See that stupid formatting in post below? Drives me crazy! I can’t edit HTML through WordPress on A.’s computer for some dumb reason. Won’t let me in. And the stupid (omg, I’m going to say it because I can’t think of another word!) … interface seems full of bugs. Who cares. Something doesn’t work and it’s not my fault, that’s all.

Stayed up late watching the “Time Life Down Home Soul” commercial. I need to get cable.

Ok, here’s what Leanne, the famous poet is reading:

Oh crap, I lost hers! Okay, here’s what Dana — my supermom, political fireball, continent-hopping, Canadian-marrying friend — recommends for nudist colony, spider hole and seashell picking reading:

“Just finished Isabel Allende’s Daughter of Fortune (for book group.) Fantastic. Probably one of my top 10 book group reads.

“Have now resumed reading Driven to Distraction – Recognizing and Coping with Attention Deficit Disorder in a desperate attempt to cope with my unstructured, stay-at-home mom life. Wish I were reading any of the 27 books in my nightstand. I have vowed not to read any other books (except those for book group) until those 27 are finished. In a nudist colony, I’d begin with Woman by Natalie Angier. If picking seashells, then Care of the Soul by Thomas Moore. Trapped in a spider hole definitely calls for See You at the Top by Zig Ziglar.

“The one book I would never ever read: Howard Stern’s Private Parts.”

Had the radio on in the background last night during Rock em Sock em Robot and caught pieces of this interview (Fresh Air). The book is Cross Country, the subtitle is the world’s longest: 15 Years and 90,000 Miles on the Roads and Interstates of America with Lewis and Clark, a lot of bad motels, a moving van, Emily Post, Jack Kerouac, my wife, my mother-in-law, two kids, and enough coffee to kill an elephant

Anyway, the author, Robert Sullivan, said his kids’ grandparents live in New York and Oregon (like mine) and instead of taking the plane back and forth to visit, he drove. I did that trip once. Well, twice, but only once with A. and I wrote a little-known masterpiece called Notes From a Car. It had a print run of one, which is signed and facing out in my bookshelf with a priceless cover photo of the bug-splattered grill on the 80-something Buick Park Avenue we drove out in.

And guess, what, I dusted it off! Aren’t you in for a treat.

Day 1: August 22, 2000
“We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” — Sheriff Brady, Jaws

5:00 am. Leaving Suffern. We’re up at 4:30, grabbing toothbrushes, toothpaste, coffee, cooler and kid. Everything else is smashed in the car. Tony wheels into the kitchen, getting pretty handy with his walker.  Tony staged an elaborate motorcycle crash bike two days before we left in a thinly veiled attempt to get out of hosting our “Goodbye” BBQ. 

Helen smiles, I wish she wouldn’t. It’s easier if she hates me. I try to think of something profound and impassioned to say that will neatly sum up my experiences with this family for the past three and a half years. something to wrap up every laugh, yell and tear that will be quoted with awe at family barbecues for years to come. A weird noise comes out of my throat instead, so I punch my husband in the arm. I don’t know what else to do.

There are quick and teary hugs in the dark by the car and we’re off. I drive the first leg, we’re heading west. A. stays awake until I-287, about 10 minutes. Trucks line the shoulders on both sides of the interstate, all the way to I-84. They’re crowding my road. “Get a room,” I yell. My family sleeps.

7:30am. A. and a. wake up. A. and a. are hungry. A. and a. are bored. A. open’s up Trivial Pursuit: Genus Edition, a parting gift from Helen. How long is the right index finger of the Statue of Liberty. He returns it to the back window.

9:30am. First stop, DuBois, Pennsylvania Service Area. We’re on Route 80. We get out first fill-up here, plus water, Sobe ginseng tea and a sausage/egg/cheese grease pie. Refreshments, $2.38; gas $21.50.

 

I’ve been dying to learn bridge.  I think it’s a fascinating game – the complexity, formalities and ritual, the seasoned pretzels and (at least at my parties) neat gin-and-tonics.  I haven’t quite got to the learning yet, but am trying to incorporate the game into my novel.  Aside from all of that delicious palace intrigue in the industry (wealthy bridge ladies routinely hire bridge studs to help rack up master points and tournament wins to the tune of eternal gossip) it’s a dead-on metaphor for relationships.  As my Uncle Bill says, the game is all about your partner.  If you don’t have the right partner, you won’t make it. 

And there’s this from Bridge for Dummies, which could have been lifted straight from The Rules: “10 Ways to be Kind to Your Partner”

1. Treat your partner like your best friend.  Even if you don’t know your partner that well.  Get him a soda, laugh at his jokes even if they aren’t funny, and so on. 
2. Tolerate Your Partner’s Errors.  Don’t keep harping on errors your partner has made — just forgive and try to forget (at least until after the game.)
3. Offer Words of Encouragement.  Give your partner a few words of support after the hand is over, particularly if you don’t make your contract.  “Tough luck” and “Nice Try” go over bigger than “My grandmother could have made that hand in her sleep.” 
4. Play the Positions Conventions You Both Want to Play.  Don’t force your partner to play your favorite positions conventions.

More later …

  Okay, yeah, I know, I don’t have time to write but have time to read Vogue. Whatever. In July, William Norwich offers some useless ideas to happy up your summer weekends!

• DON’T apply lipstick at the dinner table, it’s acceptable to do so only at luncheon.

• DO remember that service in Capri is slow for a reason. Relax.

• DON’T ever ask your boating host to return to dock. That’s what the helicopter is for.

• DO give card parties. Gin Rummy is chicer than bridge.

  If I had the nerve to talk to other writers — which I don’t, because I’m always sure their ready command of power verbs or their great hair and exotic travel stories, or their new three-book deal (screw them), will make me too mad to write.  But if I did, talk to other writers that is, I’d single out the women, the ones with children.  I’d grab their shoulders and shake them violently, with my eyes rolled back and crazed, and I would demand to know how they do it!  How do they manage to get something out and still stand there looking so damn calm!  (The imaginary writers with children in my head always look gallingly calm.)  I’m shredded three ways to Sunday, every day, and I want to know: where the hell are all the other frazzled writer moms?  The ones who have stories in their heads all ready to go and can’t scrounge up the three or four quiet and guilt-free hours a day to get them down.   I have a part-time nanny (who I can’t afford) plus office space but my opportunities are still too far between.  And regardless of whether or not I do get the time some days, I’m still on call with my other job around the clock.  Dinner, snacks, play, stories, bedtime … all add to, but also compete with inspiration.  Philip Roth touches on this in an excerpted interview from David Remnick’s Reporting (in this month’s Poets & Writers):

“I live alone, there’s no one else to be responsible for or to, or to spend time with,” Roth said.  “My schedule is absolutely my own.  Usually, I write all day, but if I want to go back to the studio in the evening, after dinner, I don’t have to sit in the living room because someone else has been alone all day.  I don’t have to sit there and be entertaining or amusing.”

Not to imply that I’m either entertaining, or amusing, or that I want to be a freakish recluse like Roth.  Just struggling with the balance, that’s all.  I want the bathrooms clean in my house, I want my kids to adore me, I want dinner to be served to me and then after, my dishes scooped away.  I want to scrounge up a little charm to offer my husband, I want to drop thoughtful notes to people, I want to make the world a better place, I want to not have to call Martin and Megan every Thursday night to ask if it’s glass recyclables or paper and plastic tomorrow.  I want someone to clean out the van every Wednesday …

more »

  Alice McDermott said she wanted to be a writer since she was ten years old but “My family, with completely good intentions, discouraged me because it seemed so removed to them; they saw me starving in a garret and tried to steer me away from it the same way they tried to steer me away from cocaine.”

I wonder if they were more successful with the coke.  [via Writer's Almanac]

  Pagan Kennedy, Pagan Kennedy!!  First, there’s no cooler name anywhere.  Second, I wrote a great piece on her, and third, she has a new book out plus this piece in the Boston Globe.  Whee!  [via Maud Newton]

Also, when I googled “Pagan Kennedy DiFalco”, the third result had my maybe cousin Sam in it!  Small world  Besides stealing my name, he’s the best writer in Canada (oh I know, Munro, Atwood, blah, blah, blah, it’s my site!) and a source of seething envy for me.  Buy his latest collection of short stories here.  A teaser, from “Alicia”:

“Downstairs her mother and Mattie sat on the chesterfield, smoking a joint, Mattie in her red coat having one for the road.  Their mother, a pothead, said she’d rather see her girls smoking dope than doing harder drugs or drinking.  Their alcoholic father nearly killed her, so booze was as bad as crack in her eyes.  Alicia didn’t like drugs, not even pot, it made her sleepy.  She liked drinking.  Joe liked drinking too but he smoked pot from morning to night and did lines now and then.  He let her do coke once with him but it made her nostrils burn and her throat hurt …

more »

Until then: collecting sex toys. Oh, I mean, “erotica”.

  … Last night A. and I and 14 other people settled into folding chairs in a small room and listened to three skinny 7-year-olds play the piano compositions of Bach, John Lennon and some lesser-knowns.  Each kid played three pieces:  one by memory, one with music and one duet with their teacher.  Mitchell led off with a duet, the Theme to Star Wars and Jr. about fell off his seat.  “Aw, cool!” he mouthed to me, his eyes all popped out.  Then it was his turn and very gently, with perfect posture, he pressed his little fingers on all of the right notes to Yankee Doodle, starting at a breathless pianissimo and graduating to a nice mezzoforte by the end.  He followed with Are You Sleeping, with music, and then his duet. 

So here’s a thought.  If you’re driving the same boring car to the same boring places – food, Target, gas — every day, drinking the same $3 coffee, making the same dumb small talk about local crime and weather in the break room … what you need is to listen to a seven-year old boy and his piano teacher play “Let It Be” to a hushed intimate crowd in a house on Ibis Street in June.   It will knock you out of the deepest of ruts.  Call me if you want the video.  In the meantime, join hands everyone, and sing along.

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be …

You know the rest. 

Oh, and casinos.  Well, everyone’s buzzing about it — authors reading, signing, selling their books at casinos.  Janet Evanovich hired a Tom Jones impersonator, dressed her son-in-law up like a girl and gave out fortune cookies.  I admire their ingenuity, I’m no purist.  I’ll tattoo ads on my children if that’s what it takes to sell mine, when I get there.

  I made this last night and it was fabulous!  My first go-around with tomatillos — tangy little things.  I’ll skip the avocados next time and spoon the puree over halibut, maybe … or tilapia.  Anyway …

Richard DiFalco’s Summer Reading List
Richard DiFalco is a very important New York media executive with two Rockland County Sunday Morning League championships under his belt.  He has requested you not know his real name, so please, for the duration of this post, think of him pseudonymously as: ”Ultimate Bachelor”, or “Golf Nut” or “LBI”.  Don’t ask him if he’s going to wear that shirt. 

“1776 by David McCullough is what I am just about to start reading.  What I wish I was reading is a winning lottery ticket.  If in a nudist colony, I’d read Penthouse and my winning lottery ticket.  If I had the summer off and was picking seashells, I’d probably still be reading 1776 (it will take me a whole summer to read, I’m a slow reader.)  If in prison I’d read Mein Kempf.  You may think that’s strange, however I understand it’s very interesting to read what Hitler wrote, especially in hindsight of all he did.  An important piece of historic literature. 

** “I would loathe having to read A Fan’s Notes, no offense to Fred Exley (r.i.p.) but a dig at the writer and editor of teresadifalco.com, though I love her anyway for trying.”

[Read more Summer Reading here.]

** Note:  The opinions and fanatical ravings expressed and posted on teresadifalco, do not necessarily reflect the much more sophisticated and polished views of Teresa DiFalco herself.