Charles in Charge...of Love

Since I read a few celebrity gossip blogs and have the regrettable habit of watching Good Morning America while I get ready for work, it has come to my attention that a book called The Manny has recently been published. Truth be told, it sounds like Charles in Charge crossed with a Danielle Steele novel:

Jamie Whitfield, 36, lives on Park Avenue with her three children and her mostly absent high-powered attorney husband, Phillip, and works part-time as a producer for a prime-time news program. She hires Peter Bailey—29 and biding his time until he get funding for his software business—to plug the household's gaps and be a father figure to nine-year-old Dylan. The two, of course, are attracted to each other, and when Peter's money comes through, he doesn't tell Jamie. Phillip's temper tantrums when lacking pulpless orange juice or a wooden-handled umbrella are surprisingly funny, and a subplot where Jamie chases a trashy but potentially career-making story is strong. Jamie's co-workers are more realistically portrayed than her shallow friends, but even Jamie's children come alive when they root for mom's success. (Publishers Weekly, via Amazon)

If this were a Danielle Steele novel, though, Peter would have a twin brother named Jean-Paul, a darkly handsome world traveler who appears mid-novel and sweeps Jamie away on his jet as Peter yearns in the distance, finally realizing what he's lost. Jamie will enjoy the life of a pampered expatriate until she realizes that in the world of international glamor, everything is not as it seems!

Maybe I have a future writing copy on the back of paperback novels.

Anyway, I have to wonder if the mainstream media obsession with this manny nonsense is an expression of amazement at 1) a man debasing himself by performing caretaking work traditionally held by women (especially low-paid women of color), and 2) the fact that a man might be good at such work. I might consider the latter to be a small sign of progress, if it weren't treated like a colossal joke at every other turn in this culture.

Harry Potter and the Cauldron of Booze

So, if J.K. Rowling were to write a story about the evening on which we bought the latest Harry Potter meganovel, it would probably share a title with this here post. Although, in the spirit of Spanish-language acquisition, I suppose the title should be something more like: Harry Potter y la Gran Copa de Tequila.

Or, Harry Potter y la Cabeza que Le Duele Mucha en la Manana.

It all began when Alisa came over to celebrate the new book and finish off a bag of limes her mom bought her at Costco a couple weeks ago. These were the saddest limes in all the world, mi amiga. Fortunately, Alisa is good at squeezing things, and we soon had almost a cup of beautiful lime juice. In went a good pour of triple sec, and then several cups of tequila. Dios mio. These margaritas were delicious!

Several glasses later, Alisa stumbled off to the Book Cellar, while Manfriend and I lurched off toward Women and Children First, a fine bookseller in Andersonville. (Buy lots of books from them! They're great!) All along the way, we saw loads of happy people carrying their new copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. We were buoyed up on the shared excitement of the night. Or maybe it was the tequila. In any event, it was great fun. We each bought a copy (after making several new friends while waiting in line) and made our way home, only to fall asleep immediately.

The next day, we sequestered ourselves in opposite ends of the apartment and read like ones possessed. I finished the book first (because I am smarter) and then Manfriend polished it off while I was out and about with a friend.

My opinion: overall, I really liked the book. The epilogue was a disappointment of sorts, since it seemed to hew to a conservative line that Rowling seemed to be working against in the rest of the book. See, they're married and have babies now! It's a happy ending!

Despite my criticisms, though, I can't really wish more death and destruction upon Harry, et al. And I suppose a Return to Normalcy is what people might desire after upheaval (see: America in the 1950s).

For more stimulating discussion of HP7, check out my favorite feminist blog, Pandagon.

Lunch of Champions

Vegetarian Shepherd's Pie a la Palatial Quarters

1) Find a tupperware-type container
2) Dump in some frozen mixed vegetables
3) Toss a couple frozen veggie sausage links on top
4) Add about 8 tater tots
5) Sprinkle in various herbs and spices
6) Microwave and mush together
7) EAT

If Deborah Madison ever needs some help, she knows where to find me. Let's do lunch, Debs!

Incompetente

Today, I woke up feeling great, ready to face the day. I made my train on time, guzzled a giant iced coffee from Intelligentsia, and got to work. Sometimes I amaze myself with my productivity and my pseudo-lawyerly skillz.

My Spanish class starts in half an hour, so I suppose I should be writing this en espanol para practicar antes de la clase. Yes, only thirty minutes stands between me and awesome fluency! I wish. It's great to be in this class with my coworkers, though, because we present our cases to each other in Spanish, to the occasional befuddlement of our instructor, Felix (not his real nombre!). Take for instance, this exchange regarding a domestic violence case:

Coworker:"Okay, so yo tengo un caso en que el esposo de mi cliente...um...?como se dice 'hit her with a wrench?'"
Felix: "No se. ?Que es un 'wrench'?"
Class: Spends 15 minutes explaining the concept of "wrench" until someone has the genius idea of drawing a picture.

Similarly, legal phrases and concepts that are common in the U.S. are not necessarily common in Felix's homeland of Mexico. Sometimes I pity poor Felix, who must be alternately fascinated and bored by our legal tales. Although, thanks to me, he now has a rudimentary understanding of the U.S. pension system, such as it is. Public service, hurrah!

I feel about 50% incompetent in Spanish class. Sometimes, I'm rattling away con fluidez, and then things are suddenly blanco en la cabeza. Como se dice, "durr" en espanol? My clients don't seem to mind my occasional difficulties with their language, and I've even laughed about the language barrier with a few of them who don't speak English at all. Others, however, end up speaking more English than they initially let on. I've had people call and ask if I speak Spanish, only to launch into elaborate stories en ingles. It works so far, amigo.