Heartburn

While the title of this post could describe some of my autumn, I finally read Nora Ephron's novel of the same name, about being seven months pregnant and finding out your husband is cheating on you.

Heartburn is the first book I've read of Ephron's and now I understand what all the fuss is about.  While it's accurate to say that anyone with Ephron's hairstyle has me at hello, a hairstyle featured prominently on the whole back cover, the book was worth the wait/procrastination/whatever the word is for my stubborn refusal to read things until I'm good and ready.  However long it took me to get here, I'm a fan.

Except for one thing. At the start of the novel, Ephron refers to her husband's analyst, a Guatamalen woman, with all sorts of questionable names: Chiquita Banana, Central American shrinkette, Our Lady of the Castanets among them. I think it's supposed to be humorous, with all the ire pointed at her philandering husband (boy, that's becoming a real theme on this blog), but, I thought to myself every time I read one and flinched: what do all her fans have to say about these jokes now?  

So I have to say that. I was uncomfortable reading sometimes, as I often am when visiting past hits. Tommy Boy, for instance, is nearly unwatchable now because of all the sexism. Okay, that's not a great example. There's no Criterion Collection for Tommy Boy, I realize. But if there were, would it address the work's horrible - or intentional - blind spots?

Moving on! All my friends who turned me onto Heartburn are admitted foodies, and while I knew Ephron had something to do with food and food-writing, the unassuming way recipes are threaded through the text is genius. If you don't want to eat crispy potatoes after reading this book, your name is either Samantha and you don't appreciate the potato enough in any form outside of a french fry, or you are no friend of mine.

Finally, my notes for this book have the word brutal written after a bullet point about the ending. I couldn't remember why I wrote that, so I just re-read the ending and was covered head to toe in goose bumps. Now I remember why I wrote it, and boy does it stand. The ending is heartbreaking and, at the same time, so beautiful I wanted to turn around and start the whole book over again.

Instead, before heading to bed I searched "Is Ephron's novel Heartburn true" and read an online article corroborating that Heartburn is indeed a near-account of something that happened to her. But I learned something that blew my mind then: the offending husband was none other than Carl Bernstein, the Washington Post reporter who covered the Watergate scandal. 

They look perfect together, I don't know what you're talking about.

You guys!! Is my subconscious crazy or what?! How did I know to read the next book in my unofficial study of All the President's Men and everything I never knew I cared about in Washington politics?  Is life weird or WHAT?

That indulgence aside, I heard in an interview with Harry Goldblatt, Editor in Chief of Entertainment Weekly, that When Harry Met Sally is still one of his all-time favorite movies and I basically fist-pumped in the dark, with a sleeping, nuzzling Ellis next to me. When Harry Met Sally is in my top three movies, and since I wrote about Tommy Boy above, you might as well know that Wayne's World used to be in my top three, too. 

And Footloose. There. It's out. 

All jokes aside - if you're even still here (it wouldn't be the first time I lost someone at Footloose) Tim deserves public credit for watching Footloose with me a few weeks ago. We were trying to find a Tig Notaro special and, of all the pivots to make, right before we turned off the TV in failure, were offered the chance to watch Footloose. "Is this a sign?" said Tim, who had never seen it and knew I had watched it again and again in my youth. His verdict? You'll have to ask him. I was too busy declaring that certain songs were the best ones ("I Need a Hero") and others were gross mis-steps (Anything Sammy Hagar-related). I do know Tim was disturbed that the first kiss between the main characters happens just after the female lead is given a black eye by her ex-boyfriend, and while Tim is certainly right to be horrified from a feminist perspective, I was too busy wondering if I had to tell him that I once made my friend watch that scene in slow motion.   

Aren't inner selves ridiculous?

Truthfully, I think an amazing essay, or at the very least, article, could be written about the overwhelming bromance in Footloose, and how gymnastics, dancing, and tight jeans combine in the character of Ren McCormack. Am I up for it? The night after we watched it I was, but now it's disappeared down the same hole I pour most of my ideas - a hole that Samantha, Ellis, and I peer down while eating peanut butter toast and granola bars on a daily basis. Tim and I did agree, however, that in retrospect the main character in Footloose is really the one played by John Lithgow.

I searched the phrase "angry dance scene footloose" looking for this

I watched a documentary called One Track Heart about a musician named Krishna Das, a kirtan singer I like, and I enjoyed it. I also checked out Jeff Tweedy's new book, a memoir about the bands he's started and played in, and while I've already lol'd a bunch of times, and I appreciate his humor and playfulness, I sort of wish the whole back-of-cover, celebrity treatment had been skipped for this one. There's really no way to rest this book in my house where I'm not startled when I come into the room. Which Tweedy would you rather have greet you, when you aren't thinking about him?

Orrrrrrrr this one?

Okay, that's not the actual photo from the back of the book, but it's got a similar mood except the real one is closer up and his head is cocked and it basically feels like he's creeping around a corner, sneaking up to say peek-a-boo. Point being, the cover is challenging my devotion to this artist, something I didn't know was possible. But I'll probably still read it.

Some of this post was written while Ellis stood next to my desk, crying with a runny nose. There were tissues everywhere and my desk looked like Sally's apartment the night Joe tells her he's marrying someone else.

For more Nora Ephron love, here's a piece about her excellent dialogue, and feel free to take a moment this Thanksgiving to reflect on the real origins of this holiday. 

Finally, a shout out to Amelia's 2014 gift guide featuring Meg Ryan in a classic sweatsuit.

P.S. Go here for another picture of Tim in a bathtub - not what you're thinking but for the best bearded man in a bathtub scene, please watch Kelly Reichardt's film Old Joy.


Related posts you might like:

Sloane Crosley, Peter Carey, and more importantly, Birds

The Diarist and Me: A Love Song in Three Parts

More Jackie (Please Don't Judge) and Some Good Old Public Shaming

Happy Birthday, Ellis

More Jackie (Please Don't Judge) and Some Good Old Public Shaming

I picked up Parker Posey's memoir, You're On an Airplane, and boy was it light. To say it didn't meet expectations might suggest I had ones for it. Even so, I felt disappointed. I was annoyed by the concept - including witty asides to flight attendants, as if you really were stuck on an airplane with Parker Posey. More annoying were the irrelevant summaries of things like Ayurveda and Ashtanga yoga. I guess I had hoped for surprisingly elegant prose, or cool and subversive collages. Instead, the collages were pretty silly and Posey's stories about movies fell flat. She also glossed over accusations against Woody Allen, calling Dylan Farrow's open letter about being sexually assaulted by Allen "the news" that came out in the papers that day. But her account of working with Louis C.K. was fascinating, and I appreciated her documenting his pathos. (She never went into any accusations about him, either.) 

On a related note, perhaps, Tim brought home a book called So You've Been Publicly Shamed, about the modern-day stonings that occur on Twitter whenever someone missteps - grossly or subtly - in a public way. I picked up the book, meaning only to glance at it, and spent the next few hours reading. The writing was addictive, the topic was on point, and it got weird sometimes, in a good way. I recommend it.

 

 
I also checked out a book called Jackie Ethel Joan: Women of Camelot and stuck with it, despite my reservations about 1) going too far down a Kennedy rabbit hole and 2) the fascinating and jarring prose. I read it at the suggestion of a friend who read my last post about Jackie Bouvier Kennedy Onassis, a wonderful biography written by Barbara Leaming that now looks incredible, and feminist, and necessary, compared to Jackie Ethel Joan, which came out in 2000. Jackie Ethel Joan tracks the lives of three Kennedy wives - married to Jack, Bobby, and Ted, respectively - and what can I say? Despite its generous warmth, and its compassion while pulling back the curtain on the egregious infidelity all three wives endured at the hands of their philandering husbands, it just felt written by a man to me. 

 

One line in particular jarred me when I read it, about Joan Kennedy experiencing a miscarriage:

"Shortly after nightfall, Joan felt a sharp abdominal pain, the kind all pregnant women fear." 

It just felt weird reading that statement.  Like, how many times has he been pregnant? How many women did he poll before writing that?  As fraught as pregnancies can be (and were for the Kennedy women), and as much anxiety as I had about the impending births of my children, I don't think it's fair to say that's a universal fear for all women.  Maybe he meant for those who had miscarried before, as Joan had.
ANYWAY.  I feel guilty criticizing any book because writing one is no joke.  Hats off to all authors, period, the end. 

And, hats off to this guy, huh?  He knows what being a red panda is ALL ABOUT.  (The fans, obvi.) 

Speaking of authors I admire, Tim has a story out at Puerto Del Sol.  It's called Cakewalk, and its about small town festivals, New Age kooks, and a giant statue of Paul Bunyan.  **Insert Blue Ox emoji here.**  (He also has a story called Mars Renaissance: 8 Things a Man Should Know How to Do at New Limestone Review, which I just remembered when I put up that picture of the sign on the men's bathroom, naturally.)

I also checked out a book called The Children by Ann Leary, who wrote my favorite Modern Love column of all time, but I haven't gotten The Children yet. Leary wrote a book called The Good House, which I LOVED, and is incidentally the wife of the actor Denis Leary, who was good in the movie version of Jesus' Son. (Billy Crudup slayed in Jesus' Son, too, obviously, but I am still reeling from the fact that Crudup left his longtime partner Mary-Louise Parker ten years ago, when she was seven months pregnant. And for Claire Danes. YIKES.)

On the topic of celebrity gossip, I finally subscribed to Homophilia, a podcast by Matt McConkey and Dave Holmes, whose memoir Party of One I wrote about here and here after it blew my mind. Homophilia is funny, snappy, heartfelt, and full of pop culture, and I am into it lately. 

 Our littlest baby is walking now, and his cheerful shuffles around the house take my breath away. He says "Awwwwww" when he gives hugs, and he eats hotdogs way too often. He thinks my print of a crane should bark (and who's to say it shouldn't?) and we call him the Tax Man because if anyone in the room has a snack, he all but yells "pay up!" and motions for a bite. For now, I admire his confidence and, as Anthony Hopkins says of the Samuel character, the youngest brother in Legends of the Fall, "He certainly was the best of all of us." (Or something like that.)

Happy fall!  Get thee to the cider mill.
XOXO 

Happy Birthday, Ellis

In the words of one of our house painters, this summer just flew by.  I wish it was full of trips to the beach and fabulous outings, but the truth is, I spent much of it at various doctor's appointments, driving to the pharmacy for strep throat medications, and battening down the domestic hatches (see also: house painters). 

Predictably, in all this boring chaos, I haven't found a good reading thread, at least not one worth mentioning.  I finally read Into Thin Air, by Jon Krakauer, a book that Tim couldn't believe I wanted to read, since it's about alpine climbing, a rather testeronic pursuit, and also because it features a disastrous season on Mount Everest in which 12 people died.  The first half of the book was somewhat riveting, about the various adventure guides and their clients who were climbing Everest the same season Krackauer was assigned to write about them for Outside magazine.  But halfway through the book, when a deadly storm rolls in and people start misplacing tanks of oxygen and getting altitude sickness and dying, I felt a hollow pit in my stomach and wanted to stop.  I finished the book, but with a growing uneasiness.  

Looking up Krakauer on the interwebs, I was reminded of a book I once wanted to read - The Wild Truth, written by Candice McCandless - sister of Chris McCandless, whose dramatic story Krakauer explored in his 1997 Into the Wild.  Published in 2015, The Wild Truth reveals the violence in the McCandless home, violence that compelled Chris McCandless to leave home and walk into the Alaskan wilderness, unwittingly toward his death, to begin with.  I haven't read The Wild Truth - or Into the Wild, for that matter - but the former looks pretty interesting.  I loved the film version of Into the Wild, but boy are there some big issues with Sean Penn, full stop.  I find it difficult to enthusiastically consume anything Penn is involved in now, but I got into Emile Hirsch for a minute after Into the Wild, and I adored him in Milk, which used to be one of my favorites, starring yet another problematic Hollywood male, James Franco, in addition to Penn. 

When I looked up where Hirsch has been lately, I saw this article, discussing a physical assault by Hirsch on a film executive at the Sundance film festival, for which he did time (albeit not very much time).  I bring it up as an accountability factor, less I unwittingly sing the praises of people who, uh, still have some work to do. 

Like Sherman Alexie, another artist with some skeletons worth discussing, whom I bring up because I wrote about him praisingly here. 

In other news, I've been listening to a book by Barbara Leaming called Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis: The Untold Story.  Somebody please check my brain.  In a million years, I never thought I would be interested in Jackie as a subject, not because she isn't a worthy one, but I just didn't think her life interested me much.  However, I stumbled upon the audio version at the library and, after an immediate revulsion to the narration, told myself to give it a shot, and was hooked.

In terms of questionable male figures, the sexual habits of JFK could make the most libertine among us blush.  His wife's devotion to him despite his flagrant infidelity disturbs me, and I've spent a lot of time thinking about how the two of them played each other - her for personal security, and him for political gain. 

Perhaps the most disturbing part of the book is how little useful support she had in the wake of her first husband's death.  Importantly, the book covers how little doctors understood about post-traumatic stress disorder and how it wasn't until veterans returned from Vietnam, screwed-up en masse, that we started to understand the condition.  Jackie talked to a priest, and doctors prescribed her medications, but the book at least doesn't discuss any therapies that helped her to really process the trauma of holding her dying husband's body in her hands.  As time went on and she did not get "better," there were a lot of people around her telling her not to dwell on the past, including her own mother.  I find that incredible, and super sad.  Also, does this mean I have to watch the Natalie Portman biopic, Jackie?

Sometime this spring I read The Color of Water, by James McBride.  Billed as "a black man's tribute to his white mother" in the subtitle, the book is beautifully written, and felt like an important read for me.  I read McBride's 2016 Kill 'Em and Leave: Searching for James Brown and the American Soul, when I was pregnant with Ellis, and found the writing equally luminous, not to mention impressive considering the author's concurrent career as a musician.  But The Color of Water moved me because it chronicles a woman raising eleven children through the grief of losing two beloved partners, and also because it made me consider my philosophies about education.  Whereas McBride's mother is fanatical about educating all her children, sending them to the best, often Jewish, schools in New York City, I tend to be wary of overemphasizing formal education in a child's social, artistic, and psychic development, a privilege this book made me take a good, hard look at.

Speaking of being pregnant with Ellis last summer, I have often been so grateful not to be hugely pregnant this one. Not that raising babies outside the body is anything but arduous. A local liquor store often rotates letters on their sign and they put up in August: Uh-Oh, It's Leo Season.  As the mother of a Leo and the daughter of one, that one made me laugh.
I watched The Graduate at the start of July and drank in its lush everything - casting, cinematography, direction, soundtrack - but I was newly disturbed by its problematic plot points.  I also watched Blackfish, which I've been meaning to see for years.  Everyone warned me how upsetting it was, and maybe it's my inner Pisces, but I found it almost satisfying.  I've always been freaked out by Sea World.  To see the lives of such powerful animals explored within the dubious ethics of captivity and corporate investments fascinated me.  Plus WATER, SO MUCH WATER, COUNT ME IN.

 
Finally, it's totally unfair but I blame my restlessness lately on Richard Yates.  I watched Revolutionary Road with Tim before we were married and hated it.  I found it depressing, and shrill, and grim, and unimaginative.  Tim kept insisting the book had virtues the film enthusiastically disowned, and we had such a pretty copy of it (before my and Ellis' powers combined rumpled that thing up something awful), so I gave it my best shot.  Friends, it is rare when a book puts me to sleep.  I am a night owl.  Any flickering light - in my mind or my headlamp - is an excuse to blow past bedtime while telling myself the lie that coffee will make up for it in the morning.  But I learned quickly, if I want to fall asleep, I only have to open up that depressing book and read three pages about infidelity and suburban ennui, and rage between spouses and the shape of women's boobs (COULD YOU JUST NOT, FOR ONE PAGE, WHITE MALE WRITERS?), and I hit the Zzz's faster than Ellis does in a spin around the block with a Jackie book blaring.

I guess what I'm saying is: more pretty book covers, fewer body descriptions, Mr. Yates.  However, there is no denying the deftness of the man's prose.  For all my complaints about dreary plot and shallow hearts, the prose is truly wonderful.

 
I don't know how to follow that, one of Sut Nan Bonsai's clearest pans, which I blame on myself and my lack of attention span this summer.  How about this?  Ellis turned one.  ONE.  It's not just myself who cannot believe it.  One of our favorite librarians agrees with me, the one who chides me that I never take Ellis out of the stroller (because he's SLEEPING, is she CRAZY?  Does she bonk sleeping dogs over the nose with rolled-up newspapers, too?).

Happy Birthday, Ellis, my beautiful, powerful, affable little Leo.  I love every gap in your teeth and your fascination with book pages, your willingness to take fake medicine from Samantha's doctor kit daily, and how hard you make us all work for that marvelous chuckle of yours.  

P.S. For more on PTSD, I recommend this luminous On Being episode, How Trauma Lodges in the Body, with Bessel van der Kolk, a professor of psychiatry at Boston University Medical School. 

Or, just ask me about my two c-sections!  Wink, wink.