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So Newsweek has a list of the 50 Books we must read NOW. As thankful as I was to not see The Great Gatsby or anything by Hemingway, I saw only one book that I have actually read – Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. 

And put off though I was by the Amazon links which would enable me to buy the books right NOW, I wondered how many of you, my gentle readers have read through, or any at all, from the list and what you would recommend. Keeping in mind that I am up to my eyeballs in words unwritten as I entertain (and endless cook) for my house guests.

Between books I have agreed to review and the ones publishers just send me because … I’m me apparently … and the books I impulsively check out of the library or buy at the 40% off table at the grocery, knowing I have no time to read them, I certainly don’t need more reading material. But I enjoy feeling overwhelmed and inadequate as a writer who should read more and simply doesn’t. 

And if you have a book that you believe Newsweek, in their hubris, overlooked, let us all know about it.


The mom-unit offered to babysit.

“Why don’t you guys go out for dinner and a movie?”

My sister, DNOS, is the happy recipient of many an opportunity to hand off parenting to our mother. Before her, BabySis regularly abused the whole grandparent baby-sitting thing. But I have never lived near enough to avail myself. Even when I was single and getting back to the hometown more often, I usually ended up sitting for the kids while siblings went out.

So we naturally jumped on the opportunity to get out.

“We are going to be thoroughly spoiled with couple time this summer,” I said at dinner. “What will we do if we end up overseas next year?”

“There are nannies,” he said.

But it’s an issue for the future. This week, I have live-in help.

The movie we saw after a wonderfully child-free meal in the lounge at BP was Sandra Bullock’s The Proposal.

“It was her first nude scene ever,” I commented after. “She looked good for her age.”

“How old is she?”

“She’s my age or a bit younger,” I said.

“You know,” Rob replied,”I really wish you would quit saying someone was your age when I am only two years older. It should be ‘she is our age’. I’m feeling left out … and old.”

Which was not my intention, but one someone is a hair younger than I am he/she is four or five years younger than Rob and in some instances that really stretches the idea of “peers”. Generations gap every five years after all. But I conceded the point and made a mental note to self.

“You look good for your age too,” he went on to say.

“But I have that tummy pooch and she doesn’t.”

“Why, I wonder?”

“Having babies ruins the body.”

“You are hardly ruined,” he said and didn’t roll his eyes despite the fact that he wishes I could look through his eyes to see me sometimes.

The movie itself is timeless romcom that goes back to Tracey and Hepburn. A man and an independent, strong-willed and utterly capable woman who are initially annoyed, irritated and dismissive of each other eventually fall in love – usually because the woman allows the man to see her softer side … which in no way diminishes her, but allows her to be fully herself.

Critics thought the first half was good and the second half (the softening, revealing and falling in love half) to be trite and done already.

And what’s wrong with that?

I guess a feminist would agree that Margaret (Bullock) should not have to be soft and fluffy as a bunny in order to win a man. Although, I don’t know how else one would “win” an man because who wants to be with someone who doesn’t need them? I am put off by men who don’t seem to have anything but hard edges and expectations that no normal person could possibly fulfill, so why would a man be any different?

And I liked that Margaret softened. She was a lonely person without family ties or friends. I don’t think she was damaged by revealing her need to be understood and loved for herself or for missing the family she no longer had. It wasn’t like Andrew (Ryan Reynolds) didn’t grow. He had a horrendous relationship with his father and came away changed by what he learned about Margaret’s loss of her parents.

Which brings me to this …

“Hey,” Rob said on the drive home, “we finally saw a film without the slightest taint of widowhood.”

“Yeah,” I said, “although there was that dead parents and memorial tattoo thing.”

“Oh …right.”

Doves. The tattoo was doves.

I laughed throughout the film. Not something one can say about many comedies these days, and Betty White was a hoot and a half. One of my favorite actresses, she has excellent comedic timing.

The film rates a “see it” in my opinion.


The Renter*

Later it was widely remarked upon that each of the four told the same story syllable for accent mark without hesitation or variation no matter how many times they were called upon to tell it or where in the story they were required to begin.

One of them could even tell the story backwards.

“That guy must’ve been a regular Charlie Manson,” the lead investigator, a barrel chest named Clements said.

His partner agreed but only because she was new, agreeing hid inexperience and the fact she had no idea who Charlie Manson was. She did know enough about the victim to convince herself that this Charlie must have been just a colossal waste of skin.

But they still didn’t know his name. The victim’s. Stretched out on cold metal with a toe tag that read Doe. The four referred to him only as “the overlord”.

“The overlord wouldn’t allow pets that required caging.” Or, “The overlord wouldn’t let us have a sofa because we might sit on it.”

He had no i.d. No papers of any kind were discovered during the search of the house. The rental agency that leased the house to him had never dealt with him in person. Email or phone. And they’d never asked for any proof of who he was or run a background check because he paid in advance and always in cash.

“He was soft spoken. Didn’t waste words,” the agency spokesperson reported.

“Drugs,” Jenner put forth a rare conjecture and then waited for Clements to piss all over it despite the fact that it made some sense. The sub-letters’ dazed and confused expressions and gestures contrasted with their letter perfect recitation of facts but aroused suspicions that no one wanted to voice. Only the girl was clear eyed and concise. Her jade eyes ringed with day old mascara hallowing her gaze and making her questioners feel uncomfortable and intrusive.

Jenner offered her a washroom to clean up her face at least.

“It makes me look thinner. And wiser than my years,” she said.

She looked knowing. Both Clements and Jenner agreed on that but the girl’s story varied not one sentence from her three roommates except for the lone tear which would seep from her left eye to punctuate a particularly nasty revelation and then roll down an apple cheek before dropping into the oblivion of her lap where her bejewelled fingers were clasped and resting lightly.

“She sits like the Queen Mum,” Clements observed to no one in particular.

“Do you believe her? Them?” Jenner asked.

“What part? That he bludgeoned himself to death? Or that he gave himself regular colonics with a garden hose? Or that he was a Svengali who had those poor renters of his forking over their paychecks like they were living a chapter out of Dickens?”

“Any of it.”

“Well, he looked the type to shove a nozzle up his wazoo, but would he whack himself repeatedly with a lacrosse stick just to make it look like they attacked him because they’d decided not to give into his extortion anymore?”

Clements shrugged. There were no prints. No signs of struggle. Not one neighbor recalled hearing a thing. The girlfriend, who officially still lived with her ultra conservative parents and was away that night, confirmed that he regularly terrorized his sub-letters and what they reported was not out of repertoire range for him.

“I don’t think we can hold them,” Clements said.

“We’ll keep the case open?” Jenner asked.

“Right. Sure. Of course,” Clements said as he picked up the phone and dialed. “Go head and release those four. Give ’em the usual about staying close in case we have need of them.”

The green eyed girl with the knowing eyes and the wise thin face led the others out to a car with cardboard for a back window. The next morning, after the police tape was gone, the “for rent” sign went back up.

*10oo word flash fiction piece for the Twitter #friday flash. Any resemblance to the living or dead is naturally a coincidence and all rights are reserved per usual. Next week I will introduce you to Eubie Blake, zombie dealer.