it isn't in my lap, the cat displays a level of vitriol I generally reserve for Bill O'Reilly toward any object that receives attention. Once conquered, my lap is not nearly enough. In fact the closer he can get to my jugular the better. His preferred spot is seated across my neck, rear end firmly in my face, preferably gnawing on a knuckle.

Much to the dismay of my friends, my attempt to adopt a “cool” cat, has gone terribly awry and instead I find myself with a helicopter cat; leaving me with nothing but time and eyes for the wildly unavailable. Girlfriend? It’s complicated? Emotional issues? Living at least 1,000 miles away? Never gonna leave her? Now accepting applications.  

My cat boyfriend, hard at work on the blog.

And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you kids and your meddling hormones

I think at some point we all  promise ourselves never to get old and lame. For me, the day I start identifying with Principal Vernon in the Breakfast Club, I will have lost sight of everything and might as well give up. Having revisited The Breakfast Club last night, I thankfully can say, I’m only part of the way there. I can still vividly recall (bear with me, 8 years ago feels like a lot when you are 24) being in high school, and feeling bored and disinterested in most literature geared towards my age group. I couldn't identify with the characters I was reading, they all felt reductive, and while I knew I couldn’t be ( and wasn't) the only teen who liked learning for the sake of learning it certainly felt like it. Being smart in the books I read meant something different than I wanted it to. It meant girls read Jane Austen, wore oversized glasses, were painfully shy, and could do their advanced math homework in 10 minutes. I hated reading Jane Austen, (sorry bros, can’t staaaand reading it) I didn’t wear glasses, I wasn’t shy or embarrassed to be smart, and I certainly wasn’t taking advanced math. I wanted to see kids engaged in the world - who cared about what was happening. Kids who took an interest in culture, who could be brilliant and still get a D in trigonometry.

I don’t doubt they were out there somewhere, in fact, they were my friends. Some of the smartest, most interesting people I know are the people I slacked off in French class with, but it bugged me not to see them in books. I’m sure that had I not been stubbornly independent and focused on being self reliant I probably could have found YA fiction vastly more suited to the way I saw the world. It is incredibly exciting to live in a world where YA has taken off so rapidly and grown so exponentially. As someone who knows the struggle of getting self described “non-readers” to read having so many more options and access points to literature for young minds is incredible. (My thoughts on how a good book can make a difference, and the importance of reaching kids through books later.) Despite all the growth in the genre, I still find myself frustrated, and pondering whether I am just too old. I find myself rolling my eyes, sighing, and dismissing characters and motivations because “really, seriously? I know they’re 16 but come on and stop acting so ridiculously.”  Books that seemingly have huge followings, and hundreds of thousands of readers who speak to the credibility and relatability of the book.

Upon review I have found I vastly preferred Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, Trenton Lee Stewart's’ Benedict Society Series, and Pseudonymous Bosch’s Secret Series to anything coming out for the 14-18 age group - which makes me feel like perhaps there is still something missing from YA. Both of these series follow the adventures of exceptionally intelligent, caring, and perceptive kids who, when faced with adult sized problems, solve them with wit, brilliance, and emotional fortitude that I admire. the authors treat their character, and intended audience with no pretense of lacking anything due to their age. All hallmarks of my all time number one book series ever as well. (oh my god you guys, Harry Potter. It’s Harry Potter.)  It’s almost as if turning 15 means losing your sense of adventure, wonder, and desire to be intelligent and instead it is replaced with a need to be involved in a tragic love story. Alright, I admit, that is kind of what happens when you go to high school; but did Hermione Granger teach us nothing? Can we not face the perils and hazards of navigating new found love (and hormones) while also maintaining intelligence, passion for knowledge, thirst for justice, and a sense of adventure? Why should the climax of every YA novel involve a break up fraught with outside complications? Or why should the solution always be involve absolution and social acceptance?

Being a teenager is about so much more than first relationships - and it comes in so many shapes, sizes, and colors. That’s the really cool thing, there isn't one way to be a teenager, or really to be anyone, so I am frustrated that YA fiction is coming up “50 Shades of Pale: Average White Kids Who Are Given Problems Fall in Love.” My grumping has led me to feel like my dad, who spends a lot of time telling me my favorite famous people have negative brain cells, and that all songs on the radio sound alike. I love my Dad (Hi Dad!) and he is probably right about the negative brain cells thing, and I’m not about to call him old, I’m just saying, those are marks on my yardstick to being old and too much like Principal Vernon.

There is some amazing YA fiction out there (I’ll even recommend some in upcoming post!), and naturally even stories about privileged white teenagers beating the inordinate odds of a high school class system to fall in love before they go to college and he cheats on her with a cheerleader while she knocks boots with the alterna-crowd has its place. However, I’d really like to see more works of YA that don’t make me feel like these two:

Am I missing out here? What are your favorite Young Adult novels?

*But you all know I secretly completely aspire to be Statler and Waldorf, right? I mean look at thos eyebrows - what I wouldn't do to have those caterpillars on my face.

[SPOILER EDITION] Deborah Harkness' Book of Life

For those of you who did not read my hilarious summation of my severe disappointment, I found this book severely disappointing. Not only did it reduce what could have, and should have been a totally bad-ass female lead into a sorry excuse for a tear stained  Kleenex, it failed to wrap up any of the multitude of interesting and complex plot lines that started in books  1 and 2. More frustrating than failing to wrap them up was the myriad of plot lines that were wrapped up in an overly simplistic way - riddled with more holes than a carnival shooting gallery wall.

The book starts out with a lot of arguing about what is the best plan for Diana who is now the most powerful witch in the world and carrying impossibly conceived vampire/witch twins. (stop me when this sounds exactly like your favorite teen vampire drivel). Diana, who again note is THE MOST POWERFUL WITCH IN THE WORLD, not to mention a high caliber scholar is notably absent from an opinion and a voice about her own fate. Peripheral characters who have been mentioned in passing, (who are naturally all dudes, since ladies need protecting) are added to Diana’s security detail. Many pages are wasted looking for lost but incredibly important artifacts (again, stop me when you realize a bunch of teen wizards did a better job of this in the Deathly Hallows) before they magically show up by owl, as if delivered by Dumbledore himself.  the decision is made that Diana and Matthew must part so as to establish their own family, away from the cackling and maniacal Baldwin, who is currently in charge. This was possibly the most aggravating point in the book, it was a more frustrating read of Harry Potter 5 where Harry is all “angst angst angst angst nobody likes me, everybody I love dies” because at least he had a community to remind him that he was being a huge Debbie Downer. It was slightly less aggravating that the multiple blank pages Stephanie Meyer's made the “artistic” choice to include in New Moon, to describe Bella’s depression after Edward leaves. Yep, this is book is only slightly less aggravating than Twilight. At least Diana gets a voice, no matter how pathetic, and lame, and wishy-washy it is, she has a voice.

Diana continues to be a drip, Matthew continues to atone of the sins of his past by creating his own personal hell of regret, and there you have the middle of the book. Finally equipped with all the pages of the Book of Life, the last one floating in as if on a silver parachute from a wealthy (and bored) patron of the Capitol, Diana puts them altogether only to become the book of life herself. She springs a tree from her head, and sports some new tats that detail the history of magical things, we are then brought to the monstrously boring conclusion where Diana sits around and argues with the Covenant until all her enemies are defeated. She then retires with her  two half witch, half vampire babies and Matthew and lives in subservient marital bliss.

Overall my biggest disappointment stems from my own expectations. A Discovery of Witches was a fantastic, smart, and intriguing read that promised a really enjoyable trilogy. While Shadow of Night lacked some the first book’s fast pacing and spent more time on living in Elizabethan England than on plot development I found it enjoyable as an independent work of historical fiction. This last book really fell flat, especially on the promise that was delivered upon in the first book. Diana’s transformation form strong, independent, brilliant scholar, to completely dependent and self doubting uncertainty was perhaps the biggest let down. Young women and girls aren’t the only ones who need Hermione Granger, the March sisters, and Katniss - grown women need them too.

Boots says: Mom spent way too much time reading this, and not enough time rubbing my belly. This book made for a delicious crew toy, and an excellent nap pillow. I might read it, if it were taped up on the walls of my litter box.

The Book of Life - Deborah Harkness (3rd in the All Souls Trilogy) NO SPOILERS

I read this with incredibly high hopes, after the first book and I was let down.

Upon closing the Book Of Life, I felt an incredibly wave of disappointment. Having spent the first 100 pages racing through to get to the action, the next several hundred still waiting for the action, and the last 200 thinking “There is no way to satisfactorily wrap up any story line before I am out of pages.” Disappointment, compounded by more disappointment. Harkeness's first book, A Discovery of Witches was more than satisfactory reading, and as lover all things historical and smutty (What’s up, Ben Franklin?) I found Shadow of Night (book the second) to be an acceptable summer pool read. Book of Life fell short of even the low bar I had set for it. It was comparable to a mediocre drunk college hook up, where the anticipation vastly outweighs the actual experience. The anticipation is exciting and fun, as you take yet another shot with your best friend in your crappy college dorm room. Even getting to the party and “running into” that guy from down the hall you “run into” at most of these things is exciting. Pretending you’re not going to leave early, or that you won’t just abandon your friends who you went with - it’s all part of the game. This is the first 200 pages of the book. Then, just as things should be getting good - you realize that you have to walk back to someone’s dorm in the rain, for like 6 blocks, and you start to wonder if it’s really all worth it. You've come this far however, so tally ho! it is as you make your move to abandon your friends before a decent hour and the chilling race back to campus. As you get back to the dorms you really start to question everything - this is the halfway point in this book. It’s just not getting any better, and now you’re in some mildly musty smelling dorm room, with poorly disguised cinder block walls, a lava lamp, and posters of Bob Marley and Jim Belushi plastering the walls. If this were a choose your own adventure novel, you would have started over at the beginning, but you’re committed! You have to know it ends. Plus, you were so excited when you started this - there must have been a reason why - maybe you've just lost sight. As you hear the disgruntled grumbles of a displaced roommate who “just wanted to play some video games, dude” fade through the hallway you realize that actually this is not anything it was made up to be. You feel slightly dizzy, (probably should have let up on the Malibu shots) and realize this guy is a TERRIBLE kisser. You start to wonder when exactly you can gracefully extract yourself, or if it is too late to pretend you hear your mom calling you. From there you realize there will be no redemption, there is no satisfying conclusion to all of this, ANY of this. Settling into your fate, because the book isn't so terrible and you've made it this far, the last pages are dismally predictable and equally uneventful to the rest of the novel.

Boots says: I very much enjoyed chewing on the stiff corners of this hardback - the shiny cover made it infinitely more appealing. On taste alone I give this book two paws up. Overall, content could have used more cats.

Those of you who care not whether you are spoiled on content or have already read it can find a full spoiler post in the next time.

Bonus picture of Boots