Aisle Six

Ike's Question to Ebert

Because Ike probably will not post this anywhere and it will be lost in cyberspace, I'm posting it here. This was Ike's question to Ebert's "Movie Answer Man," which was included in this week's column. It's exciting to see Ike's name so close to Ebert's...

Q. I recently took my wife to see the latest Harry Potter movie. I was amazed that the only speaker working was the front speaker. We heard the dialogue with no problem, but the soundtrack and audio effects were barely audible. When I complained to the manager after the movie, she was apologetic, and explained that the technician who was suppose to fix it was not available on the weekends.

Yet she was still selling tickets to the show and from what I could tell, I was the only person in the crowd of over 100 who noticed enough to complain. I know people rarely notice when a bulb in a lamp is too dim, but to watch a high budget film in mono? Can't people hear what they're listening to?

Ike Quigley, Greensboro, N.C.

A. Maybe they're programmed to passively accept what's on the screen, without reflecting that it is the responsibility of the projectionist and the management. Recently I attended a public/press screening of "The Stepford Wives" at a Chicago multiplex. The picture was dark, dim, murky and indistinct. Not acceptable.

I complained to the manager. A few minutes later, the light intensity was turned up, and the picture looked fine. Many theaters cheat their customers through the idiotic practice of dialing down the projector bulbs, in the mistaken believe this will extend their life. Studies have proven that it has no effect. The picture quality at the Chicago screening was dramatically bad. The theater contained dozens of film critics, not to mention the publicists, but nobody else went out to the lobby to complain.

A Day of Wealth

My best friend and I spent a good portion of the day in the world of wealthy women. And I must say, we blended beautifully…

For Leslie’s graduation, her mother gave a gift to her AND to me, saying that it was as if I were graduating too. I don’t think I put nearly the hard work into the master’s degree that Leslie did, but I never look a gift horse in the mouth. She gave us each gift certificates for hot stone massages at Grandover Spa .

If you’ve never experienced a spa like Grandover, start looking at the prices and saving your pennies for it now. Ike and I are planning to do this for our seventh anniversary this year. I would definitely recommend going with someone you love; it was perfect being able to share the experience with Leslie today.

I arrived at Grandover at 10:30 this morning. And when I say “arrived,” it certainly feels like a significant arrival when you get there. The drive from Groometown Road along Grandover Parkway is long and beautiful. Trees line the drive, with large houses on the right to dream about. By the time I reached the gates of Grandover, I felt as though I’d stepped out of the real world, into a fantasy.

I walked the meandering corridors and down the spiral staircase to the spa itself. Leslie hadn’t arrived yet, so the receptionist handed me a (warm, inviting, luscious) white robe and flip flops. She showed me to the locker room to change and pointed me to the waiting room.

Oh…the waiting room was so nice…I told Leslie I’d like to make my bedroom look like it, but I suspect Ike might not dig on it like I do. Long comfy couches, big fluffy pillows, sensuous colors, and the largest meditation water fountain I’ve ever seen. Mmm…could’ve sat there all day, but there were even better things coming.

Soon after Leslie sat down in the waiting room with me, my masseuse came to get me. She explained how the hot stone massage worked, then left the room while I settled myself modestly under the sheet. More than the nakedness, I always worry in situations like this (or the doctor’s office) about farting or snotting on the person. Anyway…

Gaye (the masseuse) started by placing a row of stones on either side of my spine and a small hot stone on my forehead, between my brows. The sensation was a little like my head was sinking in from that point (but in a good way if you can imagine it). I started wondering if Sara could relate to this with her first acupuncture experience. Gaye then placed three large stones on my stomach and ribs. Before she began, she mentioned that she would place stones on my chakra points, but I know too little about that to know if that’s what she was doing. She placed stones under each hand (mmm, warm), and after massaging my feet with lotion, she placed tiny stones between my toes. This was distracting for me, as I have curly toes that do not like to separate, so I found myself concentrating on whether she’d be able to get those stones to stay (I think she did).

Gaye then moved to my favorite part of the massage: my legs. First she rubbed massage oil over them, massaging them with her hands. She then used a medium-sized hot stone that she rubbed over each leg, using both the flat surface and the edge. Wow, what a crazy sensation! The stone seemed SO hot when it was on my flesh, but each place she passed with it seemed cold immediately after.

She then lifted my head to use stones on my neck and just below it. I believe this was Leslie’s favorite part of the massage, and I have to say, if I could wake up with someone doing this everyday, I’d be a much more relaxed woman.

At this point, after removing the stones, Gaye helped me turn to my stomach. She placed three large stones (I think it was three, at this point, I was pretty much in my own hot stone world) on my back and massaged the backs of my legs. She used stones to massage my shoulders and back, then suddenly we were done. I know it wasn’t as abrupt as it felt, but I had started thinking that maybe it wouldn’t have to end…ever.

Leslie and I met back in the waiting room after our respective massages. We talked a little, then continued on our journey into the world of wealthy women. We ordered lunch that was delivered to us poolside. (Of course, Jake and I could eat lunch baby poolside any time we want in the backyard.) While we waited for the delivery, we sat in the hot tub. After we ate, I had a dip in the pool then stepped back into that warm, inviting, luscious robe. We capped off the day with some time in the sauna…

Ahhh…Wealthy women. They’ve got it made. I would like to say that this afternoon made me a better mom and wife…but Ike will probably read this, so I won’t lie. It will help me sleep much better tonight. And I look forward to doing it again.

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father's Day Ike! We love you (me, Jake, and the giraffe who tried to eat you...)

Rose Madder, Stephen King

While I was sick last week, I put down everything else I was reading in search of something easier. I don't mean something easier in the sense of a dumbed-down book, but something that would grab me quickly, suck me in, and keep my mind off my stomach. Fortunately for me, Ike left Rose Madder in the bathroom...where I was spending a good deal of my time.

Stephen King is hit or miss for me. I suspect he'll be more "hits" than "misses" now that I've read On Writing. This entry isn't about that particular book, but I do recommend it to any King fan or any person who enjoys writing. After reading it and getting a feel for his motivations, I look forward to King's novels (as if I now have an "in" on his thinking).

With Rose Madder, I experienced both hit and miss. Rosie McClendon spends fourteen years in an abusive relationship. One day she "wakes up" and leaves. No easy task for any abused woman, but her situation is particularly precarious because her husband is a police detective. In other words, a man who finds people for a living.

So without too much brain power, you can guess where this is going. But you might also guess (accurately) that we're reading Stephen King here, so this ain't no "I AM WOMAN" book. The abusive husband is above and beyond crazy--and he's a biter, which really got to me somehow. Blech. For her part, Rosie not only finds her independence in her new life, but she also finds her own special madness.

Oddly enough, the part of this novel that should have been most engaging (husband on the prowl, wife on the run) dragged for me. What I found most interesting was Rosie's transition. It didn't consist of the expected meek abused woman becomes strong go-getter. Yes, there was all that, but Rosie encounters her own unexpected rage as well. Unfortunately, this rage appears in the last short section of the book without enough pages to explore it. Bummer.

At any rate, I'm inspired now to try again with The Dark Tower series. The first two novels didn't grab me the way the series has so many others, but King refers to the concepts from the series enough in Rose Madderto make me curious.

And now, Ike, you can have your book back.

Honesty Must Be Hereditary

Here's the conversation Ike and Jake had last night after Jake and I bought Ike's Father's Day present. And after our discussion of why we shouldn't tell Daddy what we got him.

Jake (sitting on his potty): We got you a tie, too, Daddy.
Ike (sitting on the big potty): You did?
Jake: Yep. To go with the shirts.

Hmm...Can a person inherit the inability to keep a secret?

Thank You Mr. Whitman

Only once in my life have I done something completely spontaneous that was just for me. This blog is dedicated to that night. (It's P.G., I promise)

The summer after my freshman year in college, I studied in Paris for six weeks. Wonderful trip, I could go into all the details sometime over a bottle of wine (you buy). But here's the story for this blog entry. On my last night in the city of love (that's Paris, right?), I had no place to stay. I'd been in Switzerland for a few days following the end of my classes, and once back in Paris, my former dorm room was no longer available.

Previously in my trip, I had visited this incredible bookstore a few times. I was first drawn to the "sidewalk sale" books, and once inside, this was the kind of place that had every book imaginable. Shakespeare & Co., owned by George Whitman , takes up more space in my journal from that summer than the Eiffel Tower, L'Arc de Triomphe, and Notre Dame combined. I felt at home in this place--it was my own kind of church. I fell in love with eccentric George, who let me into the store when it was closed (while he turned others away). His eyes had a look of someone who has just been interrupted while reading a favorite book. Pleasant, but impatient to get back to his reading.

I'd heard (vaguely, like it was whispered secretly) that George let like-minded readers and writers stay with him in his shop. There are beds throughout the upstairs floors, waiting for weary travelers who enjoy reading more than sleeping. When I asked Mr. Whitman if he had a place for me for my last homeless night in Paris, he said I could stay. Free. With the condition that I work for him for one hour and that I provide him with my autobiography and a picture. He has published volumes of those life stories of people who've stayed there.

The night at Shakespeare & Co. was a night of freedom unlike any other for me. I spent the evening choosing various books to browse through and talking with others who were staying with George. For my one hour of work, I washed dishes (with no rag and no soap, drying them with a newspaper) and juiced carrots and radishes together. George made dinner (soup, salads, and peach cobbler) for me and another guest (Tim Martin was his name according to my journal), and when I asked him to join us for dinner, he said he was "too old to eat with the young people." Tim Martin and I ate outside, with a beautiful view across the Seine to Notre Dame. Every time we paused to talk, George yelled down at us from the third floor window, "Eat! Eat! It's getting cold!"

I spent the night writing my life story like George asked me to (it's terrible--I copied it into my journal and now wish I could go back and rewrite it) and reading as much as possible. In the morning before I left for the airport, George fed me pancakes, hot chocolate, and a peach. The pancakes were terrible, but as he woke up before 5:00 a.m. to make them for me, I was grateful.

A few weeks ago, I found a picture in Target (of all places) of the storefront of Shakespeare & Co. That picture is now on our mantle. I've also recently found a web site with a wonderful virtual tour of the shop, library and apartment. And this man has a terrific blog about the place and his experience.

One night in Paris I did something different. Thank you, George Whitman, for making the evening possible.

What a Big Sister Doesn't Know...

My sister turned 16 last Tuesday, June 1st. It's hard for me to believe when she was only starting kindergarten when I left for college. I think it means I'm getting old, but I choose to believe that it means she's getting old and growing up.

Last week, on her birthday, I jokingly said to everyone I saw, "Yep, Caitlin's sweet sixteen and never been kissed." I got a mixture of replies, from, "Yeah, that's what she tells you," to "Good for her!" to "Well...there's nothing wrong with that." From her I got this, "Hahaha. I'm watching Queer Eye right now, so I'll talk to you later."

My sister, in case I've never mentioned her to you (which means I don't know you very well) is one of the coolest people I know. She has this incredible artistic ability. She draws well, paints well, crochets well (or is it knitting?), sews well, designs well. She's a terrific actress and is such a good singer that she's one of the youngest girls in an elite singing group at Salem Academy. I know I embarrass her, but I think I've cried at every single performance she's ever done, from "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" to this year's "Meet Me In St. Louis."

Did I mention that she's beautiful? She's gone from cute kid to this knock-out of a teenager. In a picture she recently showed me from a semi-formal dance, I swear she looks like a young Audrey Hepburn (a look she inherited from Mom, but somehow I missed).

I wanted a little sister from age 2 on. Everyone thought it was cute when little Becky (yeah, I was little then too) brought home an invisible little brother, but for me, it was a compromise. At age 3, I figured that if I already had the little brother, the little sister would be along shortly.

Caitlin was born when I was 13. I loved every minute of being a big sister (and it was good birth control to have a crying kid around, too). I loved watching her movies (okay, not Bambi) with her. I loved reading books with her. I loved how she tied up her Barbie dolls naked (she was in a Peter Pan phase for awhile). I loved--really loved--how she'd hit my boyfriends with pillows whenever they came over. Who knew that even then she was such a good judge of character?

I left for college, as I mentioned earlier, when she started kindergarten. She tells me now that I abandoned her, but I talked about her all the time in Chapel Hill. I had pictures of her all over my walls. She came to visit just a couple of times, but I remember stressing over whether she'd enjoy herself.

In my wedding, Caitlin was a junior bridesmaid. She was tiny...and looked miserable in most of the pictures. I think she thought I'd come home after college, but then this Ike guy stole me away.

She grew to like (ok, I think she was just tolerating him at first, but really, she likes him now) Ike, and when Jake was born, she was 13. It's like a perfect circle or something. I was 13 when she was born, she was 13 when Jake was born. She's this great aunt, who seems to have so much patience for a kid who can't stop asking "Aunt Caty" to play.

So, back to my point. After Queer Eye ended and Caitlin and I talked this weekend, she told me. "Becky, you know how you've been saying 'sweet 16 and never been kissed.'" Uh oh. "Well, I got my first kiss in April." Oh no.

Ok, this whole blog is to say this to Caitlin. Caitlin, I think it's wonderful that you found a boy worthy of kissing you. Or anyway, that you think is worthy. I know it's bittersweet, since he lives far away, and I'm sorry. I am excited for you, but I'm sad too. I can't help it. I love watching you grow up, but I also know that you need a big sister less and less. I already know, in case you don't yet, that you're cooler than me. And I know it won't be long before you'll realize that yes, you can do big things in your life and no, you don't have to invite your sister along.

I just miss you, kiddo. I even miss Bambi. I love you. Happy Birthday.

(Okay, I don't miss Bambi.)

The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold

I read this book because it's the latest pick in my book club and because a friend who read it said she stayed up all night to finish it. What she didn't say (until this morning after I'd lost much sleep) was that while yes, this book was difficult to put down, it was also pointlessly depressing. I stayed up last night reading with my stomach in knots, thinking I'd be sick at any minute, thinking that this could have been my child. But actually? I could have put it down without reading the last 100 pages at all.

Did I like it? Well...I look forward to reading Sebold's memoir (the excerpt just on amazon.com seems to explain where she got the idea for The Lovely Bones), and new fiction she might produce. I enjoy her language and her uncanny ability to get into the minds of parents when she is not one. No, it's not that she got into the parents' heads: what she did well was capture the feelings of being a young child.
"Something so divine that no one in heaven could have made it up; the care a child took with an adult." When Jake does something he knows he shouldn't, he worries more about me being unhappy than he does about getting in trouble. "You happy, Mommy?" I remember being the same way about my mom when I was young.
"...what I remember most is watching things hit my mother while I looked at her, how the life she had wanted and the loss of it hit her in waves. As her firstborn, I thought it was me who took away all those dreams of what she had wanted to be." I think every child wonders about this. What would my mother have been if she hadn't raised a child? Reading this sentence was heartbreaking for me: will Jake wonder this someday? Does a child ever understand that he is his mother's dream?

Okay, if you're going to read this book, stop reading my entry here.

But here's what I didn't like about The Lovely Bones. The concept. The narrator in this short novel is Susie, a 14-year-old girl recently raped and murdered. That's right, she's already dead, and we the readers go to heaven with her. See, now that I read that idea, I think it's intriguing. Except what I thought would be intriguing simply wasn't there. No exploration of soul. A heaven with no depth. No growing as a character. Dead Susie spends 328 pages watching, pining after, spooking, and actually possessing the people she left behind. No resolution, and in fact, no conflict. Yes, she was murdered, but even that wasn't particularly intriguing. No real conflict, so any resolution is...well, who cares?

At age 14, I kept a diary. I still have that diary. Whenever I take it out to remember old times, I'm embarrassed by the immaturity and triviality of it. This book had a similar feel for me.

Hey, but the book club is meeting at a restaurant I've been wanting to check out.