Chris Van Hakes's Blog, page 2

Supposedly Great Books I’ll Never Try Again

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

I was reorganizing a high school’s book room and was haunted by stacks of these, taunting me for never reading them. They teach this novel in school, for cripe’s sake. It’s Important American Literature! And despite trying to read it twice and listen to the audiobook once, and despite loving Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Kingsolver, I simply give up. I cannot get into this story, and I don’t know why.

The His Dark Materials omnibus by Philip Pullman

How many people have told me how great this series is? Dozens? Oh well. Can’t get past the first seventy pages of it.

The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak

I know! Important! Great! Current! And yet every time I get it from the library, it molds on my nightstand for three weeks until it’s time to return it.

Ulysses by James Joyce

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Worst. Book. Ever. Ever ever ever ever ever.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

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I know I should identify with Heathcliff because The Man kept him down, but all I can think is, “You’re a dick, Heathcliff,” and not in a good way. I hope Catherine haunts the shit out of him.

Your turn!

 

 

Booooooks

I have so many books that I want to discuss with you! I’m not going to mention books I outright disliked, out of respect for authors, and also because there’s not much to discuss. “I hated it.” “Okay?”

Books I kissed and then wanted to break up with later

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

So, I didn’t put this in the outright “hate” spot in my heart (where it lives with spiky artichoke leaves and the very last bit of Harry Potter) because I liked the writing. At first. But I felt…bored. And then annoyed? And then I kind of didn’t get the point. I think I’m asking someone to explain why this won the Pulitzer.

The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. by Adelle Waldman

I actually quite liked this book, except that it’s about a pretentious asshat, and that puts a damper on outright loving it. It was really well-written and I felt sorry for every single woman in this book, but I thought the author had a certain specific point she was trying to get at (feminism has a long way to go? men are asshats? not sure), and it was either not clear enough or it was drowned out by asshatness. Still, it was interesting to see women through the lens of this particular male, and then to see the ending.

What I Thought Was True by Huntley Fitzpatrick

So, I loved Fitzpatrick’s first novel, and this was not that. At all. It was less idyllic and more truthful and while the romance in here was nice, it was a little too Pretty in Pink for my taste. But it was a good distraction on a plane.

Landline by Rainbow Rowell

This book broke my heart. Not because it was sad, but because it wasn’t up to the Rowell standards. Her previous three books were amazing, and this felt like a first draft of something. There were too many questions at the end of it. I think I would have liked it better as a first novel, or if it was by basically anyone else who I didn’t idolize. I will still read everything she writes, forever and ever, but it was just not up to my (too high?) expectations.

We Were Liars by E. Lockhart

Same song, second verse. The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks is perhaps one of the best pieces of YA literature, and this was not one of the best pieces. It was fine, but it was about really rich white people  and one slightly less rich non-white person and it was hard to sympathize with them.

How to Love by Katie Cotugno

I quite liked the audiobook of this. I heard there were complaints because the romantic hero in this novel was so very, very flawed, but as with almost all heroes, he finds his redemption, and I liked the way he worked to it, and it wasn’t a given. I wouldn’t break up with this book, but it just wasn’t a book I absolutely adored. It was sweet and well-written, though.

The Dog Stars by Peter Heller

This book was really uneven, but the good parts were great. Everything where the narrator talks about his dog, Jasper, is so touching, and if you’ve ever loved a non-human, you will relate.

Books I loved and proposed to and am now in a serious, committed relationship with

The Age of Miracles by Karen Thompson Walker

Perfect? This book is perfect. I listened to the audiobook driving to and from Portland to visit this lady, and then I sat and listened to it more at two in the morning after I came home because it was so good. It’s about the slowing of the earth’s  rotation, and how it effects an eleven-year-old girl’s life. It was so sad and haunting and wonderful, and if you need something to clear our your tear ducts, pick this up.

The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion

Has everyone already read this? It’s sweet and short and fun and romantic, and the main character, Don Tillman, is so fun.

Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson

I admit this is not a book I  would normally pick up (it was for work stuff), but it was beautifully written and I think there’s enough mystery in the ending to make a nice discussion with smart ladies and gentlemen.

The Beginning of Everything by Robyn Schneider

If I were wearing my librarian hat, I would say something like, “If you like John Green, you’ll love this novel!” Except I loved it more than Green’s novels. I listened to the audiobook on my commute and the actor who narrated did an AWFUL job of girls’ voices, but other than that, it was so fantastic and it made me cry and I loved the ending.

Isla and the Happily Ever After by Stephanie Perkins

I liked this much more than her other two characters, perhaps because I identified more with Isla, but also, I think, because it relied less on quirk and more on her (very strong) narrative skills. If you’re looking for a sweet YA romance, I highly recommend this.

The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin

This is the kind of novel that I think should win Pulitzers and National Book Awards. It is both literary and entertaining, both funny and insightful, and Zevin makes a main character that is not that likeable and yet totally loveable.

Origami Yoda series 

Okay, okay, so I read this series to my kids, but it was so cute and fun. Maybe “loved” is too strong a word for me, but the boys loved it.

Timmy Failure series by Stephen Pastis

Okay, again, I read this series to my boys, but it is so hilarious that we’d often by wiping away tears of mirth. Yes, tears of mirth! It happens.

Right now I’m listening to The Poisonwood Bible on audio (kind of confusing with the switched narrations), and reading Lucy Knisley’s graphic/comic biography, Relish. The boys are making their way through Lemony Snicket’s oeuvre, and adoring Series of Unfortunate Events very much.

Thoughts? Suggestions? Questions? Bathrooms are around the corner. (That’s the most popular reference question on any reference desk. That and, “do you have a stapler?”)  (Yes, I do.)

 

Of Mice and Mental Illness (Punny!)

Has it been a long while? I know I said in my last post that I would have a new URL, but that’s not the truth. The truth is I have no plans of writing things, of being a social medium, or of doing the twitters or the instagrams or the facebooks. I can use “the” in front of proper nouns now because I have transformed, chrysalis-like, from a caterpillar to a magnificent butterfly.

Maybe butterfly is too strong. But I’m not that bad.

I feel pretty good these days. On a scale of one to Ebola, I’m about a rheumatic fever. Or maybe one of those cutesy poxes. I don’t want you worrying about me and my mental illnesses. I have the mental illnesses, and some days are good, and some days are better, and some days are chicken pox and whooping cough. Some days are polio. Some days are just a runny nose. I haven’t gotten to the days where everything is “good,” or “fine,” or something else that could honestly be mumbled truthfully in passing by a teenager with hunched shoulders and hair in his face.

Listen, I could give you lots more metaphors and aphorisms, or I could just get down to business and write things in list form, as is the way of the kids these days.

1. I no longer have chickens. I killed them. With an axe and my hands. Okay, my husband helped. He held the axe. I held the chickens and closed my eyes, and the chickens closed theirs. I cried a whole bunch. It was awful.

And yes, I’m still a vegetarian.

2. Actually, I’m mostly a vegan. I gave up dairy, and since we no longer have egg-producing animals in the yard, I gave up eggs unless we can get them from a local farm, which isn’t that often.

3. Yes, I gave up cheese. I didn’t tell any of you about it because I thought maybe it would be like that time that Dooce divorced Jon. Who was Dooce without Jon? Who am I without cheese?

I did just compare a man to cheese. Every man should only be so lucky.

I’m doing pretty well without cheese. It turns out (ha ha ha) I’m allergic to dairy. That was what was causing my terrible stomachaches for twenty years! (Insert something about Dooce’s marriage. Wait, don’t. I feel bad about making that comparison at all, because marriage is tough shit, even when you’re married to Gregg the Bearded.)

I still miss queso. I don’t really read Dooce, but I respect her a lot, and I don’t give a shit if you don’t. I think she’s a strong lady, and I hope she finds some new queso one day.

4. I don’t really read blogs any longer. I don’t have twitter or instagram. I go on Facebook sometimes, but mostly I don’t. I am much happier without that.

5. I am no longer okay with people treating me like shit. When I first started this blog, I wanted to hear out every person’s criticisms and critiques of my ideas and my writing, because it would make me a better person. Or so I thought. What was really going on is that I had zero self-respect and I allowed strangers to trample me over and over and over again. (See #4.) Now if you leave a comment here and you’re an asshole, you’re getting deleted. That’s like pissing on my front porch. I guess you can do it, but you really are terrible if you do.

6. I have these glasses. And bangs.

(I still have a shitty camera and am still a shitty photographer, because a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, and also idiots who can’t take a good photo despite having all the megapixels in the world. Megaterapixels! MeganFoxpixels! Wait, is she still around? I’m about five to ten years behind pop culture. And hey, I started watching this show called Lost and I’m sure it’s going to be worth the payoff of watching and being confused!) (Wow, that parenthetical got out of hand.)

But maybe I’m growing out the bangs. I don’t know. I would ask, “What do you think?” except I am no longer soliciting opinions about that stuff. Unless it is books. If you want to recommend a book to me, please do, forever and ever, amen.

7. I do not know what I am going to do about writing in my life, or in this space, or in general. I’m not soul-searching or gnashing my teeth or anything, I just don’t know yet. Maybe one day I’ll know, but maybe I still won’t.

8. I miss many of you. That’s why I’m here. I actually woke up this morning cursing out a lot of people in my head who kept me away from you nice and funny and sweet folks. I’m feeling better enough that if no one tries to go pissing on my front porch, I might try this more often. Maybe. We’ll see. See #7. I don’t know. But I want to talk to you (about books! so many books!).

9. I have figured out some things about my mental illness. Well, me and my health care providers. It’s not something I’m willing to talk about here right now, but I feel a lot better.

10. I’m working (and thus you shall not see my real name here any longer), and the kids are good, and Gregg is good, and my health is better than it has been in a long while. I’m in transition, I suppose. I’m a stronger and better human being, but I also feel like a completely different human being. I think I was a doormat before, or maybe a dog that was kicked too often, seeking approval. Now I’m…a werewolf. A shirtless werewolf in jorts. Watch your back, or I might imprint on your newborn babies and you will be…totally okay with that (I’m still fucked up about this six years later).

See you later, alligators. Maybe.

 

 

Hello!

A new site is in the works. At some point. Until then, you can email me at readingandchickens at gmail dot com.

Not Here

I’m not better. (Yet?) I’m breaking all my Depression Club rules right now. I don’t want you to worry, though, but I think I need to take the summer off. I’ll see you in autumn, hopefully healed, hopefully with good news, or at least something different. I feel like I’m disappointing so many of you that are struggling with the same thing, but I’m always thinking of you.

Thumbprints Cookie Giveaway [closed]

Image via

Did you hear that Maggie’s baking company now has a monthly cookie club? The cookies are AMAZING. I am not just saying that because I want Maggie to like me, because then I would just put in a standing daily order for cookies. (Maybe I HAVE done that.) (I don’t know why I’m gaining weight!)

So, I thought I’d offer two three-month subscriptions to the Thumbprints Cookie Club (U.S. residents only, sorry). Just leave your name and an email address where I can reach you. I’ll close comments tomorrow morning at 9AM Pacific, and then email the winners.

(And just so we’re clear, Maggie doesn’t even know I’m doing this. I am paying for this out of my own pocket, and giving it to you because  love and appreciation and kindness make the world a better place, and you all have been so amazing to me this last month as I struggle through the worst things, and I wanted to do something for you.)

Winners are Mo and Becky, according to random.org. Hooray!

The Rules of Depression Club

No lying in bed during the day. Or even the early evening. Or the late morning.

Go to bed at the same time. Wake up at the same time. Take your pills at the same time. All the time.

Eat so many vegetables your intestines will turn green. (Maybe they’re already green? Greener. Greener intestines for everyone.)

No social media that will bring me down. This is mostly restricted to not reading twitter. And not looking at Instagram on Father’s Day, I suppose.

Bake. Bake a lot.

No lying on the sofa reading. This is just lying on the bed, without the bed.

No talking to people who will make me sad.

Therapy. Duh.

So much exercise, six days a week.

Meditate every single day. (For those of you who don’t meditate, it’s basically just prayer. It does wonders for anxiety.)

Don’t be stingy with your Xanax. Take it when you need it.

Bug your doctor whenever you need to, changing your meds as you need to. Don’t feel guilty for bugging her. That’s her job. She gets paid to change your meds. It’s okay. She doesn’t hate you, and if she does, change doctors. (But she doesn’t.)

Take care of yourself first. Or at least try to.

No to-do lists. You make impossibly long to-do lists and then feel like a failure when you don’t get things done, as if this is proof of your worthlessness.

No looking for proof of your worthlessness. Not allowed.

No baths. Baths are just beds with hot water.

Relax. Enjoy the moment. Stop fretting about what you’re doing wrong in life.

Surround yourself with lovely people who can relax and enjoy the moment. Let down your shoulders. Take lots of deep breaths, or tiny breaths if you can’t manage the deep ones.

Add to this list whenever you need to.

 

The Particular Happiness of Lemon Cake

There is a lemon cake baking in my oven for the first time ever, even though lemon desserts are my favorite kind. I was going to write, “I don’t know why it took me so long to bake a lemon cake,” but actually, I know exactly why. I’m the only one in the house who likes lemon cake, and so it didn’t matter. I don’t even count, right?

Even I rolled my eyes at that. Oh, woe is me. I don’t matter! Blah blah blah.

I was having a shitty, crabby (get it? get it?) day until I said to myself, “Self, you want a lemon cake? Then make yourself a fucking lemon cake, bitch!” I swear a lot more in my own head than in real life.

I was having a shitty day because it’s Father’s Day, and I made the mistake of going on social media where everyone was waxing poetic about their fathers, and I just wanted to shrivel up into a little ball and die.

Instead, I laid (lie? I never know) on my bed like a pathetic sobbing mess until Gregg made me get up (first rule of Depression Club: you are not allowed to lay in bed during the day) and I trudged around the house in a sad haze. I cried and cried and cried for the first time about all this. I cannot believe I’ve never cried about it, but I like to give my husband a particularly shitty Father’s Day, so I let it all out today.

And then, a strange thing happened. I felt better. I felt better? I felt something. I cried, and I felt pathetic and sad, and then I got up, felt better, and made myself a lemon cake like I was in a damned cosmetics commercial saying, “Because I’m worth it.”

But I said it with calories and raw cake batter on my fingertips instead.

*One day I will feel better. I think. I hope. Stay with me until then, okay?

 

Homer Simpson Is Pretty Smart

 

I am today donating $1600 to FHI 360. Thank you all for your $2014 worth of donations (how cool is it that that’s the amount? Cool, that’s how cool). You all are amazing and now little kids who get malaria will have actual drugs to treat it instead of whatever  was being sold before to innocent sick people. I always imagine a big pill jar full of Smarties and candy cigarettes, probably because I get all of my medical training from old Popeye cartoons.

Update: DONE!

***

Yesterday, I read this post. It was about how if you live in the present moment, everything is always fine, because you don’t have anything to compare it to.

Living in the now means that you are either filled with enthusiasm with what you’re doing, or you’re at least enjoying it, or you simply accept it. There are no other choices, because even though you could daydream about other things, it’s not going to magic you away to those other places, and you’ll always be comparing yourself to the mystical Other, the one who gets to lay in bed all day and rub David Beckham’s abs with your face and who wears bikinis and never has to do exercise. That Other is a total bitch. Thanks a lot, Posh Spice.

Living in the now means that you don’t daydream about other ways to be.

Now, I don’t know about that. See, I’m doing everything I can to get better, and yesterday I went to the lowest depths yet. I…I…I made a smoothie with spinach in it. I’m trying to eat more vegetables, and I swear, that was the only way because I’d tried everything else. So while my kids were enjoying McDonald’s on their last day of school, I drank a peach, strawberry, almond milk, yogurt and spinach smoothie yesterday. And I daydreamed that I was someone else. I may have just barfed remembering that.

But if you ever question my dedication to feeling better, just say the words spinach smoothie and know that I am as serious as it gets.

(It really wasn’t that bad. Shhh. Don’t tell Past Shalini.) (I had a melted Swiss cheese and grilled onion sandwich with french fries for dinner, to compensate.)

In my attempts to get better, though, I tried to live in the now. The problem with the now is that the now is usually stuck doing things like grocery shopping with two kids, or folding laundry, or cleaning out the leftovers from the fridge, or sitting in traffic. That is what I did yesterday when I decided to live in the now. I was in traffic on 520, which, for you non-Seattleites, is basically just a big long chain of cars, constantly. And I had my two kids in the car with me. How could I not fantasize about something better, like a life without spinach smoothies? But no, I decided to live in the now. (Is it annoying you how many italics I’m using? It’s annoying me a little bit. But I’m living in the now!)

So, in traffic, instead of being miserable and thinking of all the things I could be doing instead of waiting behind ten million Subarus and Priuses (that’s all Seattleites are legally allowed to drive), I decided to go all Homer Simpson* on myself.

*Have you ever met anyone who lives in the now more than Homer Simpson? He doesn’t think about the consequences at all. EVER. Doughnuts? YES PLEASE. Beer? YES PLEASE. Going on an adventure to find out what the “J.” in “Homer J. Simpson” stands for, despite his responsibilities to family and work? YES PLEASE. (It stands for “Jay,” in case you missed that episode.)

So there I am, rubbing my metaphorical (fine, real) belly, trying to enjoy traffic, or at least accept it, and so I turn around and ask the boys to play rock-paper-scissors with me while I sit there. And then we open our windows, and they tell me about school, and I turn on the radio and sing very badly to a song, just to make them cringe.

“I WANT TO GET BETTER!” I yell at the top of my lungs, and the boys are laughing uncontrollably at my terrible voice and, wait a second, am I a little tiny bit better already?

Well, I’m drinking another spinach smoothie today, so…maybe.

 

 

How It Works

Here is how it works:

If something bad happens, it’s my fault.

One week after Gregg and I got married, his dad was diagnosed with leukemia. Three weeks after that, he died.

Obviously, he would have been fine if we hadn’t been married, if I wasn’t completely ruining his son’s life by being a part of it.*

Obviously, this was my fault.

When we visit our in-laws in May, we find out that Gregg’s sister is having troubles on her organic farm. It turns out that the farmer before them didn’t disclose all the pesticides he used on his GMO corn, and now nothing will grow in the soil.

Obviously, this was my fault.

Keshav has trouble reading in school. My fault.

Sachin trips and falls. My fault.

Gregg has a bad day at work. My fault my fault my fault.

The way I described it to my therapist was like this: I have a limited amount of good things, and every time I try to get something more, I’m greedy, and my greed is punished. I have to have tight control. I can’t be too happy. I can’t possibly have it all, so to speak, because that surely means that Sachin will end up dead in the street or Gregg will have a torrid affair with a woman much prettier than me or Keshav will have a nervous breakdown. (These are all scenarios I think of at night, when I am NotSleeping.)

There is safety in misery. There’s safety in not reaching for too much. There’s safety in a small, controlled life. Every single time I feel a bubbling of happiness (like, say, when I married Gregg), it gets knocked down.

When I was little, if I did something good, it was almost always completely ignored. “Oh, you won an art competition? Who cares. You made the honor roll for the seventh semester in a row? Big deal. Do better next time. High honor roll or bust. Your English teacher pulled you aside and told you you weren’t trying hard enough, and that you were amazing? It’s not your chemistry teacher saying that, is it?”

But if I did something bad? Late for curfew by three minutes? Screams. Left my shoes out in the living room? Slaps. Have a fever and someone has to stay home with me? Selfish cow.

It’s now just coming to light how this is Not Normal. How of course I have crippling anxiety. How of course I think doing something bad leads to a punishment, and something good doesn’t matter at all. Of course. This is how it works, for me anyway. I’m the keeper of bad things. If your kid is sick, it’s definitely my fault. If you lose your job, it’s probably because I had a good day. Or worse, because I had a really, really bad day, and didn’t manage to school my features into feeling absolutely nothing. Because that of course is the key. Feeling nothing.

This is how it works: when you’re trained to feel nothing, sometimes the feelings will come out of your throat and try to kill you. Sometimes you will think, “You selfish cow. You’re ruining the world with your feelings.” This is how it works.

And sometimes, your husband will tell you, when you finally admit that you killed his father, “*But it was a good thing. He got to see us married. You got to be with me. I had you to rely on.”

Sometimes, you need to let go of how you think everything works, and start over completely.

This is how it works: now, breathing, looking at things, figuring my life out all over again.