There’s a new race in the Mother Superior game of I Can Parent Better Than You: sunscreen.
When I was a kid, we either went without or we wore SPF 4, usually Coppertone or that really yummy orange smelling Bain de Soleil brand (Bain de Soleil for that San Tropez tan . . .). These days no self-respecting Mother Superior would let her child out of the house in anything less than SPF 30. And that’s only if you’re a bad mommy.
“Little Austin wears SPF 150,” a Mother Superior will sniff.*
“Well, my little Morgan only leaves the house wearing a toe-to-neck surf suit that completely blocks out all of the sun’s rays,” another M.S. says smugly (neglecting to mention that little Morgan ended up in the hospital with heat stroke, because E.R. trips seriously cut down on your M.S. rating).
“. . . well, I wrap Parker in tinfoil . . .”
“. . . I only let Ashley out of the house at night . . .”
It’s not that I don’t slap some sunscreen on Sam before we had out to the park; I do. I just don’t get the part where it’s something to feel smug about.

* Yes, this is mostly fictional, but even so, you just know that somewhere, out there, the Mother Superiors are having this exact conversation.

The Reader by Bernhard Schlink
I deliberated on whether or not to even include The Reader in the Reading Project.
It has all the makings of a literary book – tragedy, victimization, a sad ending. And, even as a translation, the simple, lyrical prose shines through, frequently trumping the story.
But then again, The Reader was written only a little over a decade ago, making it the most modern entry in the Reading Project. Plus the author, Bernhard Schlink is still alive, which means that I can’t rename the Reading Project READING DEAD WHITE MEN at a later date, should I have wanted to.
But it was out of my hands. The book club I recently joined had already picked The Reader as the selection for our May meeting. And since I’ve been behind schedule ever since it took me two weeks to slog through Madame Bovary, I’m taking what I can get.
The Reader, set in Germany, begins when Michael Berg is fifteen, and becomes ill with a nasty bout of hepatitis. Hanna Schmitz, thirty-six, briefly cares for the boy when she finds him vomiting on the sidewalk. Later, when Michael has recovered from his illness, he visits Hanna to thank her for her kindness. Shortly thereafter, they become lovers.
I know. Ick.
The affair lasts for some months, until the day when Hanna disappears without leaving any forwarding information. And Michael goes on, attending college, becoming a lawyer, marrying, divorcing. You know, all the good stuff. But while he’s a law student, he goes to observe a trial, and finds that Hanna is one of the defendants. It turns out that sleeping with underage boys isn’t her only crime . . . dum dum dum . . .
Despite some confusing – and unnecessary – jumping around in the time line of the story, The Reader is a crisply written story about crime and punishment, penance and redemption. I give it an A.
More on The Reading Project here.

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Confession time: I heart Sherlock Holmes.
George and I have been watching the old Sherlock Holmes series starring Jeremy Bratt on DVD. It’s remarkable good, even considering the dated production and the inadvisable amount of blush worn by the actors.
So I jumped at the chance to add The Hound of the Baskervilles to my Reading Project reading list. And I know what you’re thinking: it’s commercial, not literary fiction. But to that, I say pfft. If Sherlock Holmes doesn’t qualify as a classic, than what does? The Heart of the Matter? West With the Night? No. I refuse to live in a world where that bilge is given higher props than the great Sherlock Holmes.
In The Hound of the Baskervilles, our favorite sleuth is set on a most vexing case, one that involves a phantom dog that’s been hunting generations of Baskervilles upon the moors of Devonshire. The hound is reported to be a great beast with wild red eyes, and whose cries carry on the wind, terrifying the simple-minded villagers. Of course, a supernatural dog is no match for the masterful Holmes, whose intellectual prowess is exceeded only by his egotism.
Holmes quickly makes swift work of the case, exposing the villain and, well, scaring the shit out of his client. But so what if the client if forced to take a year’s vacation to convalesce? In the end, Holmes was victorious! And that’s all that matters.
The Hound of the Baskervilles is a solid A.
More on The Reading Project here.

I recently had a conversation with another mom of a toddler, that went something like this:
Me: Your son’s name is Samuel? That’s my little boy’s name, too.
Her: Really? Wow, that name is getting popular, huh?
Me: Do you call him Sam or Samuel?
Her: Samuel. Thank God no one’s tried to shorten it to Sam yet. What do you call your son?
Me: Sam.
Her: [pause] Oh.

My latest blog is up at the L.C.
This week: Saying YES to NO.

So I’m sitting at an intersection, rocking out to a little Gloria Estefan. (Shut up, I love her.) I’m singing along, and – even more embarrassing – I’m so into the groove, I’m car dancing . . . when I look over and see an acquaintance has pulled up beside me, and is totally watching my performance. Gah!
Oh, well. At least she had the grace to look studiously away, and pretend that she hadn’t seen me.

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
Emma Bovary: what a bitch.
If the anti-heroine of Flaubert’s masterpiece had lived today, and taken out a personal ad, it might have read:
MWF seeks wealthy man to indulge her every whim. Likes: spending money, romance novels, Manolo Blahniks. Dislikes: self-denial, limits on credit cards, mothers-in-law. Personal hero: Paris Hilton. Favorite saying: Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.
Emma enters into marriage with the weak-willed Charles, who blindly worships his new wife. Emma despises Charles, and spends her time spending money they don’t have on luxury items, lying about the house, reading novels and screwing the neighbors. The cuckolded Charles fusses over Emma, denying her nothing – even granting her demand to assume power of attorney over his property – to the point that you really can’t feel all that sorry for him when it all blows up in his face. I mean, really. What did he expect?
After a slow, awkward first chapter in which we meet Charles as a boy at school, the novel quickly picks up, especially when Emma enters the story, and becomes surprisingly readable. Madame Bovary gets a B+.
More on The Reading Project here.

When you see your toddler playing with your alarm clock, you might want to check to make sure that the alarm time is still set properly before switching it on. It could save you a nasty, middle-of-the-night surprise.
Learn from my mistakes.

George came out today wearing what I can only describe as the world’s ugliest tie. Imagine the sort of wallpaper that a little old lady — the fussy sort who has lots of cats and doilies everywhere — would hang in her powder room. That’s what this tie looks like.
He claims he “found” it while he was cleaning out the garage yesterday. I don’t even know what that means. I begged him to take it off — I don’t want his co-workers judging me, and thinking I condone such awfulness — but he refused.
I’d post a picture of it, but I don’t want my readers to start shrieking and covering their eyes with horror. So just take my word for it: it’s one fugly tie. And tomorrow it will be available for sale at our local Goodwill . . . ’cause I’m all about supporting the charities.