The Putting Edge

On Saturday, my cousin and her husband drove from Michigan with my sister so that we could go black-light mini-golfing at the Putting Edge, which is surely the venue of choice for birthday parties among the hip 11-year-olds of Norridge, Illinois. Black light murals of psychedelic mushrooms were complemented by the latest tunes from Fall Out Boy and the overwhelming fug of stale popcorn and adolescent flop sweat. In a word, AWESOME.

I shot one over par and beat my nearest competitor by two strokes. Manfriend, sadly, shot about twenty-seven over par, losing by about fifteen strokes. He redeemed himself in a hard-fought air hockey match against my cousin's husband, so I didn't break up with him.

My sister decided to stick around for a few days, so Sunday consisted of sleeping in, going to the library, and discussing her future over coffee. She's making some big decisions today, so keep your fingers crossed for her!



Reading: Sex Wars, Marge Piercy (intriguing so far).
Just finished: Unbowed, Wangari Maathai (really good memoir); Money Changes Everything, edited by Jenny Offill and Elisa Schappell (a mix of mostly thoughtful and occasionally tiresome essays).

Listening to: Let My People Go, Darondo; Naturally, Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings; Coal Miner's Daughter, Loretta Lynn.

(Image credit: www.cliftonhill.com, which looks like a much nicer place than The Putting Edge)

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.