All sorts of random babble, including an award and kiddo funnies

I wait two days to post, again, and look what happens. Amy at The Sleepy Reader endowed me with the Butterfly Award. Then, so did April of Cafe of Dreams.

Thank you, Amy and April! I don't pass on awards because I discovered early on that I feel guilty passing up anyone at all, when awards are doled out. I love all my blogger friends! Yes, I'm a spoil sport.

In other news:

I totally forgot to share how I acquired my copy of Fifteen Minutes of Shame by Lisa Daily -- which I loved but did not review because it wasn't an ARC and I was really into that business about staying away from the computer as much as humanly possible over the holiday break (which, incidentally, has not ended for us because of the inane new transitioning-to-year-round school schedule). It was so easy and fun acquiring a copy. I signed up for the Dishing up Books 24/8 mailing list and let Falise know my top 3 reads from 2008. Check the Blue Plate Specials page for details.

Favorite word verifications of the day, with my fake definitions:

Hermisto - a young, Spanish hermit

Aleatort - a type of civil wrong specifically effecting women with the name Alea

Not great, but that's the best I can come up with. I'm not succeeding at keeping up with my Google Reader/blog-hopping, but I'll keep trying -- sporadically, 'cause of the balance thing.

Kiddo got his wisdom teeth out, yesterday. I got to sit on a nice, plush leather couch while he got his teeth removed. There, I read 30 pages of The Coasts of Canada by Lesley Choyce, in spite of the fact that they were piping in an unspeakably awful FM radio station (pop music that included Amy Grant's most annoying song, "Baby, Baby" and Cher . . . need I say more?). I love music but that particular station drove me bazonkers.

After that nice stretch of reading joy, the dental dictators then moved me to a hard, folding chair to wait for Kiddo to wake up. He awakened briefly and totally pissed off, then he started to lift his head up and down, up and down. I said, "What are you doing?" Kiddo replied, (wait for it, wait for it) . . .

"Thit-upth."

He went back to sleep and they really wanted to get rid of him but wouldn't send him home sleepy, so I had to sit on that miserable chair in the semi-darkness, uncomfortable and without enough light to read. Eventually, I got sick of the piped-in music, peeled back the electric blanket and stomped my feet to wake him up. On the way to the car, he giggled once -- just once! -- "A-heh-heh."

It took two of us to guide him to the car. But, when we got home, I said I'd go put my bags inside and come back for him. Kiddo said, with uncharacteristic venom, "I CAN WALK!" and stomped to the front porch. Off to the futon to sleep, the cat curled up on his legs in drugged-human warmth heaven. I woke him up to ask if he wanted some jell-o and pills or just more sleep, after a time. He held up 3 fingers. I said, "I don't understand 3 fingers. What's that mean?" He held up 3 fingers, again. I asked if that meant "Option 3: Go away and leave me alone??" Nod, nod.

Husband says, "So, he wouldn't be a fun drunk?" I think not.

Eventually, Kiddo rolled over and the cat literally went flying backwards off the futon, all wide-eyed, trying to hang onto the comforter with the claws. It did not work -- the comforter went part way with her, she skidded down the end of the futon and plopped on the floor, then shook herself off and casually got a drink of water because cats, as all people who are owned by them know, refuse to admit that they're embarrassed.

I've now finished my third book of the year, We're In This Boat Together by Camille F. Bishop, Ph.D. I'll try to get the review of that book, as well as my review of I Choose to Be Happy by Missy Jenkins, ASAP. Don't want to fall too far behind because I'm supposed to be working on balance, you know!!

At the moment, I'm getting "internal error" messages from Blogger and unable to update my sidebar to reflect the new books I've added to my current reads, but in addition to the 2 Civil War books (one fiction, one social history) and The Coasts of Canada (which is amazing history, not the slightest bit dry), I'm reading Written in Blood by Sheila Lowe. I haven't recently sat down with Alpine Americas by Olaf Soot, but I've read and immersed myself in the mountainy beauty of about the first 50 pages and can tell you it's simply breathtaking and written from a slightly different perpective than I expected. I hope to finish that and review it, later this week.

I was also planning to upload a photo of my cat eating her veggies (monkey grass, outside) but Blogger hates me and gave me yet another "internal error" message, so pardon the lack of lovely illustrations. At least you've got that nice butterfly to enjoy. Back soon with reviews!

Oh, Christmas tree . . .

Last year, we didn't really have a Christmas tree at all, unless you count that little two-foot fake thing in a gold-painted styrofoam pot that I stuck on the dining table. Thanks to my mother's illness, we had no time to shop, no time to even drag out the little laser tree, certainly not a spare minute or the energy to decorate. Christmas was a total dud. This year, I said I wanted to do it right. Kiddo had admitted to feeling let-down by the lack of tree, decorations and gifts in 2007. And, none of us wanted to sit around feeling our losses; instead, we wanted to focus on the magic and beauty of the season. So, we decorated the porch. Hubby kindly bought a tree that fit my specifications. There are things under the tree.

The one thing that's not quite going my way . . . decorating the tree. I had this visual image of the colors, the style, the glistening light bouncing off crystal and blah, blah (primarily because I'm accustomed to nobody else having any interest). Before we even finished putting the second strand of lights on the tree, kiddo had thwarted my plan by hanging up a dozen candy canes -- nowhere close to that little decorating dream of mine. Just as I'd adjusted to the idea, he showed up in the office with a candy cane in his mouth.

"Wait!" I said. "You can't eat the decorations!"

The long-suffering teenager gave me that look . . . you know, the look, and said, "But, you didn't even like them. You called them . . . what was the word?"

"Umm, chintzy?"

"Something like that. You asked for it."

I suppose I did. So, now, the question is whether to just wait for him to consume the decorations and then start over with the pretties I really wanted to put on the tree or give up and watch as the tree is slowly stripped. I'm still thinking.

God is an Englishman by R. F. Delderfield

The old Colonel could not have said when or why the premonition touched him, causing a small, inward shudder. He was not given to premonitions and today, with a June sun flaming in a cloudless sky, was not a day for gloomy thoughts. And yet the prescience was there, formless but real, and once it had appeared uninvited and unwelcome, it remained, a silent, brooding wraith standing a yard or two behind his right shoulder, refusing to go and yet refusing to leave cover and identify itself as anything more than a shade.

They were a generation of men who had grown to maturity under a small, plump woman ruling large slices of five continents. Perhaps this helped them to accept her invasion of their spheres of influence.

God is an Englishman tells the story of Adam Swann, a soldier turned tradesman who builds his business from the ground up and learns about love and humility from his growing family.

I tend to dislike epics unless they’re quick-moving, with lots of action, and there were times I put this book aside for up to a week without picking it up to read a single chapter. The sections in which Adam Swann’s business are described in detail can be a bit of a yawn; and, Adam has a tendency to talk in huge paragraphs. There’s not a lot of white space in God is an Englishman. There are also a large number of characters to keep track of; and the story of Adam Swann’s rise is less fascinating than the smaller stories within the story.

However, while the detail can occasionally be tiresome, what distinguishes Delderfield’s writing is the sense of time and place. Set in Victorian England during an eleven-year period, 1857-1866, the story firmly entrenches the reader in the atmosphere. I could easily imagine the little urchins working at the mills or sleeping near the Thames in muddy clothing. I could hear the sounds of horses clomping, harnesses jingling and people shouting, see the pall of smoke and feel the cold and damp, smell the unwashed and impoverished masses. And, the characters were, for the most part, so easy to distinguish that even a week of setting the book aside didn’t cause any trouble with resuming the story.

While I would have happily given up at the beginning because of frustration with the business detail, it improved in the second half. I did think the main character was a bit of a snob and didn’t care for the way he pontificated (he could be condescending and blunt to the point of tactlessness) and looked down his nose at his wife; but, I also understood that the author was trying to show how people were treated during the time period and he got his point across. Overall, an excellent read. There are three books in the Swann series and I would like to read them all.

4/5

Up next: A review of The Red Badge of Courage, which I read entirely off a computer screen. Miserable, yet . . . fulfilling.

And, just to make you smile, a quick anecdote:

Youngster brought home his school photos, earlier this week, and pulled them out of the envelope without actually handing it to me, as if he planned to keep them.
"Mr. H. said he wants one of the big photos of me," he said.
I looked up at him from the futon, perplexed. "The larger photos are for grandparents and parents," I replied very seriously. "Smaller ones are for aunts and uncles and friends."
I should mention that Mr. H. has known kiddo since he was in elementary school, as he was the director of our favorite summer camp. Over the years, the youngster has spent a lot of time telling Mr. H. goofy jokes and they've gotten to know each other pretty well.
But, still. "Why does he want a large photo?" I asked.
Youngster grinned. "Because he needs a new dart board."

This is why I love being a mother.

More later, assuming I can keep the kid off my computer. Apparently, I have a better graphics card than the old clunker we let him use. Darn.