Elizabeth George's Deception on His Mind Book Club

When my European friend recommended a British mystery for me to read, I did not hesitate for a minute.  Her first recommendation was a result of her laughing aloud hysterically while reading Jane Green's Straight Talking (book club ideas coming soon) when we were on retreat together.  I am not a laugh aloud reader (more of a goofy smirk reader), but I was willing to try after her constant giggles during the night.  Thus, Deception on His Mind was soon stacked on top of my nightstand.
Being cartographically challenged, it took me a while to orient myself into the setting of the novel.  With the assistance of the inside cover maps, I was soon up to speed, though.  No-nonsense characters such as Barbara Havers, Emily Barlow, Agatha Shaw, and Taymulla Azhar intrigue the reader prompting her to keep those pages turning.  Reading this novel while hospitalized allowed me the concentration needed to fully absorb the multi-faceted characters as well as the complexities of the mystery in question, the murder of Haythem Querashi.
As a side note, I fell in love with the epigram found at the beginning of Deception on His Mind:
     WHERE IS THE MAN WHO HAS THE POWER AND SKILL
     TO STEM THE TORRENT OF A WOMAN'S WILL?
     FOR IS SHE WILL, SHE WILL, YOU MAY DEPEND ON'T;
     AND IF SHE WON'T, SHE WON'T;  SO THERE'S AN END ON'T.

           -from the pillar erected on the Mount in the Dane John Field in Canterbury

When considering book club for this Elizabeth George novel, one may explore the contradiction between Emily's healthful ways and Barbara's less-than-healthful eating habits.  A buffet of yogurt, granola, and fresh fruit setting adjacent to popcorn, rainbow rock (what is this?), and ice cream seems to fit the bill.  Another direction book club may take in regards to refreshments is all foods mustard, in honor of the Malik's mustard factory.


Elizabeth George

E.L. James' Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy Book Club

When a dear friend and author (@carolgalusha/twitter) texts you in the middle of the night imploring you to beg, borrow, or steal E.L. James' Fifty Shades of Grey, my interest was piqued.  The next day while at my friendly village library, I think I blushed (my friend warned me of the novel's amorous effects) when I requested the librarian perform a search for the trilogy in question.  Hearing there was a lengthy wait of 60+ requests for book one of the series, I graciously denied the request to be added to this list.  Knowing this was a read that could not wait, I caved and downloaded book one onto my phone.

Va, va, va, and voom!  Not having asked Ms. Galusha details, I took her at her word not having any idea what to expect (deep breath).  Reading definitely surpassed any expectations.  Complex characters with intense needs quickly unfold in book one.  Delving further into book one, I found similarities between Twilight characters and Fifty Shades characters, but far from the young adult genre.  With similar themes of tortured souls overcoming dark pasts, starry-eyed, opposites-attract lovers, and the happily ever after, E.L. James had me at page one.  

Consumed by the far-from-black-and-white (grey) story, I immediately downloaded books two and three at the conclusion of book one.  Instead of being disappointed by weak, redundant, cookie-cutter sequels, I was grateful for the interjection of more complex storylines and found books two (especially) and book three to be more engrossing reads.

For the purposes of book club, a Grey-Themed Party is definitely a must.  Have "bookies" come dressed in their favorite shades of grey (fifty of which to choose from).  A sparkling pink drink would be nice to bring to mind Christian and Ana's favorite drink.  Because Christian would demand we eat, a splurge of oysters, perhaps, to mirror a first of Anastasia's, or a warming chicken stew courtesy of (warning:  spoiler alert) Mrs. Taylor (a.k.a. Mrs. Jones).

E. L. James

Janet Evanovich's Metro Girl Book Club

 

Perusing the aisles at the quaintest little library (my new favorite), Maryville Community Library in Maryville, IL, I could not help but peruse the Evanovich titles as I always do.  Metro Girl caught my eye with its brightly-colored book jacket, so I flicked it loose from the shelf with my index finger and scanned the back synopsis.  Having continued withdrawals from the early Stephanie Plum series, I decided to give it a try.

Interesting enough, Evanovich's main characters, Alex and Hooker, are fair-haired, but they do remind the reader of characters, Steph and Morelli (which is not disappointing to say the least).  The sexual tension builds throughout this novel as together Alex and Hooker overcome trouble and solve mystery after mystery.  Hooker's protective ways and Alex's independence mirror scenes read about in Jersey although the setting this time is Miami.

A quick, entertaining read which should be discussed over seafood (stone crabs anyone??) such as at the Gulf Shores Restaurant and Grill (yummo!).

Janet Evanovich

The Hunger Games Trilogy Book Club

I am going to be honest here . . .  the movie trailer is what led me to Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games Trilogy. 
Thinking I would blog after each book was not meant to be.  I couldn't put, in my case, my phone's e-version down.  In fact, I was grateful that a four-day-hospital stay occurred during the reading.  Poked in my arms and hands for blood withdrawal . . .  fine.   Shot in my stomach with blood thinners . . .  bring it on.  Taken to my fourth surgery in as many months . . .  let's do it (so that I can continue my reading). 
The storyline was intriguing and kept my attention throughout, the albeit alien characters believable, and plot twists interwoven throughout.  Without giving too much away, I found myself wanting Katniss to ease up on Gale and allow him equal footing in the contest for her heart.  Her abruptness with him in the third novel didn't seem to ring true to her earlier interactions with him, but I suppose time and circumstances does alter outcomes.
Since I don't see myself or others munching on tree rats while discussing this trilogy, I, instead, look forward to a group viewing of the movie version of The Hunger Games come March 23rd.

The Man Who Couldn't Eat Book Club

 Having learned about Jon Reiner's The Man Who Couldn't Eat through St. Louis' Feast Magazine, I was intrigued about a book choice selected by a food culture magazine and regarding a topic close to home, chrone's disease.  My uncle-in-law suffers from this condition, so I thought after reading I would send it to my aunt and uncle-in-law for reading.  Besides the fact, I am a sucker for memoirs;  learning about other peoples' lives is intriguing and comforting all in one.
Reiner's raw storytelling is certainly not "sugar coated."  Chrone's disease wreaks havoc not only on the victim's health, but also his/her way of lifestyle and the lifestyle of those around him/her.  A scene where Reiner longingly looks at the salt-coated crinkles of a french fry and eventually licks despite his NPO (nil per os/nothing by mouth) status mirrors unrequited love.
When reflecting on his numerous stays at the hospital, Reiner writes, " . . . hospitals have a way of breeding confessions," (189).  Adept at description, Reiner includes the reader in every page, paragraph, and sentence.  Having recently been hospitalized, I recounted learning of a nurse's dysfunctional ex as well as the organic eating requirements of another nurse and wondering what truths I revealed while under the influence of pain killers and lying vulnerable in a hospital bed.
For book club purposes, an evening of appetizers at Nosh was offered to the Feast Book Club at independent bookseller Left Bank Books in the Central West End in St. Louis.

Ta Ta to the Ta Tas with Eileen Sutherland's "Mom and the Polka-Dot Boo Boo"

So, I've been MIA lately, but it hasn't been due to a lack of interest in reading.  It turns out that my "nothing but routine" breast excision evolved into a lumpectomy which has inevitably resulted in the need for a bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction tomorrow.  [deep breathing . . . more deep breathing]  Since I feel like an immature adolescent inside, it's hard for me to come to the realization that my body is anything but adolescent, but rather it is adult dealing with adult medical issues.  The fact is that 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer.  Yes, 1 in 8!  The odds that a woman will develop breast cancer are staggering.  Yet, women are not the only victims.  For every 100 women diagnosed, 1 male will be diagnosed.  Why is there no cure?
As reported in my last blog, I was virtually without symptoms prior to my first mammogram.  A couple of weeks before the screening, I had spontaneous discharge from my right nipple, but no lumps.  No lumps!!!  I thought you had to have lumps!!!  My father passed away after losing a gruesome battle with cancer of the lining of the lung.  Thus, I figured I, too, would meet cancer one day, but I didn't think it would be only five years after his death and in the form of breast cancer.
With a three and five-year-old, there is not much opportunity to come to terms with the diagnosis or wallow in any self-pity.  Instead, my "game face" must be on for them because I don't want them to be frightened or worry about their momma.  This does not mean that tears do not flow, so I feel truly blessed to have a loving support system which includes friends who know just what to do, when to do it, and won't take "no" for an answer.  Hearing "no clear margins . . . mastectomy" over the phone, I was in no shape to care for my three-year-old.  My BFFs without hesitation took turns watching my girls that day and keeping them occupied.  Just what the doctor ordered . . .  time to cry, time to think, time to research.

While researching, I came across a book which deals with breast cancer suitable for my young children.  Eileen Sutherland's Mom and the Polka-Dot Boo Boo perfectly explains breast cancer at the child's level.  Together, my girls and I have read this book several times, and I have referred back to this text whenever questions arise.  My favorite literacy device used in Sutherland's writing is the use of the simile when she compares the release of the boo boos from Mommy's chest to the flight of a butterfly.  The girls enjoyed the imagery and understood this explanation.
Mom and the Polka-Dot Boo Boo is a thoughtful gift for any breast cancer warrior . . .  If you do nothing else, though, please check your ta tas!

Save the Ta Tas!

     Life introduces people to many firsts . . .  first solid food, first bike ride without training wheels, first kiss, etc.  Females experience firsts exclusive to their sex:  first menstruation (icks), first brassiere (my dad's reference to this item of clothing), for some, a first birth, and for the fortunate forty-year-olds a first mammogram.  As of yesterday, October, 18, 2011, I am one of the fortunate to have completed all of the above.
     Interestingly enough, I can remember crying at the sight of my first menstruation and wishing it away.  The tears fell not from fear, but from the dread of becoming this "woman" with all of her adult responsibilities.  I wanted to simply remain the girl I was without having to deal, for starters, with female hygienic issues.  Then, ultimately the dread of having to wear a bra.  Witnessing the boys in elementary school snapping girls' bras created a further sense of doom.  I liked to run, bike, and swim.  I didn't want these growths sticking out of my chest and hampering my tomboy lifestyle, so I tucked my undershirt in tight in order to smash what little development had occurred and hunched forward a bit in the hopes of fooling my mom (and the boys).  As you can imagine, the jig was up in due time, and I found myself mortified standing in Kmart alongside my mother who was scanning the lingerie racks for my size (I didn't want to be a size anything).  Blue light special or not, I wanted to run for the hills.
     Now, at age forty, I have learned to tolerate the twins and have no problem searching the lingerie racks at Kohls for what I refer to as "boob cages."  Although the "ta tas" fell short when I attempted to breastfeed my squirts, I had to give them some slack due to complications with preeclampsia.  All is forgiven . . .
     Facing the mammogram, apprehension ensued since my right twin was beginning to act out with some spontaneous discharge and red streaking.  Thus, instead of a routine mammogram, I had to first meet with a breast surgeon.  Prior to our meeting, I was ordered a heavy dose of antibiotics in case of infection and am pleased to announce the red streak vanished.  Yeah team!  However, since the surgeon felt a nodule, a mammogram and ultrasound was the plan du jour.  Given a pink robe (with missing belt) to wear, I was kindly escorted to a waiting area with other women wearing the same pink robes (belts included).
     These ladies seemed cool and collected and spanned various age ranges.  A beautiful silver-haired lady was entranced in a book (should have taken her picture for my blog) while a youthful twenty-something was hurriedly texting.  I wondered if I looked as cool and collected when I knew I was full of uncertainty and trepidation.  I responded to e-mail via my phone and then scanned the room while a woman was sporadically appearing from behind a door marked "MAMMO" and calling various names . . .  "Miss So- and- So" with much kindness in the tone of her voice.
     Having once taught an ethnography (a branch of anthropology dealing with the scientific description of individual cultures) writing course, I realized at that moment in time I was immersed in a culture whose story needed to be told and told and told.  Giggling on the inside, these ladies and I were, in essence, on the same team with our pink "uniforms."  Although on the same team, we simply nodded to one another and/or smiled.  No strategies were discussed amongst ourselves or high-fives exchanged.  Perhaps, this could be deemed our private time for individual preparation (finding our zone) before the big game.
     Noticing a framed set of tiles on the wall, I knew I needed a picture, but attempted to be inconspicuous while taking the shot.

Assuming these were tiles created by breast cancer warriors, I wanted to take the time and savor their work;  "An apple a day didn't keep the doctor away" and "Duct tape fixes everything; try it" were two of my favorites.  Alas, though, "Miss Winkler" was called, and I was able to glimpse what was awaiting behind that door. . .
    Finally coming face to face with the opponent, I was not looking forward to what my buddy referred to as the smashing of the boobs.  After a brief history was entered into the computer, I was asked to disrobe one side of my upper body and place the body part in question on the machine.  The clear tray lowered and lowered and lowered onto my poor "girl" and felt like someone had placed a concrete block in its place.  "Ouch," I mumbled as my breast seemed to be separating from the skin near my shoulder.  Yet, after being told to hold my breath, the clear tray was quickly lifted, and the radiologist was soon adjusting my other "girl" on the machine.  Luckily, there was no time for modesty;  the radiologist manipulated my "twins" with experienced, deliberate movements, and I was told to return to the waiting area.  Crossing my beltless pink robe in front of me and carrying my jacket and purse, I returned to my seat in the waiting area and noticed some new faces had joined the "team."
      Just as I was eyeing my bag and wishing I had prepared better by including water in it, a voice interrupted the silence asking if anyone was interested in a bottle of water.  With a grin on my face, I retrieved some water from the trick or treat bowl she was carrying and promptly quenched my thirst.  Score!  
     While wondering what the stories were of the other women seated on this metaphorical pink team bench, another voice called me by my first name and escorted me into the ultrasound room.  Lying on the bed next to the ultrasound machine, I was thinking how reassuring it was to have a woman surgeon, woman ob/gyn, and woman radiologist when entered a young, tall, dark, handsome male doctor stage right.  Nice!
     After he and his supervisor both had a look with the ultrasound, I was informed I had an enlarged duct in my right breast.  Told my surgeon would come up with a plan, I was walked back to the initial examining room and told to dress.  Through the thin walls, I could hear ladies exiting their rooms and told to schedule mammograms for a year from this date.  Yeah pink teammates!
     Soon, a knock was heard on my door, though, and coach (i.e. the female, close-to-my-age surgeon) entered the room and thoroughly explained the duct excision procedure I was to have.  Responding with, "Sounds great!  Let's do it . . ."  I really just wanted to exit the office, make a call, and hear the voice of my number-one fan, the hub.
     Feeling better having shared the news with my lover and best friend, I purchased a breast cancer awareness cookie from the cafeteria (chocolate cookie with pink M&Ms) and pink bulbs from the Siteman Cancer Center in order to benefit breast cancer research.  Thrilled with the odds of my procedure being nothing but routine, I couldn't help but think about the other women I laid eyes on earlier in the day in the waiting room and hoping their news, too, turned out to be just as routine.