Snapshot Book Review: You or Someone Like You

You or Someone Like You by Chandler Burr
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Burr does a phenomenal job of appealing to readers of all types: those who enjoy easy-read, name-dropping, fast-talking high-profiles-in-busy-cities sort of novels (by putting Howard in the upper echelon of the movie industry in--where else?--LA); those who enjoy books seasoned with literature references (by making both Howard and Anne literature professors and by creating a family dynamic by which these characters communicate with each other and with their son via these references); and those who are seeking insight into cultural and religious institutions (by tackling the subject of Jewish identity). Moreover, the style of the writing is not such that it would put off any one reader, and so each type is drawn into the other two threads of the story almost without choice.The case concerning Jewish identity is one I can relate to, being born of a Jewish father and a Protestant mother. Yet, I have never considered the potential for this as a basis for struggle or even division. It is one of those matters I have glossed over in my life, perhaps always feeling something was a bit amiss but pushing it to the side, since I know that--being born of a non-Jewish mother--I am not technically Jewish and therefore do not need to know much more than how to answer the question that inevitably comes when someone learns my last name: "you're jewish, right?"

This is a brave novel, as it addresses a subject that will undoubtedly draw criticism and hateful reactions. Just as Anne's character attests, however, literature is meant to show us realities we do not want to face, and that is why so much of the greatest literature was hated in its day. This novel will certainly be hated by some. For my part, I will recommend it to those who I believe can approach the question with open minds and open hearts--and perhaps a love of literature, as well.

Discover more about the book at www.annerosenbaum.com.

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Snapshot Book Review: Because I Love Her

Because I Love Her by Nicki Richesin
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a beautiful collection of essays written by women about their daughters--usually young daughters--told through reflections about their relationships with their mothers. I think mothers, particularly young ones, will take the most from reading this collection, but even without having a daughter of my own, I related to many of the messages the writers convey through their small pieces. Essays that struck me in particular include:

• "Cutting the Purse Strings" by Heather Swain
  
• "Other People’s Mothers" by Katrina Onstad
  
• "A Girl Grows in Brooklyn" by Sara Woster
  
• "Mother Hunting" by Kaui Hart Mennings
  
• "What I Would Tell Her" by Rachel Sarah

I would recommend this book to all women who either adore or abhor their mothers and want to reflect just a little bit more on that relationship.

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Michael Jackson: Quote of a Lifetime

I read this quote in the AM New York (for those who don't live in NYC, this is a free publication that is handed out at subway entrances Mon-Fri), and I felt like it was something I should have said. So I am--to steal a recent turn of phrase--"re-tweeting" it, albeit without Twitter:

"Ever since I could breath air, I have known Michael Jackson. He taught me my ABCs, he taught me I could heal the world. . . . He told me to remember the time when we fell in love, and I do."

Run for Central Park

Somehow, I managed to surprise myself again. Don't ask me how this happens--I honestly don't know where these running performances come from, particularly considering that a) I've been running "seriously" for less than a year and b) I haven't trained with a true running team or received any sort of coaching in over 8 months (i.e. the last time I ran with the Harriers). The only thing I can attribute this to is having been trained as a swimmer and having been the the underdog in that sport for so many years: suffering through practices I could barely complete; sprinting through sets that were intended for "recovery" just to make the times; and pitifully losing every race I swam, making me the last swimmer left in the pool--one of the most humiliating experiences any swimmer can endure. Through all this, the mantras I learned (as corny as they sound) were: "Keep going," "You can't quit now," and, "The pain will only last through the end of this set/race/etc.; you can handle it."

These are the same mantras I apply to running. Whether I need to talk myself into finishing the last two miles of a 20-mile run or to keep myself at "sprint speed" in a 4-mile race, I rely upon my previous mental training to pull me through. This doesn't explain how I have managed to excel at this running business so quickly--I never achieved this sort of success in swimming, and I put in equal, if not more effort there--but perhaps I have stumbled upon a sport where I am lucky enough to possess a "natural gift."

In any event, all this speculation arises due to the results of my latest race, a 4-miler which took place this past Saturday. It was wicked-hot: 86F high for the day, with 94% humidity. I had run miserably slow runs all week long, so I didn't expect to do particularly well, but I gave it my all and somehow I pulled out a 7 min/mile pace by some odd fluke. If you'd like to see ranking results, you can check them out here.

Note: There were 207 female participants in my age group. By some weird happenstance, that puts me in the top 10% of 20-24 yr-old finishers!

My Own Place

I have a goal.

Today, I take the momentous step of resigning my lease. I have spent all morning cleaning the apartment, not only because it is “my week” to do so, but also because I want to make a good impression on my landlord, just in case that should have anything to do with his raising or lowering my rent (and so I have leverage in saying that I am a good, responsible tenant when I argue that our internet connection is shoddy).

However, as I clean burnt soya sauce out of the crevices of our stovetop burners, pick strands of black hair out of our front doormat, and open the box of Swiffer sheets that I bought three weeks ago (meaning they should have been opened by those whose duties it is to clean on their designated weekends by now…), I cannot help but make a resolution. At this time next year, I am determined that I will be signing a lease to an apartment for ONE. It might be the shoddiest thing you’ve ever seen, it might be the size of a closet and require performing Cirque de Soli contortions to get into the shower, but I am resolved to live by myself.

As good as these roommates have been in the series of roommates I have had in my life, they are still roommates and therefore still earn a share of my resentment for not living precisely as I do. They do not meet my cleanliness standards (I can think of few people who would), they leave their belongings in “shared” spaces in a sprawling “I own this area” fashion (unfair!), they leave all apartment handiwork to me (roach-killing included), and—most basic of all—they are inevitably using the bathroom or kitchen at the very moments when I wish to use these facilities.

What could be more luxurious than coming home and knowing you will not be observed or bothered when you shut your door to the world? To know that you have a bathroom and a stovetop all to yourself? To realize that the molding zucchini in the refrigerator can only be yours, and you therefore do not need to worry about informing anyone else that they are about to infect the rest of the food in there with dangerous illness-inducing spores? And imagine if it had a dining room! And a living room! I could invite people over and invite them to sit on furniture other than my Garfield sheet-covered bed while I finished cooking dinner….
These are the things I dream of; forget Prince Charming. Perhaps this is a true indication of the age of female autonomy. Or then again—and indeed more likely—maybe it’s just an indication of my own neuroses.