The Review Revolution: Improving Culture through Kvetching

A New Career Direction

Well, after nine years as the Religion Reviews Editor at Publishers Weekly, I've decided that it is time to move on to new challenges.  July 18 will be my last day at PW, right after the International Christian Retail Show in Orlando.  I'm glad I'll have a chance to say good-bye to some of the special people from evangelical Christian houses I've worked with over the years, because in my new job I don't think I'm going to be attending ICRS. 

I am very excited about my next step!  I will be working 3/5 time as an acquisitions editor for Westminster John Knox Press, which is a great fit for my academic background and my interests in biblical studies, theology, and religion & popular culture.  (These are the people who brought us Mark Pinsky's The Gospel According to the Simpsons and other fine books.)   WJK is a terrific and stable company with super people who love books.  I am honored to be joining their team, and also glad that I can continue working from home less than full-time.  (I am beginning work on a new book of my own, a major study of Mormon adolescence in America.  It's going to take a good deal of time and travel to conduct the surveys and interviews.) 

I have been itching for several years now to get into acquisitions or agenting.  I want to be part of nourishing good books from the very beginning of the process.  I have loved my work with PW, but it's time to take Andy Crouch's suggestion and stop merely critiquing culture and start actually creating some.  (BTW, check out his new book Culture Making.  It's fantastic, and I say this as a completely impartial bystander, not at all swayed by the fact that Andy sang at my wedding.) 

I'll have three weeks off to rest, catch up on scrapbooking (as if), get over-involved in Olympic spectating and work more on my book proposal before I start my new position in August.  Thanks so much to all of you who have been nothing short of inspirational to me in my PW job.  I am privileged to still get to work with many of you and see you at trade shows and conferences.  After nearly a decade in the business, I still can't believe we actually get paid for this.

Onyx, Our New Buddy Boy

Many of you know that our beloved cocker spaniel, Halilah, died in June.  These last couple months have been the first dogless ones in our family since the beginning of 1992.  But we wanted to wait a bit for our hearts to heal and also for me to be through all my summer travel so I could be home to train whatever dog we wound up adopting.

Tuesday was the magic day!  We'd like to introduce our wonderful new beast, Onyx Riess-Smith.  We found him on Petfinder.com.  (Adopting a shelter dog has changed a lot since the early 90s.  Who knew?  Nowadays you go to Petfinder, type in your desired breed mix and/or animal size and your zip code, and it comes up with kajillions of dogs available in your area.  It's an amazing tool for getting started.)   We were looking for a medium-sized dog, young but not a puppy.   After starting on Petfinder we scoured the local shelters and met a whole lot of dogs needing homes.  It's heartbreaking, really, how many thousands of animals there are just right here in Cincinnati that need a family.  But we could only adopt one.  (Well, this is what my husband tells me.  I was pretty sure we could take at least two.)

The shelter thought Onyx was part border collie, but our vet thought retriever, so we started doing some research.  Onyx looks like the pictures of the flat-coated retriever, though he's on the small side at just 55 pounds.  He is a sweetheart, pure and simple.   This is the calmest dog we've ever known, happy to lie down at one's feet for hours and just be petted.  He is gentle on the leash and doesn't pull at all, so even our daughter can walk him.  He likes walking the trails in Ault Park, which is in our neighborhood, or to come to the Coffee Emporium and hang out under an outdoor table while I read. He is a little shy with other dogs, but great with people, especially children.  Today we took him to an outdoor church service and picnic, and he was a perfect gentleman, letting toddlers thump him on the head and sitting quietly throughout.  The only time he whines is if we leave him alone.  Phil discovered that Onyx will calm down at night if he listens to the radio.  So we are going to have a very smart, liberal-leaning dog from all the NPR he is being exposed to.  He will become concerned about the plight of dogs in China.    

What It Means to Love a Dog

I read something this weekend that made me cry.  Now, it's not that this is so very unusual.  In the right mindset, even Spongebob Squarepants can make me verklempt.  But this article got me in the gut, because it expressed precisely what I am feeling in this season of my life.  Perfectly--the laughter and the tears. 

It's a My Turn essay by Anna Quindlen, who is one of the Last Word columnists for Newsweek.  I generally love her stuff, but she knocked this one right out of the park.  If you are a dog lover, please read it here.  If you are not a dog lover, don't bother, since you will not understand. 

Quindlen is nursing a 15-year-old dog through what we assume are its last days.  Her dog, Beau, is nearly blind and deaf, prone to long moments of forgetting who and where he is.  (Yes, elderly dogs do that too, just like elderly people.  Who knew?)  She gives him his meds and cleans up his accidents and props him upright when his unreliable back legs start splaying out underneath him. 

And for the last few years, that's precisely what we've been doing too.  Our once-indefatigable cocker spaniel, Halilah, has been slowly failing for ages.  First it was the heart problems, for which she takes daily medication; the vet told us last July that she was nearing the end.  Our once-obese and gluttonous spaniel, who used to dig into the garbage at every opportunity, had lost a third of her body weight and had to be coaxed into eating.  We were amazed that she made it to Cincinnati with us for the move.  And then it was her kidneys, which the new Ohio vet told me in September were failing fast.  And yet she hung on.  We were astonished that she made it to Christmas.  She got a reeeeally nice dog treat that day.

And then one horrible day in early March, I was in my office on the second floor and I could hear her wheezing in the kitchen.  I rushed down to find that she'd gotten stuck under a chair and couldn't get out.  She was in some respiratory distress.  When I took her to the vet, the prognosis was grim: we were in hospice, with no more than two weeks to go.  We needed "to make some decisions."  We needed to say good-bye.

My dear, we're still good-byeing.  That was six weeks ago.  If Halilah weren't entirely deaf I would swear she heard the vet and decided right then and there to prove the doctor wrong.  She began eating again the very next day.  She's still thin as a rail, but happy to be here and in no apparent pain other than her perpetual stiffness.

If she makes it to July, it'll be her Sweet Sixteen. But for the last year, I've been grateful for each morning that I go downstairs and find her still breathing.  It is enough.  Each morning I dispense the meds and clean up the diarrhea, reassuring Halilah that she is still a good dog; I know she couldn't help it. I carry her up and down the stairs to go outside. I lay down a fresh bed for her by the back door.  Her bed is made out of clean old towels, which carry a wallop of emotion in themselves.  Just as Halilah was a new dog to us when we were first married, these were our wedding towels way back in 1991.  (We received 14 sets.  What can I say?  I guess they ship well.)  So I lay down the tattered, well-loved towels and I muse about the passage of time.  I don't know where it's gone.

It all feels precious to me. Every bath, every haircut I give Halilah may be the last one, so I make sure to cuddle her extra close.  She is not going to be with us much longer, despite all the times she has beaten the odds.  Soon enough, she'll be off chasing squirrels where the best dogs go. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to bear it, the loss of this shadow who has been a constant and faithful companion all these years. But I'm going to be ever grateful for the love she has showered on our family.  Making her comfortable in these latter days doesn't feel like much of a payback, to be honest, but it's what I can do. 

An Unholy Trinity of Consumer Greed

Do you ever just reach your last straw with having people try to scam you all the time?  As a historian, I remind myself often that the human impulse toward greed is as old as the hills.  The means of execution, however, become more sophisticated every year.

A couple of days ago I got an email from Earthlink, our email provider, saying that my credit card info needed updating or somesuch.  As a rule I don't ever reply to these messages, and I stuck to my guns per usual.  I'm glad I did, because even though the return address was "security@earthlink.net," and even though the link was to "https://myaccount.earthlink.net/," it's all a fake.  My technohusband showed me how I can find the real link by holding my mouse over the alleged web address, and then the encrypted address will appear.  Sneaky bastards.

You know what the tip-off was?  They misspelled "processing."  It seems that in almost every one of these spam emails, something is not quite right.  Apparently they don't teach grammar and spelling in Evil School.  At least, not yet.

But it's not always just the illegitimate , faux companies that are trying to part me from my money prematurely. My snail mail box has been flooded lately with subscription renewal demands from many of the magazines that I receive, including legit outfits like Kiplinger's and Budget Travel.  These notices make it sound like my subscriptions are about to expire, when in both cases I have more than a year left on them.  Thank heavens for Quicken, which makes it a snap to check my own records and see when I last renewed.  Jeepers.

OK,  one last bit of consumer kvetching, and then I promise I'll be back next time with a bona fide review.  For years I've kept our short-term savings with a wonderful money market fund that pays a nice yield and has zero expenses.  Well, I learned last year -- the hard, painful way -- that one of the reasons it can afford to do this is that it holds on to customers' money for ages and ages before making it "available."  Last September I paid my quarterly taxes from this account, only to get a nasty notice from the IRS some weeks later saying my check had bounced.  I had to repay all the money plus a $60 fee to Uncle Sam.  I was puzzled by this, because I had received a statement from the company just before I paid my taxes, confirming the receipt of a deposit and listing my funds.  But no!  As the patient customer service representative explained to me on the phone, it actually doesn't matter if the money is on your statement . . . it takes TEN BUSINESS DAYS for it to post to your account!  So even though the statement is dated from the day after I made the deposit, I was supposed to wait an additional nine business days before my money would be my money.  Aaaaaaugh.  So basically, the MMF gets to enjoy the overnight float for about two weeks, including weekends.  The CS rep told me several times that this had all been explained in the 6-point font on the last page of the packet when I opened my account.  Oh.

Girl Scout Cookies Put the FUN in Fundraiser

It's that time of year again.  Maybe you've seen the purveyors of chocolatey goodness on your very own street.  Little girls dressed in brown or green vests they would not be caught dead in unless they were selling something. 

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

This is Jerusha's second year selling Girl Scout cookies.  I don't know how many years I sold these cookies myself as a kid, but I can tell you two things: 1) when I started, I remember that they were only 75 cents a box, and 2) I stayed in Scouts loooong after it was cool to do so.   

I can also tell you that it is much easier to sell these cookies today than I remember it being when I was a kid.  I don't think there is any product that is easier to sell than these cookies, which, while good, are not irresistible.  When we went out to sell in our neighborhood, almost everyone who was home bought at least one box.  One lady out walking her dogs crossed the street and practically chased us down to buy four.  (I think they are for the terriers.)

Last year, we sold 80something boxes, so we set the goal this year of 100.  I'm happy to report that we made the goal today.  (And hey, you still have through the weekend if you want to place an order.  I am shipping them to friends around the country -- no s&h fee!)  And the selling has been so effortless.  People act like you're doing them a favor. 

Why are we so attached to these cookies?  Yes, some of them are really tasty (I am a Thin Mint gal, myself), and we like to feel we're helping the girls go to camp and learn how to pitch tents and all that.  But I think the real issue is the nostalgia factor.  We all have our favorite cookie brands, with our special memories and associations.  Food is the ultimate nostalgia trip anyway, but when you're selling a food that is forever associated with childhood and then make it available for only two weeks a year, you've got all the factors that make for genius, genius marketing.  Those little girls in the vests are friggin' brilliant!

I remember being in 4th grade and selling cookies to my reading teacher (whose name, I kid you not, was Miss Reeder).  She launched into the whole story about when she used to sell the cookies (at 25 cents a box, I think) and then placed a mongo order.  It's not about the cookies.  It's about the memories, and the American way of life, which must involve sugar at all levels.  If we don't buy a lot of Girl Scout cookies, the terrorists will win. 

What are your favorites?

In Memory of Stephen Heywood, 1969-2006

"This does not end here. Together with Stephens’s spirit continuing to guide us we will take this disease apart and destroy it."
                                                                                                                    --Jamie Heywood

I've just received the sad news of the death this weekend of Stephen Heywood, whose brother Jamie was a college acquaintance of mine.  Some of you will know about Stephen and Jamie's powerful story of the race for a cure to ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease, because of the popular science book His Brother's Keeper.  I hope you will read it.  It tells of how, after Stephen received an ALS diagnosis in 1998, Jamie quit his career as an engineer to form a foundation to raise money for cutting-edge research into the causes and treatments of the disease.  Together they have raised millions of dollars and put ALS on the fast track for some new experimental therapies.  More than that, however, they have inspired thousands of people, myself included, through their courage and commitment. 

I never met Stephen, but I find his story to be deeply inspirational, and hope that you will too.  Please read the book, and if you feel led to do so, consider making a donation to the foundation in Stephen's memory.   

Sluts in Training?

We interrupt our regularly scheduled reviewing to bring you kvetching of a different kind: what is it with girls' clothing?

The catalyst for this outburst is the quest for a Halloween costume for my seven-year-old daughter.  Now, she is very tall, so she's already wearing a size 10.  And therein lies the problem.  Do you know how hard it is to find a Halloween costume in that size that doesn't set off the Skank Alarm?  Basically, the expectation seems to be that one October, you're a dew-clad Disney Princess.  The next, you are a whore.  Ain't America grand?

I knew I was in trouble a couple of years ago, when she made that jump from wearing a 6X to a 7 -- in other words, from little-girl clothes to big-girl clothes.  At Target or Meijer or somewhere, I found a tight t-shirt in her size that said "Wild Thang" and had flames rising out of the lettering.  Needless to say, I passed.  But it seemed an ominous harbinger of things to come.

(Soon, the little girl clothes will be affected too, and the "X" in 6X will stand for . . . no, I don't even want to go there.)

The costume that Jerusha really wanted was Stephanie from the high-energy kids' show LazyTown -- you know, the gal at left with the pink hair.  (Actually, she really wanted to be Sportacus, but it seems she has been gender-socialized enough to realize that it's really declasse to dress up as a boy, even if he is very, very gay.)  However, Stephanie was impossible because those costumes only go up to size 6.  I guess it's not nearly sexualized enough for a seven-year-old girl.  She needs to be showing some thigh and cleavage, like the girls in these other costumes that were available in size 10.

Am I alone in this?  Jerusha is SEVEN, for heaven's sake!  While it would be nice if she were an income-producing member of the family ("Mommy and Daddy have a mortgage now, sweetheart, so you have to earn your keep"), I'd rather that she not dress like an apprentice to the oldest profession just yet.  We're going to try to preserve a little innocence in our household.  Maybe I am a) just getting old; or b) channeling my grandmother's spirit again, but I think we can pass on Catwoman and any bondage-themed costumes this year.  (Besides, did I mention . . . brrrr.  Halloween is almost in November!  Put something on, girl!)

After all that, I'm happy to report that Jerusha decided on Clifford, the Big Red Dog. She loves that show too.  And Clifford is available in an 8-10, even though it's technically a boy's costume and, for that matter, Clifford is a male dog.  At least he's a dog that knows how to keep the crown jewels under wraps.  Plus, the costume can double as pajamas for months to come. 

 

We're Hoooooomeowners!!

We interrupt our normal culture kvetching to bring you glad tidings of great joy: we bought a house today!  I am writing this from the attic bedroom which will, with a little luck and a whole lot of elbow grease, become a lovely master suite by, say, the year 2059.  Yes, there's a lot to do, but we are thrilled with our home.  It's a 1925 brick colonial in East Hyde Park, Cincinnati. It has loads of charm: hardwood floors on the first and second floors, a small but recently updated kitchen, a basement garage from the 20s that the previous owner turned into an office space with (praise the saints!) a separate entrance for all the shipping and receiving I do for work.  Our dog is going to like the little fenced-in yard we have, plus a goldfish pond. It's a good thing she is very old and practically blind or I would worry about her trying to eat the fish.  I think they're safe with our geriatric spaniel.

The house has some quirks, not the least of which is this totally bizarre w.c. off the kitchen.  It's just a toilet in a tiny closet -- no sink, no room to turn around.  Yuck.  Phil is going to take it out this weekend and we will transform that space into a pantry with the help of shelving solutions from The Container Store.

One of our priorities is to get our guest room in order come fall.  We are hoping to see lots of you friends and family members!  You will love our neighborhood: we're 3 blocks from Starbucks and a couple more blocks from a really neat indy coffeehouse, The Coffee Emporium.  They have fantastic hot chocolate and baked treats.  (I feel odd writing and thinking about scones when I am staring at this picture of a gaping toilet.) We are also within four blocks of four different Asian or South Asian restaurants!  I can smell the Indian and Thai food from my house when the windows are open . . . I am thrilled to be able to walk to restaurants, yoga class, the doctor, the corner grocery, the pharmacy, the ice cream store, the hair salon.  After seven years in the country, it feels amazing.  But we have the bucolic advantages too: we are just two blocks from the entrance to Ault Park, one of the oldest and largest parks in the city.  Jerusha is going to love it.

Come and visit!