Gals - Very Smart Gals

Very Smart Gals Cocktail Party

2012-02-05T15:10:00.022-06:00

It was a star-studded night when 50 of the Very Smart Gals dressed in vintage cocktail congregated to eat fab food provided by Nicole Davenport Executive Chef/Owner of Sugar & Smoke Restaurant, Fredericksburg; sway to the coolest Jazz from the Jeff Lofton Trio; hear about the Nobelity Project’s Building Hope; and gawk at the Austin cityscape from the 32^nd floor of the Four Seasons Residences. These and other photographs from the party are available for purchase at Lopez Photography.

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times – Chapter 81

2012-02-05T14:11:00.019-06:00

#81 – “Have a good cry. That’s why women live longer than men, because they cry.”

In 1988 when I read Larry McMurtry’s pivotal novel, Lonesome Dove, it really pissed me off. “Cowboys, guns, horses and whores,” I ranted to my husband, “And all the women are a bunch of bawl-babies.” After crying my eyes out for ten years between 1978 and 1988 (another story, another day), not only was my reservoir of tears depleted, I was also really tired of crying. Then I went into my bitter, defensive phase, and felt that when women cried it made them seem weak. Like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind who swore, “I’ll never be hungry again,” I was determined to never cry again, and let me tell you that can make you hard.

In fact, it made me so hard that I pretty much built a wall around my heart, and the only people allowed in were my children and a few close friends. It took me 10 years to let my husband in, and another 10 years to let myself feel emotionally free to cry.

Of course I had to consult my KOAT (knower-of-all-things: Wiki) to get to the bottom of this crying thing, and found some pretty interesting information. Click on Read More Below...

The act of crying is clinically defined as a complex “secretomotor” phenomenon referred to as lacrimate. There’s emotional and non-emotional crying (i.e., watery eyes), and the tears that come from an emotion are chemically very different from the tears that come from allergies or other irritations.

Science, however, really knows little about crying. Some say only humans cry, but others say elephants also cry. Some say we cry because our ancestors burned the dead and the smoke irritated their eyes, so tears became associated with sadness. There’s even a clinical explanation for the lump in our throat that often comes with crying.

Studies show that on average, women cry 30-64 times a year and men 6-17 times per year. Men tend to cry 2-4 minutes and women 6 minutes. Crying turns into sobbing for 65% of women and 6% men.

Mom said that when you cry, you release pent up feelings, good and bad, and it is like a stress release valve. Curiously, science has never documented a clinical correlation between crying and living longer, but there are plenty of studies that show that women live a lot longer than men, so I'm pretty sure mom was right. Let's all just go have a good, long, sobbing cry shall we?

Rules of Civility by Amor Towles

2012-02-05T14:05:00.006-06:00

I was immediately captivated by Amor Towles’ book Rules of Civility when in the forward, main character Katey Kontent (accent on tent), at a 1966 art show at the Manhattan Museum of Modern Art, spots a photograph of a long-ago unrequited love. In that moment a flood of memories and emotions send her heart and mind tumbling. Hasn’t that happened to you? You catch a glimpse of someone in a crowd who only vaguely resembles a paramour from your past who warped your world, or hear a song that reminds you of them, and you are momentarily transported to a parallel universe as adrenalin pops like little bubbles on the surface of your skin.

The photograph Katey saw was that of Tinker Grey, and the time was 1937. Katey and her best friend Eve Ross, both farm-grown gals from the midwest living in and on the excitement of Manhattan and little else, meet wealthy banker Tinker Grey and their lifestyles take a dramatic turn towards that of the rich and unaccountable.

Eve, unlike Katey, is from wealth that offers no allure and makes her a recklessly attractive gal who gets it all and doesn’t want it. Katey is a low-income, high-intelligence, Thoreau-ish gal torn between principal and high society. Tinker is a man of humble origins who compromises just about everything to canoodle with the upper crust. These make up the main characters of the book. But there is one more character I found intriguing, Anne Grandyn, a wealthy doyenne who helps exceptionally bright Katey get a coveted position as a reporter at Conde Nast, and who also unapologetically buys young, ambitious men, including Tinker Grey.

I found myself enamored with the way Towles portrayed the 30s women characters. They were clearly still considered intellectual subordinates by the masculine-dominated society, and yet they cleverly and covertly manipulated control. And the promiscuity! Guess what? Our generation didn’t invent it. No seriously, we didn't. Click on Read More Below

Towles’ richly textured descriptions of Manhattan in the late 30s were so vivid that I felt as though I were physically there, on the streets and in the bars, listening to jazz. I could almost smell the liquor and cigarettes. (Towles pictured left.)

Here's a nice excerpt from the book:

The 1930s . . . What a grueling decade that was. I was sixteen when the Depression began, just old enough to have had all my dreams and expectations duped by the effortless glamour of the twenties. It was as if America launched the Depression just to teach Manhattan a lesson. After the Crash, you couldn’t hear the bodies hitting the pavement, but there was a sort of communal gasp and then a stillness that fell over the city like snow. The lights flickered. The bands laid down their instruments and the crowds made quietly for the door.

Obviously, I liked the book. On the downside, there were times that felt like the author had a serious case of writer’s constipation, unable to move the story along, and the ending felt like a drop off. In truth, the book was a little shallow on story, but very deep on writing and characters, which balanced it out to a pretty dang sweet A-.

Of interest is the connection to George Washington’s Rules of Civility, which Washington wrote prior to the age of 14. Check these out. Not much has changed. In fact, the rules of civility are rather timeless.

In the epilogue, Katey says, “Right choices are the means by which life crystallizes loss.” Ah yes, and how about those wrong choices…

BEST AND WORST BOOKS READ IN 2011

2012-01-14T11:47:00.017-06:00

THE BEST
(Click on the Title To See My Review)

#1 True Grit by Charles Portis

#2 The Gap Year by Sarah Bird

#3 Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand

#4 The Automatic Detective by A. Lee Martinez

#5 Half Broke Horses: A True-Life Novel by Jeannette Walls

#6 Room by Emma Donoghue

#7 Stories I Only Tell My Friends by Rob Lowe

#8 Genghis Kahn by Jack Weatherford

#9 Rules Of Civility by Amor Towles

#10 The Intentional Networker by Patti DeNucci

BEST FICTION PUBLISHED AND READ IN 2011

The Gap Year by Sarah Bird

Room by Emma Donoghue

Rules Of Civility by Amor Towles

The Paris Wife: A Novel by Paula McLain

You Know When The Men Are Gone by Siobhan Fallon

BEST NON-FICTION PUBLISHED AND READ IN 2011

Stories I Only Tell My Friends by Rob Lowe
In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and an American Family
in Hitler's Berlin by Eric Larson
The Intentional Networker by Patti DeNucci
Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson
Destiny Of The Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the
Murder of a President by Candice Millard

BEST FICTION PUBLISHED PRIOR TO BUT READ IN 2011
True Grit by Charles Portis
The Automatic Detective by A. Lee Martinez
Half Broke Horses: A True-Life Novel by Jeannette Walls
The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith
Still Alice by Lisa Genova

BEST NON-FICTION PUBLISHED PRIOR TO BUT READ IN 2011
Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival,
Resilience and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand
Genghis Kahn And The Making Of The Modern World by Jack Weatherford
Cleopatra: A Life by Stacy Schiff
Helter Skelter by Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry
Learning to Breathe by Alison Wright

PRETTY DAMN GOOD

The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson

Inside Scientology: The Story of America’s

Most Secretive Religion by Janet Reitman

Bossypants by Tina Fey

Unfamiliar Fishes by Sarah Vowell

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

Area 51: An Uncensored History of America’s Top

Secret Military Base by Annie Jacobsen

A Stolen Life: A Memoir by Jaycee Lee Dugard

The Uncoupling by Meg Wolitzer

State Of Wonder by Ann Patchett

The Best American Science Writing
The Best American Nature Writing
The Best American Medical Writing

Pretty by Jillian Lauren

Some Girls: My Life In A Harem by Jillian Lauren

The Vanishing Act Of Esme Lennox by Maggie O’Farrell

Look Again by Lisa Scottoline

The Best American Travel Writing

The Best American Sports Writing

Are Men Necessary: When Sexes Collide by Maureen Dowd

The Last Days Of Ptolemy Grey by Walter Mosley

THE WORST

REALLY TRIED MY PATIENCE

Three Cups of Deceit: How Greg Mortenson

Humanitarian Hero, Lost His Way by Jon Krakauer

The Emperor Of All Maladies: A Biography of

Cancer by Siddhartha Mukherjee

Emily And Einstein by Linda Francis Lee

Wine & War: The French, the Nazis, and the

Battle for France's Greatest Treasure

by Donald Kladstrup and Petie Kladstrup
The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

MADE ME WANT TO HURT SOMEONE

On Writing by Stephen King

I’m Dancing As Fast As I Can by Barbara Gordon

The Disappearing Spoon: And Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and the History of the World from the Periodic Table of the Elements by Sam Kean

All The Time In The World: New and Selected Stories by E. L. Doctorow

Alas Babylon by Pat Frank

10 BOOKS I WANTED TO READ IN 2011 BUT DIDN’T, YET

Moonwalking With Einstein by Joshua Foer

The Pale King by David Foster Wallace

Information: A History, A Theory, A Flood by James Gleick

Those Guys Have All The Fun: Inside The World of ESPN

by James Miller & Tom Shales

The Tiger’s Wife by Tia Obreht

Boomerang by Michael Lewis

Fatal Invention: How Science, Politics and Big Business

Re-Create Race In The Twenty-First Century by Dorothy Roberts

Life Itself by Roger Ebert

Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward

Lost in Shangri-La by Mitchell Zuckoff

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times – Chapter 80

2011-12-23T09:42:00.003-06:00

Photos are of our very loved family pets,
Velcro and Little Red.

#80 – “Never buy anything until it goes on sale.”

This one of one hundred things my mom taught me a million times absolutely did not stick. I am simply horrible when it comes to shopping and buying. Mom wasn’t a shopper, but she was extremely frugal, so I have no idea where my penchant for overspending came from. Well, I guess it could have come from my dad. I vaguely recall that right after dad died, mom had to sell practically everything we owned to pay off all of the bulldozers and graters that my dad “owned” for his road construction company. And then there was dad’s gold mine in New Mexico and the racehorses. Anyway, I obviously didn’t get mom’s money/good judgment gene.

Here’s another dirty little secret. When I was very young, probably 8-10 years old, I read somewhere that the Queen of England never wore any piece of clothing twice and I was entranced. Isn’t it crazy the things that stick in your psyche? Well, this is something I’ve struggled with my entire life. I hate wearing any piece of clothing more than once. I don’t know if it's a laundry-loathing thing or what, but I have always, always wanted to wear each piece of clothing one time then throw it away (underwear) or give it to Goodwill (everything else). It would be an exaggeration to say that I only wear things once; it’s not too far from the truth to say that I wear them only a couple of times. I found myself at Steinmart yesterday looking for something to wear out to dinner tonight. I have numerous beautiful outfits, but I’ve worn them before, once or twice. Click on Read More Below...

But back to never buying anything until it goes on sale. I will make a wide arc around the sales racks at any store. There is just something about buying what no one else wants that goes against my sense of worth. I know that’s crazy and there are people who are extremely gratified by “good buys,” but not me. Yesterday when I checked out at Steinmart and found out that the outfit I purchased was actually on sale I immediately liked it less. If it doesn’t make me look 10 pounds thinner and three inches taller, it may never see the light of day.

Fortunately, I seldom shop, so there aren’t a lot of clothes in my closet. Of course that could be because I take garbage bags full of clothes to Goodwill every couple of months. Since I work from home I don’t need a lot of clothing, and tend to purchase six black cotton t-shirts and six pairs of comfortable black pants from Target and wear that same uniform every day. Then after a couple of washings (which I hate), they go to Goodwill. Does this make me a bad person?

So although I am certain that mom was right when she taught me never to buy anything until it went on sale, I am equally certain that I won’t.

I’m Dancing As Fast As I Can by Barbara Gordon

2011-12-23T09:00:00.008-06:00

I was raised in a culture that says we are responsible for our feelings and can therefore fix them ourselves. Mom wouldn’t even let me say “nervous.” If you were nervous, you settled down. If you were sad, you cried and got it out of your system. I’ve refused for decades to acknowledge or address my own borderline claustrophobia, and it wasn’t until very recently that I even acknowledged mental illness. So, finishing Barbara Gordon’s I’m Dancing As Fast As I Can felt like two weeks of torture.

When Barbara Gordon wrote this book, she was an Emmy Award winning documentary filmmaker for CBS. She had been taking Valium for years for anxiety, the source of which I never clearly understood, but “goes off the deep end” when she stops taking the drug “cold turkey.” She almost immediately becomes incapable of doing anything normal, cries constantly, and quits working. Then her live-in boyfriend, who is obviously equally psychotic, begins to beat her and hold her captive, and she ends up in a mental institution. Click On More Below...

The balance of the book is about Barbara Gordon's (pictured) relationship with various therapists and doctors, all of who she portrays as blithering idiots. I do not doubt that Gordon suffered from drug withdrawal and possibly mental illness, but I also couldn’t help but wonder if she never got well because she didn’t have to. Since she continued living in Central Park West in New York for years, not working, she obviously had a pretty substantial source of support from her parents. Sometimes, I think people live in their neuroses because that is where they are comfortable, but when you have to get up every day and support yourself, that’s got to be a much harder place to stay. Like I said, I’m not very empathetic.

I really had a hard time finishing this book and don’t really recommend it for anyone, unless you’re looking for a kindred spirit of wackos. Sorry!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM OUR FAMILY TO YOURS (Click on Arrow Below)

2011-12-18T12:20:00.003-06:00

Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson

2011-12-18T12:12:00.010-06:00

Steve Jobs was an asshole, knew it, and really didn’t much care. He was also an envisioning and marketing genius. You’ll note that I didn’t say technology genius. He wasn’t, but he was uncompromising when it came to what he wanted, and he was hard-core focused on merging technology and art. He envisioned instruments of technology designed for the masses (simple to use), and he wanted them to be elegant. He psychologically bludgeoned his employees and contractors until they came up with what he wanted, gave credit to no one but himself, and gave us the iPad, iPhone, iPod, iTunes, the Apple computers, Toy Story, Finding Nemo and Monster’s Inc., which is why even his tortured minions and wrathful competitors worshiped him and why he is an icon, even more so, in death.

When Jobs found out that he had pancreatic cancer, he went to author, Walter Isaacson, a former executive at CNN and Time who had written best-selling biographies about Benjamin Franklin and Albert Einstein, and asked him to write Jobs' biography. He then, very atypically, gave Isaacson unprecedented access to his life, family, and friends and declined any control over the book (except the cover). Jobs never read what Isaacson wrote about him.

Although I’m tempted to skip over these factoids, I’ll add that Jobs was also a huge fan of LSD psychedelic acid, claiming it was “one of the best things I’ve done in my life”; lived most of his life eating just carrots or apples; had serious hygiene issues; went barefoot most of his life – even to important meetings; only wore Issey Miyake black turtleneck shirts and Levi 501 jeans; never bothered to put furniture in his house; never used focus groups or market studies when designing his products (only what he wanted); never had a license plate on his car; was obsessed with Bob Dylan; never took responsibility; used people, including making them scapegoats; and he was a stingy-gut (eschewed philanthropy). Some want to say that Steve was just too busy for philanthropy, donated anonymously, and found public philanthropy “distasteful,” but it would be more consistent with his egomaniacal character that he just really didn’t see how it benefited him. CLICK ON READ MORE BELOW...

In spite of his propensity for being an ass, I guess just about everyone including myself, can’t help but admire Jobs. Highly effective leaders are often seen as mean, selfish and uncaring; when in fact they are just too busy to coddle feelings, and uncompromisingly absolute on what they want. But I don’t think that Steve Jobs was a tyrant just because he was busy. I think that he was incapable of empathy, and in fact there is mention in the book that Steve may have been a high-functioning autistic or had Asperger syndrome.

One situation in the book that really stuck with me was when Jobs was seeing two women and contemplating marriage to one or the other. His decision about which one to marry came down to a question he asked a friend, “Which one do you think is prettier?”

I also found it interesting that the ratings of the book on amazon.com were so spread: 59% loved it, 20% thought it was pretty good, 10% thought it was mediocre, 6% thought it was pretty bad and 5% hated it. It seemed strange to me that many of the negative reviews complained that Isaacson didn’t tell how Jobs built the iPad or iPhone or whatever. The truth is that Isaacson (pictured) couldn’t tell how Steve Jobs built those things, because Steve Jobs didn’t build them. He dreamed them up, and then badgered tech engineers until they got smart enough to invent his dream.

I also got a kick out of the very strange dynamics between Steve Jobs and Bill Gates, which revealed a lot about the differences in character and philosophy between them.

Read it? Sure, Steve Jobs is the Henry Ford of our generation.

Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President by Candice Millard

2011-12-18T11:30:00.003-06:00

Before reading Destiny of the Republic, all I really remembered about James A. Garfield was that he was one of the US Presidents, and that he was assassinated while in office. After reading Destiny of the Republic, I knew that Garfield was a man of extraordinary but not perfect character, a strong believer in the equality of Blacks, never really wanted to be President of the United States, and died not from his assassin’s gunshot, but rather from medical ineptitude.

Funny, because the entire time I was reading this book, I kept thinking about how well it was written, how beautifully the various parts of the story were entwined, and how author Candice Millard (pictured) kept my attention even though she was conveying history, which can be very boring at the hands of the wrong person. Then when I started work on this review, I realized for the first time that Millard also wrote another of my favorite books, The River of Doubt: Theodore Roosevelt's Darkest Journey.

Destiny of the Republic also gives us such an in-depth tour through the insanity of Charles Guiteau (pictured), Garfield’s assassin, that I actually felt visceral anger and sympathy for him. Although clearly insane, he was never properly cared for by society and thusly left to commit a senseless act that rocked a nation.

And then there was Dr. Doctor Bliss (no, that is not a typo nor redundant.) Dr. Bliss, whose first name was Doctor, swooped in at the train station just after Guiteau shot Garfield (pre-security for Presidents), and dictatorially and disastrously took command of Garfield’s medical care, seemingly for the fame it would bring him. So forceful was Bliss’s dominance over Garfield’s medical care that, although other doctors including Garfield’s family doctor protested Bliss’s treatment decisions, he continued to treat Garfield literally to death. CLICK ON READ MORE BELOW...

Side stories of interest were of Joseph Lister who had recently pioneered sterile surgery, which Dr. Bliss refused to practice, which lead to Garfield’s unnecessary death. Also Alexander Graham Bell, who had recently exhibited his telephone at 1876 Centennial Exposition in Pennsylvania, and his (at the time) unsuccessful attempts to perfect an x-ray type machine to locate the bullet in Garfield’s back.

If you have any interest in history at all, you’ll enjoy this engrossing and well-written account of Garfield’s brief and tragic presidency and death.

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times – Chapter 79

2011-12-06T14:50:00.006-06:00

#79 – “Always wipe around plates to get the food dribbles off before you serve.”

(Making holiday ornaments with some of the grandkids!)

As you’ve heard me say many times, Mom was an enigma. She was a recluse and an extrovert; quiet and chatty; obsessed with her looks and a dedicated slob. And, as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Let’s just say we’re eclectic.

So what does this have to do with dribbles on plates? Well, mom would take a cake to a church social covered in a discarded plastic potato bag then (minus the bag) insist that the cake be carved into perfectly uniform pieces and served without a stray crumb on the plate. She would also boil borderline rancid meat in salt water to “purify” it and then prepare and serve it on china with the good silver. She was into food presentation before I ever even saw the word presentation used in proximity to food.

In these days of micro-portions and zero-fat dishes, I guess dribbles are a thing of the past, but when I was growing up it was all about creamy, drippy food and filling the plate to the rim. What is interesting is that although my generation was raised on lots of meat, potatoes, gravy, whole milk, sugar, real butter, eggs, and bread, and very few fresh vegetables, our parents weren’t obese and didn’t seem to die off prematurely. Furthermore, most everyone I grew up with is still alive and in reasonably good condition! In fact our lifespan has continued almost to the point of being ridiculous. After watching my mother turn into a zombie in a nursing home with 200 other zombies, I just do not want to live that long. Unfortunately, longevity is in my genes.

But back to wiping around plates to get the dribbles off--I still make gravy in our house, and beans, and stew, and soup, so dribbles happen, but I always wipe around the plate or bowl, just like mom taught me. After all, eclectic and cultured are not antonyms, and I do want to carry on the heritage of consistent inconsistency!

The Gap Year by Sarah Bird

2011-12-06T12:56:00.008-06:00

As I read Austinite Sarah Bird’s most recent novel The Gap Year, I felt such a strong connection to her writing style and humor, and the setting, theme and characters of the book, I couldn’t help but wonder if she and I are twins separated at birth. The two main characters of The Gap Year are Camille (Cam) Lightsey and her daughter Aubrey. Cam is a single mom who has given up on men, but has never gotten over her one true love, ex-husband Martin, the bohemian philosopher she fell in love with on a European backpacking trip. Unfortunately, Martin eventually became more interested in seeking his ultimate “being” then the “being” he sprouted in Cam's uterus, so he deserted her and the babe to hide in a cult for 16 years.

Cam raises Aubrey alone struggling to get her into the best schools, the cutest clothes and with the right kids. Absurdly, she’s also a hippy snob who thinks that people who send their kids to the best schools, dress them in designer labels and push them into cheerleading and football are poseurs. Cam is a Lactation Consultant living in a part of town where the word ‘lactation’ is never uttered, but she longs to live where dreadlocked, Birkenstocked, patchouli-reeking women gather in pocket parks, openly breast-feed their four-year olds, and share their hopes for world peace.

Surprise, surprise! Cam raises a daughter who is a conflicted rebel, which terrifies Cam because she sees herself in her daughter. Teen Aubrey is clueless about what she believes, but certain about what she doesn’t believe: anything that her mom does. She despises the popular-kid clicks and then falls in love with the captain of the football team. She resents her abandoning dad but lets him in her life via Facebook. The classic life-and-family struggles ensue and we see ourselves and find comfort in knowing that we’re not alone in the universe of family craziness. Click On Read More Below...

I loved that Bird (pictured) didn’t give us perfect characters or a perfect ending. Life is just not that tidy. We stumble through most of it barely keeping our noses above the lapping waves and, occasionally, fall into bliss. I also loved that Bird hinged everything on the imperfect, unique and pure bond of family.

Complaining reviewers gritched that Cam and her edgy best-friend Dori’s dialogue were implausibly witty; the breast-feeding stories were more information than they wanted; and that the mother and daughter conflict is an over-hashed theme. Reviewers who loved The Gap Year (including yours truly) swooned over Bird’s sense of humor, how well she drew the characters, and the grace with which she segued between the story perspectives of Cam and Aubrey

Sarah Bird is a campy and sagacious writer with a delectable vocabulary. The Gap Year isn’t perfect, but it’s damn near.

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell

2011-12-06T12:45:00.001-06:00

Iris, a young Scottish woman, is living a somewhat compromised and colorless life in Edinburgh, running a dress shop and in a relationship with a married man, when she receives news that she must now care for great-aunt Esme Lennox who has been hospitalized in a psychiatric hospital for 61 years – an aunt she didn’t even know existed! Now that’s a storyline that can make you snuggle down into a soft blanket and not want to surface until the mystery unravels! Toss in a couple of other family twists, and you’ve got a page-turner.

Why was Esme committed to a mental institution when she was 16? Why is Iris just now finding out that her Alzheimer-afflicted (and pathologically cranky) grandmother, Kitty Lockhart, has a sister? What is Iris to do with Esme? What will Esme have to say about her life? What will happen when Esme and Kitty are reunited?

In the process of uncovering Esme’s story, Iris discovers much more than she could have imagined, and a heritage that brings new perspective to her life. The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox reminded me of that Bible verse that goes something along the lines of, “The sins of the parents are visited upon the children.”

In spite of the titillating storyline, I’m glad that I listened to this book rather than read it. I saw many reviews in which readers complained that the back-and-forth timeframe made the story difficult to follow and that the writing was not great. O'Farrell (pictured) is the author of a number of recognizable books, including, After You'd Gone," and The Hand That First Held Mine.

Although this book won’t make my list of “2011 Best Books” (stay tuned), it also won’t make the “worst of” list either. It was well worth the time. Oh, and one more thing: When Esme and Kitty are reunited, what happens is, shall we say, chilling!

PlayBingo Darling!

2011-12-06T12:30:00.002-06:00

I was tremendously honored to be invited to sit at Center for Child Protection Founding CEO Sandra Martin’s table on October 29^th at the 8^th Annual PlayBingo fundraiser at Hilton Austin. It was also my honor to be seated with such a prestigious group of Very Smart Gals. Pictured left to right: Patti Summerville, Senior Council at Hahn, Texas (formerly Tate Austin). She is also a well know and well-connected private consultant and facilitator in areas of strategic planning, branding, public relations, etc. Yours Truly is next, then Sandra Martin and Loralee Martin (both of who are profiled below in “My Friends.” Next is Dr. Bettie Meachum, Sandra’s childhood friend. Bettie is a Professor of Psychology and Human Growth And Development at Cedar Valley College, a community college of the Dallas County Community College District, located in Lancaster, in southern Dallas County. Standing behind Bettie is Nancy Hagan, the founding Executive Director of Alliance For Children, the Tarrant County Children’s Advocacy Center program. She, along with Sandra Martin and Cathy Crabtree, is a founding member of Children’s Advocacy Centers of Texas, Inc., the statewide membership organization of 65 Children’s Advocacy Centers. Next is Cathy Crabtree, who is the Director of State Chapter Development at National Children's Alliance, the national membership and accrediting body for the more than 750 children's advocacy centers and 47 State Chapters throughout the country. Cathy was also the Executive Director of Children's Advocacy Center's of Texas. Next to Cathy is Abby Lentz, the owner and instructor at Heartfelt Yoga. Abby has appeared on Better, the nationally syndicated lifestyle show from Better Homes and Gardens, and is known for her “Heavyweight Yoga” classes. And finally, Bobbie Mae Matthews is enjoying her retirement as the long-time Executive Director of The Settlement Club, which owns and operates The SettlementHome for Children, a residential treatment center for girls. She is now in charge of reservations at Red Corral Ranch in Wimberley, a beautiful B & B and magnificent site for weddings. Bobbie Mae serves on The Advisory Council of the UT School of Social Work, and is a recipient of The Sheffield Award for Executive Directors from The Austin Community Foundation.

MY FRIENDS

2011-11-12T09:25:00.020-06:00

My Friend Loralee Martin

I remember with amazing clarity the first time I met Loralee Martin. It was at a fabulous yet unpretentious party she threw, probably around 1990. As I watched her buzzing around serving people, being the consummate, charming, articulate hostess, I thought, “She is so thin, tan, blond and elegant! How can anyone possibly be that perfect? I think I hate her.” Her home was perfect, she was a fabulous cook, she had an amazing yard and garden, and even her dogs seemed extra special! Then to top it off, no matter how standoffish I was, she remained warm and genuine, always making me feel special. So she healed my jealousy with pure love and, indeed, I fell in love with her as only women-friends can. Over the years I’ve continued to be enraptured by her energy, her charisma, and the life she builds everyday that makes her a celebrity in her very large circle of friends. Loralee, a New Yorker by birth, is a former restaurant owner, the former manager of Word of Mouth Catering, and is current private chef and personal assistant to a power-couple in Austin, which continually places her in the company of people with national and international stature. She spends months each summer in Colorado, and has chitchatted with the likes of George Bush Jr., and a long list of other such A-listers. I guarantee you that Loralee can hold her own and beguile anyone of any stature. She is also the events coordinator for “I Live Here, I Give Here,” helping to propel that wonderful organization to preeminence. Oh yes, and she looks and dresses like a fashion model. Bottom line, though, what makes Loralee my icon of cool and so lovable isn’t her fab home, her lifestyle or her fashion. It is her mind, heart and soul. I simply adore her, as do her legions of other admirers!

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MY FRIEND SHARON TATE

I first met Sharon Tate in 1979, when she was an executive with the Texas Association of School Boards and I was a mid-level administrator for the University of Texas System. She was looking for info about self-insuring unemployment compensation claims, and that was my bag, so we met several times. It didn’t take me long to figure out that Sharon was smart, down-to-earth and fun, and we struck up a friendship that has lasted more than 30 years, although we rarely see each other more than a couple of times a year. Her marriage to Lynn Tate brought into my life a wonderful family that includes another very dear friend, Debbie Tate. I’ll never forget Sharon pulling me aside in 1979 and saying to me, “SueAnn you really need to dress more professionally.” She explained that it didn’t matter how I dressed after hours, but during business hours, it most certainly did. It was risky of her to do that, but it was right, and I’ve never forgotten it, and never stopped being grateful to her for caring enough about me to take that risk. I could spend hours talking about how much I love Sharon, but instead, I’ll share a poem I wrote for her on her 40^th birthday, many years ago.

Sharon by SueAnn Wade-Crouse

Sharon, Sharon, Duchess of Mystery, briefly here to grace our time.

Shimmering through life oh so sweetly, leaving a residue quiet divine.

Laughter, joy, and tears she gives, filling our days with passion and calm.

A beloved enigma that startles and endears with each new day that dawns

Hold on to your heart dear friend, for I must share a secret grand.

She is not of this world as we, she is from another land.

She's not from Spain or some such place so exotic and far away

But rather from another time...another life...another day.

She rode with Joan of Arc and was there on the Trail of Tears.

She sheltered the Jews in Berlin and soothed their darkest fears.

Now not to worry beloved ones, and don't prepare to grieve.

She'll always love and protect us...it is we who will eventually leave.

For she is a traveler in time, though her spirit will always remain.

Her smile is the sunrise, her sadness the sunset, and her tears fall as the rain.

I am one of the lucky ones, by some phenomenal fate,

For I knew her myself before, in the days of Henry the Eighth.

Perhaps you will be lucky too, and you can love her again.

In another life...on another day...in a far, far away land.

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MY FRIEND FREIDA KAY NOELKE DAVENPORT

Freida Kay has been my x-sister-in-law for 33 years, and I still love her. I remember the first time I saw her was when I was 16-years old and she 17. We were at a volleyball tournament in Ozona, Texas. I was playing, but she wasn’t, she was in the stands, walking on double crutches, and I thought she was crippled and felt so sorry for her. At six feet tall, thin as a rail and flaxen haired, Freida Kay is pretty unforgettable. The second time I saw her was across the net on a volleyball court, and she had just spiked a ball about 60 mph straight down my throat. I ducked. She and the Ozona Lionesses slaughtered us. I found out later that when I'd seen her the first time she'd had two broken ankles. Not long after that, I met Freida Kay when her brother, my future husband, brought me to the family ranch, which is just outside of Sheffield, 30 miles west of Ozona. Freida Kay took me under her wing and made we feel very welcome, and became a wonderful friend. She told me she wanted to go to Hollywood to become a stunt-person, which I thought was brave, adventuresome and fabulous. She didn’t make it to Hollywood, but not for lack of being tough. She, like many gals, fell in love, got married, and adjusted her dreams. I have two other memories, one funny, and one very sad - funny first. I’d ridden horses some as a kid, but not often. One weekend I was at the ranch and Frieda Kay and a friend invited me to ride with them. Wanting to fit in, I said sure. We rode to a close by draw (creek bed), which was very overgrown with trees and bushes. Freida Kay asked, “Have you ever played Tarzan?” I suspected something was up, but it felt like a test and I was determined to pass. She continued, “Just ride as fast as you can from one side of the draw to the other.” The goal was to stay on your horse. I took off and somehow managed to make it across in one piece. The sad memory is of Freida Kay and her mom, Freida. About 5 years after I'd married into the family, we found out that Freida had inoperable cancer. Freida Kay took her mom home and cared for her until the day she died in Freida Kay's bed. Freida Kay is a wonderful friend, as was her mom, and she has remained a friend regardless of circumstance, distance and time.

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My Friend Debbie Tate

I wrote about Debbie more than a year ago, but somehow her story got lost, so I’m going to write about her again – because she is such a dear friend and good person. In 1988 or 89, when I was the Executive Director of Keep Austin Beautiful, I got a call from old friend, Sharon Tate, saying that her step-daughter had just graduated from college. “Do you by any chance have a job for her?” she asked. I winced, but agreed to interview “Debbie.” I didn’t want to disappoint Sharon, but I also did not want to end up with a slacker employee. Sometimes in life, although we are completely unaware of it at the time, we make decisions that change the course of history. My decision to interview Debbie Tate was one of those, because it began a friendship whose value is greater than gold. As though it were yesterday, I remember Debbie sitting across from my desk on the day she came in for the interview. Here hair was cut in the popular style of the day. She was short and pixy-like, but her unique voice (pleasantly short of booming) made her seem tall. She had on a light-blue pinstripe suit. Long story short, I hired her and we set off on a friendship/adventure destined for eternity. Debbie is smart and decisive, but she is also funny, fun-loving, loving and a little bit crazy for cowboys. She goes to the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas nearly every year, but somehow never seems to end up with “the” cowboy. Don’t get me wrong, she’s had and has plenty of cowboys in her life, and there’s probably a cowboy out there with a little bit of rock-and-roll in him who can stand tall next to Debbie and her family (it’s a package deal), but he hasn’t gotten that lucky yet, and Debbie’s life is full and rich and beautiful without him anyway. Love you gal!

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My Friend Yolette Garces (This photo of [l-r] of my husband, Yolette, Gus and me was taken at Yolette and Gus’s wedding, I think around 1991.)

If confession is truly good for the soul then my soul is going to feel a lot better really soon. First, let me tell you about Yolette. I met Yolette around 1987-ish when I was the Executive Director of Keep Austin Beautiful, she was graduating from UT and applying for a position I had open. She was just about the cutest little gal I’d ever seen in my life. On top of that she had a perky and fun personality, and although I was a little reticent about her age and lack of specific experience, I had a gut feeling that she was super smart and would do a good job, and I was right. Yolette went with me when I moved on to become the Executive Director of Keep Texas Beautiful, and continued to prove that she was a valuable employee and a really sweet friend. She eventually married extremely talented designer and movie producer, Gus Garces. They had two children, and all are now living in San Antonio. At some point, when Yolette and I were working together, I mistakenly thought that business was more important than friendships, and that attitude caused me to make some decision that hurt people, and I learned a really valuable and hard lesson at the expense of friendships. What I learned is that nothing is important as family and friends. Nothing. Fortunately, I believe that Yolette has forgiven me, and I learned from that as well. I love you Yolette and always will and appreciate your good heart more than you know.

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Happy Birthday to My Friend, Sandra A. Martin!

Life can sometimes gift us with such amazing elegance. Such is the case of my fortunate friendship with Sandra A. Martin. I met Sandra in 1998 when I went in to interview with her for a position as the Director of Development for The Center for Child Protection, where Sandra has been the Executive Director since its inception in 1989. I worked for and with Sandra for about five years, and have been friends with her for twelve. Although Sandra is most often identified with The Center for Child Protection, and the fact that she “dares to dream” that children can live free from abuse and neglect, I think that part of her is actually just the proverbial tip of the iceberg. This woman is a quiet legend. Perhaps I stand in awe of Sandra because she radiates the human characteristics I hold most precious. I could name a long list of accolades and commendations attributable to Sandra, but what I’ll say instead, is when I am faced with a life challenge, my pivot point for decision-making is often WWSD (what would Sandra do). Sandra is a loving mother and grandmother, an amazing professional, and the kind of friend that we all should be and have. Love you Sandra.

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My Friend Debbie Kern

The first time I met Debbie Kern was in 1988, and after about 20 minutes of listening to her talk, I felt like I’d just taken a too-long ride on a Tilt-A-Whirl, a little dizzy and disoriented, but certain I wanted to do it again. The energizer bunny is a typical yet grossly insufficient metaphor assigned to Debbie. She can roll out more creativity and spunk in five minutes than most people produce in a lifetime! Debbie has owned a high-caliber events marketing company for many years, i3 Event Marketing Group, with a client list of bigs – IBM, Tivoli, Hewlett-Packard, Vignette, etc., and is always off to some exotic destination, staying in 5-star hotels. She has a cool hubby, a super smart daughter at American University, and a son destined to invent something extraordinary and be wildly famous someday. Another thing about Debbie is that she does everything at 200%, Like PlayBingo, the crazy-fun and super successful fundraiser she chairs each year for The Center for Child Protection. This luncheon re-wrote the book on fundraisers. Women show up at the Hilton each October dripping "Diva", drink lots of Champagne, play bingo, whoop and holler like a bunch of cowhands, and throw money at the Center like it was burning their hands. It you haven’t been to PlayBingo, you gotta go. It’s a blast, and seriously important because it funds programs to help abused kids. Debbie Kern enriches the lives of everyone she touches. She is a wonderful, loving, generous friend and I feel so fortunate to have her in my life. Love you Deb.

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My Friend Therese McHugh

If someone stepped into a crowd and said, “We need somebody to volunteer to build and fly a rocket to Mars next Tuesday, and then set up a successful macrobiotic food restaurant,” Therese McHugh would reply, “OK. I can do that.” I met Therese around 1987-ish when I hired her to work for me at Keep Texas Beautiful. It took me about 2 minutes to figure out that she was very smart, very down-to-earth, and could do anything. Little did I know that she in fact, did almost everything. Since Therese is one of the most private people I ever met, I suspect there are lots of things she does, or can do, that I don’t even know about, but I do know that she’s: An amazing photographer, website designer, masseuse, landscape artist and natural gardener, member of a “commune” or sorts, carpenter, professional dancer, and an active environmentalist (saving the reefs). And this is just what I know, which probably isn’t much. Therese could be on the WE TV series, “Secret Lives of Women.” I recently asked Therese to come to a particular Very Smart Gals luncheon and she said, “Oh, I can’t, I’m flying to North Dakota that day to prune my cherry trees.” Only Therese! Anyway, she’s one of the coolest gals I know and my life became better when she slipped into it. Love ya gal!

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My Friend Nancy Bussey

I met Nancy Bussey, probably around 1987 through my husband, and have adored her ever since. She and I both love to write and although that’s what I do for a living (and for fun), for Nancy it remains a hobby because she doesn’t seem to realize just how good a writer she really is. Regardless, I fully expect her to call me someday all excited, saying that one of her books has been accepted for publication, and I won’t be surprised at all. Another thing about Nancy that I admire is her tenacity in dating. There aren’t a lot of gals out there our age with the dedication to dating like Nancy. The gal is a serial dater! She’s always going somewhere dancing, dinner – whatever – and there’s always a man involved. She belongs to several singles groups and is a match.com pro. I’m serious, although single for years, Nancy seems to have few lonely moments and knows how to fill her life with life. OK and get this, she is retired! Yes, retired. Nancy was secretary to a string of UT Head Football coaches (interesting job huh?) and retired from UT several years ago. Now she spends her time traveling to Vashon Island where she has a home (for sale) and a boyfriend, and traveling to other exotic ports of call. She and I share a love of travel as well. Did I mention how nice she is? Nancy’s one of the nicest gals I know, and I’ll say it again. I adore her.

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My Friend Carol Adams
I met Carol Adams when I was the Executive Director of Keep Texas Beautiful (the state affiliate of Keep America Beautiful, grassroots arm of Don’t Mess With Texas, etc.). A gal called and said, “ I have a friend who just went through a horrible divorce and needs a job.” I was leery but said that I’d meet with her. Gal-howdy was that a fortunate decision, because I met one of the coolest gals that ever decorated my life! Carol will probably be horrified that I posted this photo of her in her pj’s, and which includes my daughter JoLene, but there’s a really cute story about it that I must tell. Carol went to work for me (as did my college age daughter during long holidays), and we occasionally ended up in Washington DC, for conventions. So we’re at the hotel, in adjoining rooms, after a long day, and out of each bathroom walks Carol and JoLene. They immediately broke into giggles and when I looked up, I saw why. Both had on the same pink Victoria’s Secret pajamas, same eyeglasses (which neither of them wore in public), and were brushing their teeth with the exact same color and type of toothbrush – they were accidental twins! It was hilarious – but then it was one of those spooky, synchronistic, “had to be there” moments. That was about 18 years ago and although Carol and I have gone separate ways professionally, we’ve always stayed together spiritually. She is one of the quickest, funniest gals I’ve ever known and I adore her. I will always remember her saying to me, on those very rare occasions that I neglected to put on lipstick, “I know you are there SueAnn, but I can’t see you!” What a true and wonderful life-long friend is my gal-Carol!

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My Friend Paula Debetaz Kleinpeter

Coonass women are the best! Now before you get your panties in a wad, let me define coonass. Coonass is an epithet used in reference to a person of Cajun ethnicity (Wikipedia), and Paula Debetaz Kleinpeter is one of the best coonass women I know! Coonass women are some of the friendliest, fun-est women you'll ever meet. Seriously, you walk into a women’s bathroom most states, and even if there are 30-women in there, they won’t exchange a word. You walk into a woman’s bathroom in Louisiana and you’ll spend 30-minutes visiting! I met Paula when we both worked in notorious County Commissioner Bob Honts’ office in the early 80’s, and I can’t give her up and never will. She moved back to Baton Rouge about 20 years ago, married Lionel, and had a baby girl, Sarah, who is now 20-something, beautiful and I’ll bet as wonderful and fun as her mother! I could tell you some great stories about Paula and me if I could remember them! But trust me, we had some fun and we had some laughs. In fact, other than the day-to-day drama that was the mot du jour (nod to the French Cajuns) in the Honts office, the highlight of every day was working with Paula. Paula’s best friend Patricia, another coonass, but more subdued than Paula, was great too, and they both cemented my love for Louisiana women. I'll tell you about my other coonass friend, Dianna some day. If you don’t have any Louisiana women in your life, get some.

Paula, you’re a great friend and always will be. I love ya gal.

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My Friend Suzi Crane
I met Suzi Crane, who at the time was Suzi Patterson, around 1978 when she and I were both working for the University of Texas System (13 institutions at the time). She was working as a legal secretary in the Office of General Counsel, and I was a low-level administrator in the System Personnel Office. My very first impression of Suzi, almost by osmosis, was that she was super-intelligent, and I soon came to realize that that snap-impression was 100% right on. She went on to become a Paralegal at Fulbright & Jaworsky in San Antonio, and I’ll bet you $100 bucks that if you ask anyone there who the smartest person in the office is, and who is the glue that holds it all together, they’d say Suzi Crane. The only reason Suzi’s not Barrack Obama’s Attorney General is because Suzi doesn’t believe how smart Suzi is. The second thing about Suzi that I discovered quickly, and which really surprised me was that she was raised just 70 miles from me, which by west Texas standards is close. She is from Fort Stockton, TX, home of Clayton Williams, who unsuccessfully ran again Ann Richards for Governor, and which tells you something about Fort Stockton. Not that it’s a bad place, but it is just about as isolated as you can get, which provides a pretty good argument for nature in the nature vs nurture debate. Suzi and I have found ourselves separated by circumstance and life in general, but we’ve always remained true friends. I know that if I ever got in a bind, she'd be by my side in a New York minute. She has an adult son, who is gorgeous and creative and at one time was very involved with the local Salvage Vanguard Theater. Love you Suzi, and really need to see you more often so I can absorb more of your good stuff.

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My Friend Lou Hall
Louann Hall and I became friends when I was fresh out of college and living on a ranch pretty much out in the middle of nowhere. She was a young mother and elementary school teacher in the tiny little local school, in one of those communities where everyone knows everyone and everything about everyone. And if everyone within a 50-mile radius came to town, there would be about 100 people total, counting moms, dads, kids, grandparents, and a few old bachelor ranch hands. Lou undoubtedly is unaware of this, but she taught me, by example, some wonderful lessons. She was, and still is, one of the most beneficent people I’ve ever encountered. How many people do you know that never puts themselves first. Lou is one, and it shows in her kids, all of who are wonderful people, with personalities reflecting their mom’s - smart, funny and fun. Lou was all the kids’ favorite teacher because she gave love unconditionally, saw the beauty in ever soul, had a whimsical imagination, and could bring out the best in anyone. She spins like a whirling dervish – keeping an immaculate house, cooking three square meals a day, sewing much of her kids clothes, creating an imaginarium-like classroom, and serving as a confidant and counselor to everyone within her sphere of magic. No matter how down or angry or hurt or discouraged you were, a trip to see Lou would fix everything. She would listen intently, never losing contact with your sometimes-tearful eyes, never pretending to solve your problem, but nevertheless somehow magically suctioning off much of your pain. Then she’s say something hysterically funny, and you’d feel so loved. Lou has a sui generis capacity to take in heartache and process it into hope and love. At a watershed point in my life, a very, very difficult time for me, I lost contact with Lou, and recently rediscovered her in Brady, where she owns Texas Tumbleweed Rare Books . When I recently asked her to come to Austin to have lunch with me and a couple of other Very Smart Gals, she declined because she couldn’t take a day away from caring for her very ill husband of probably 40 years, and because she has daily chores on her family’s ranch. I wasn’t surprised. She is the “Mother Teresa” of my world. I love and miss Lou, and I’m going to drive to Brady soon, just to tell her so.

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My Friend Charlena Chandler Vargas Prada
Life is infinitely entertaining the way it turns and tumbles us into amazing stories. I probably first met Charlena Chandler when I was a rotten little brat – the baby of a large family. Her mom and dad owned a ranch about 25 miles south of IH 10, just a little northeast of the Big Bend, 30 miles from the Mexico border, and 100 miles from what most folks would consider a real grocery store, where Independence Creek connects to the Pecos River – some of the wildest, most isolated and beautiful country in Texas. At some point it became a local tourist destination – Chandlers Guest Ranch. I say local because it’s where all us west Texas folks went to cool off in the summer in the spring-fed waters – but they entertained guest from all over the world in that surreal-y-beautiful country of crystal-clear springs, ferns, giant catfish, some of the best perch you’ll ever lay a lip to, and pecan trees the size of redwoods – all encased in a harsh and unforgiving desert. The area is so environmentally precious in fact that the Nature Conservancy got involved in 1991. But back to Charlena, who, along with her sister JoBeth ruled high school as cheerleaders, most popular, prettiest, smartest, etc. etc., and were every little west Texas girls icon of teen beauty and grace. Since my brother J. S. (Jessie) dated Charlena, and often got stuck “baby-sitting” me (or was I supposed to be the chaperon), I often went along with him to Chandlers, running wild, drinking cokes full of peanuts, swimming, and playing the old upright out-of-tune piano in their big recreation room. It was sort of the boonies version of a country club. The photo above of Charlena and my brother was probably taken around 1954-55. Check out the tiny waist on Charlena! Scarlet O’Hara had nothing on her! Charlena went on to a life of travel and adventure (correct me if I’m wrong here Charlena) as a airline stewardess (glamour profession of that generation) and married a no doubt rakishly handsome South American (Vargas Prada - although I never met him, I base the rakish on the fact that they’re not still married and handsome on their two gorgeous children). I’m sure that I must have missed a load of adventures between her leaving our little home town and when she returned, to probably care for aging parents, but other than her two kids, I’d guess that her biggest claim to fame has got to be the fabulous book she recently wrote “On Independence Creek: The Story of a Texas Ranch,” which is available through amazon.com and a number of other sources including Texas Tech Press. She also became many kids’ favorite teacher at Iraan High School (named for Ira & Ann Yates), and the school librarian – no doubt instilling the love of literature in the mind of many unsuspecting teens. She is currently retired and is a contributing writer to the Odessa American Newspaper (reference review of Palin’s and Kennedy’s books). Our paths re-intersected when I began writing my blog. She has been a wonderful mentor, muse and friend. Thanks Charlena! And thanks for unknowingly being a positive roll model to me and many other little girls when we were growing up in the backcountry, struggling for our own identity.

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My Friend Suzy Smithson Powell
Suzy Smithson is one of those people that everyone likes and no one doesn’t like. She was one of the most popular kids in school, a cheerleader, an excellent athlete and just about everything else you can say nice about a person. She wasn’t one of those kids who was popular just because they were beautiful, very cool, an extrovert, or drove the hot car. She was popular because she was nice, the nicest person I ever knew, and still is. Suzy grew up in a family of three boys and three girls – let’s see if I can remember their names, Johnny, Suzy, Boyce, Tommy, Letta Joe and Lori. Their mom is Marie Smithson and dad, who died a number of years ago, was Jack. When I first started hanging out with Suzy, they lived out in an oil camp about 40 miles from my little home town. I learned how to drive in an old standard shift pickup that Marie and Jack let the kids drive around out in the pasture. I’ll never forget that experience, a milestone in my life, and I felt really lucky to know a kid whose parents let them drive. We were probably 11 or 12, and it was years before my mom let me drive in town. Boy did we grind those gears in the pickup. The Smithson kids were all super athletes, but basketball was something they excelled at – probably due to the fact that they had a basketball goal on the front of their garage and spent most of their out-of-school hours out there playing. Suzy and I got pretty good going against her brothers, to the point that when she and I were in the 8th grade, we talked our science teacher into letting us organize the first girls basketball team ever in Iraan. We were pretty awful that first year. I’ll never forget our first game in Barnhart – a town with probably less than 50 kids in the entire school. We had to be the only team they beat all year, but that just made us want it more. Within two years the high school boy’s basketball coach had taken over our team and we became district champs. And as they say, the rest is history – girl’s basketball is big all over west Texas now. I went to see Suzy recently at her and her husband’s farm in northeastern New Mexico. It was just a joy and reminded me of why I always loved her as one of my best friends, and wanted to be her when I grew up – which I still do – want to be her – not grow up. At my 98-year-old mom’s funeral a couple of years ago, Suzy’s mom Marie told me that when she was just a young mother, my mom kept a small library in our home and loaned books out to the oil camp wives. I knew that my mom established the first official library in Iraan, but I didn’t know that the first unofficial library was in our home, and I appreciated Marie sharing that story with me. My friends had great mom’s – Marie, Inga, Helen, Bobbie, Margie. Do you remember your friends’ moms?

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My Friend Becky McEwen
I met Becky sometime around the late 1980’s or early 90’s, through her Kiwi husband, Rob, who was working with my husband in the marketing business. I love Becky because she is one of the most unpretentious, laid back people I have ever met, and because she would kick the livin’ crap out of anyone or anything that got between her and her marriage or her children. I don’t mean to say that she’s mean, but rather that she is dedicated – I’ve never seen a woman, or man for that matter more dedicated to keeping a family together, where they belong, and for that, and many other qualities, I admire her. Becky comes from a very large family (I think she has 8-10 siblings), and they are all just good folks. Although they are scattered, when they were young, they sang together in a church group. Each summer, they religiously get together for two weeks to swim, sing, eat and love. I have a couple of funny stories about Becky, and actually they both happened to have happened the same night. Although Rob and Becky lived many years in Austin, Rob is originally from New Zealand, where they have been living about the past 10 years. Since they come back to the US each summer, we traditionally get together over at our house for dinner and martinis (lots of martinis), naked hot tub soaking, wild dancing, and laughing out asses off – the basis of our relationship being that we don’t give a damn how our bodies look or how stupid we act, because we’re just too good a-friends for any of that to matter. Anyway, couple of years ago Becky and I were running around naked after a hot tub soak, and we decided to try out my new hammock. So we’re inebriated, naked, swinging in the hammock (not in a carnal way – just a friend way), and as hammocks are prone to do, it flips over and dumps us on top of each other. We were laughing so hard and trying to get off of each other, limbs tangled, backs cramping up. It was just so funny. That same night, in our inebriated state, we decided to take pictures – nothing sexual, just silly, goofy photos. Suffice it to say, the next morning, having sobered up, I ran to the camera and deleted all the photos. No one should ever have photos of 60-year-old naked people. Had to be there. It was hilarious. Anyway, the photo above is of Becky at our Millennium New Years Party in 2000, and you can see how beautiful she is. What you can’t see is that she is beautiful inside as well and I feel so blessed to have her as my friend.

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My Friend Jane Dixon Swan

Jane is one of those gals I don’t remember not knowing, but I think that I really just started hanging out with her when we were in Junior High, probably right after Katie Sherrod, my previous best friend got shipped off to Incarnate Word. I want to take a moment to recognize Jane’s mom Inga, who died this week. I remember her being a good mom and a really lovely person. She was from Sweden, and I can still hear her calling her daughter Jane and son Gary, with her Swedish accent, “Yane!” Yarry!” I also remember marathon, all summer-long games of Monopoly with Jane and Gary, and when we got bored with that we’d go to the draw (a dry creek bed), which was just a few hundred yards behind their house, on the edge of our little hometown. We’d build forts and play house all day long. I honestly don’t remember being home that much as I think that mom just let me run wild. I’d leave the house in the morning and go home for dinner, otherwise I was at one of my friends’ houses. Perhaps since I was the 5th kid, mom’s concern threshold was much lower than most of my friends parents’. I remember that Jane always had “weiner dogs,” Dachshunds, and I loved those dogs. Jane went on to be a teacher and eventually retired as the librarian in Fredericksburg. She has recently become a grandmother and is enjoying that new and wonderful adventure. Jane always was a great gal and I’m happy to say that she is still a great friend.

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My Friend Katie Sherrod

I think that Katie is my oldest friend – well, technically not my “oldest” friend, but she was my best friend from my earliest childhood memories. Her father was the “town doctor” in our tiny little west Texas community, which made them also one of the most respected families. I so vividly recall us playing “play-like” endlessly, which usually revolved around a dog, a teacher, a blind girl and someone mean. Being the dog or the blind girl was a coveted role and Katie’s imagination was limitless. She was smart, self-assured and classy and she still is. I remember her dad had an Aston Martin and we would sit in it in the garage and pretend we were driving. He probably would have been horrified if he’d known. I also remember eating fish sticks at their house on Fridays because they were Catholic. I spent so much time at her house that her mother had to set some rules about how early I could show up and how long I could stay. I strongly suspect that her family sent her off to Incarnate Word in San Antonio when we were entering the 5^th grade, just to be rid of me. Just kidding, they were all classy people. Most of my memories of Katie are childhood ones, but she went on to become just as famous as I expected she would. She is an independent writer, producer and commentator in Fort Worth. She is the editor of and a contributor to "Grace & Gumption, Stories of Fort Worth Women", published by the TCU Press; and "Women of the Passion, a Journey to the Cross". Katie received many awards for her consistent advocacy of women's reproductive freedom and for her 25 years of writing about efforts to combat family violence. Her print media and broadcast awards include Best Newspaper Column, Best Radio Commentary and Best Interview/Talk Show from the Dallas Press Club, and the Exceptional Media Merit Award from the National Women's Political Caucus. She holds the Associated Press Managing Editors Award for feature writing, and the Texas Headliners Award for investigative reporting. She was inducted into the Texas Women's Hall of Fame in 1987 for outstanding contributions in the field of communications, named one of Fort Worth's Outstanding Women in 1988 and Texas Woman of the Year in 1989. Not bad for a little ole west Texas Gal!

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My Friend Dusty Garland Cain

This photo of Dusty Diane Garland Cain, holding my oldest son Cuatro, was taken in 1972 or ‘73, after she’d already been an Eastern Airlines Stewardess (the glamour job of my generation), and married a mortician. I played the organ in her wedding, which was held in her fiance’s family’s funeral home, and I can’t tell you how weird that was. The marriage didn’t last, but it did produce a beautiful son. Dusty and I were best friends growing up, and have stayed close over the years – not close as in proximity, but close as only true friends can. She was always one of the most calm and serene people I’ve ever known and still is. Her husband, who recently retired, is a great guy who just happened to be legal counsel at Virginia Tech, site of the horrible 2007 shooting incident that left 35 dead and 15 injured. Dusty came from a large and colorful family and I spent much of my Junior High and High School life at her house, to the point that they probably wondered if they were raising another kid. I remember one time I had a bottle of wine hidden in my closet (a gift from an older boyfriend), and although I’d experienced getting drunk (in Mexico – just a short distance from our hometown), Dusty never had. So one Sunday, I drove her around and she drank. It ended not well, with Dusty throwing up all over my mother’s white commode lid cover and rug, which forever more would be pink. Dusty was “Miss Popularity,” cheerleader, honor student, and plowed mercilessly through all the best-looking boys, breaking hearts. She was, however, a good kid, is a good woman, and is a good friend, and I love her.

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My Friend Mary Wright
Mary D. Wright and I have been friends for so long I don’t remember if we met in the first grade or if it was more like the fifth grade. Her dad worked in the oil business, and they lived out in what us “city kids” (Iraan, TX, population 1,250) ironically called the boonies, an oil camp. Oil camp kids typically lived 20-40 miles out of town, down dirt roads in oil company housing. Life was quite different for them it seemed to me. Their “camps” usually included a playground, a “club” or party house, nice big yards and houses, and a close-knit sense of community, surrounded by miles of wilderness, pump-jacks, “Christmas trees” (well head piping), plenty-o-rattlesnakes, and hours-long school bus rides to and from school each day. Although our lives have taken very divergent paths over the years, we’ve managed to stay in touch, for which I am grateful. Mary was always one of the “smart” kids, honor society, etc. so I wasn’t surprised when Texas Monthly magazine recently chose her (via subscriber survey) as a 2009 FIVE STAR Wealth Manager for the Austin, San Antonio and Central Texas Region. So if you need help with financial strategy – you couldn’t do better than Mary Wright, Financial Advisor, CFP, CRPC, AAMS, Ameriprise Financial (512-328-5235) mary.d.wright@ampf.com. Oh, and by the way, she’ll always be “Dee Dee” to me! Love ya gal!

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My Friend, Lisa Rayburn Marshall

I met Lisa sometime between 1979-1981 when I was dating John Blasutta, a top sound engineer for a concert sound company, Showco, and she was living with the manager of ZZ Top, Jimmy something. Because we were both involved with guys in the music business, we ended up at lots of concerts, backstage with the likes of ZZ Top, The Who (who John asked me to invite to go water skiing with us on Lake Austin the next day – yes, I talked to Roger Daltrey), Rolling Stones, Boston, The Commodores, Bon Jovi, Toto, Foreigner, Rush, the Eagles, Santana, etc. Needless to say, we’ve got memories. One of my fondest actually being the time she and I went to New York together. Lisa was a very close friend of John Lee Hookers from when she and her roommate loaned him their van. Anyway, John Lee was playing at Carnegie Hall, so we were of course backstage and got to have our pictures made with John Lee, and Richard Gere, who was an ass and really short. Lisa remembers that Elvin Bishop (Fooled Around and Fell in Love) was staying down the hall from us at our Hotel, and his Korean wife cooked Korean food on a hot plate in their room. And Mickey Thomas, who went on to take Grace Slick's vocal role with Jefferson Starship was there. I have photos of Lisa and I drinking Champaign at Windows on The World restaurant, at the top of the World Trade Center, which I of course now cherish even more. Well, Lisa and I eventually ditched our “music” boyfriends and went on to real lives, but we have remained wonderful friends, and I absolutely adore her.

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My Friend Linda Sue Owens Gage

Linda Sue and I are bonded by 50-years of history – much of it spent living on ranches 100 miles from the closest town of any size. We had babies together, ate friend chicken at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, killed a rattlesnake that went under our babies playpen, and laughed and cried together – a lot. After I moved to Austin and my life changed from rounding up the stock and cooking for a table-full of cowboys, to concerts at the Armadillo and high-voltage politics, I said to Linda Sue, “Can you believe how much I have changed?” She looked at me with the strangest expression on her face and said, “What do you mean. You haven’t changed a bit!” I wrote this poem for her.

The Nurturer and The Adventurer

She is kind and oh so dear. I lust for life and have no fear.
She is steady, solid as a rock. I love challenge and hate to talk.
She's always been such a pretty girl. I want to travel around the world.
She will always stick by a friend. I've spent too much life thinking of men.
She would love to read all day. I could dance the night away.
She always thinks years ahead. I really love to dress in red.
She will never leave her home. I've probably spent too much time alone.
She's always funny and makes me laugh. I've made a difference on women's behalf.
She likes for things to be the same. I think leadership is my claim to fame.
She keeps a home that's warm and fun. I march to the beat of a different drum.
She never thinks of herself first. I write books and create verse.
She has more friends than anyone I know. I wage the battle against social woes.
She can talk about most anything. I've tried to teach my kids to dream.
She's sentimental and really soft. I crave power and being at the top.
She is cautious about everything. I love fine music, food, and spring.
She is the mother I always wanted to be. I tell of my adventures to set her spirit free.
She's not anything like me. I know best friends we'll always be.

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My Friend Isabel Jordan

(Photographed with her lover and friend, Pepe Diaz, grandson of Porfirio Diaz, Dictator of Mexico for 31 years)

I first met Isabel in 1979. I had just finished nine hours at the Red McCombs Graduate School of Business at UT and was pretty burned out. A friend said, “You should go to Yelapa.” I was dating a professional water skier from Washington State, so I invited him along. He was pretty and “fun,” but not particularly smart. “Be sure to bring a photo id I admonished, which he didn’t, so I gladly left him at the airport (I wasn’t his mother!) and I went to Yelapa by myself. The only instruction I had was “Get off the boat (only way in or out) on the beach, walk through the village, stay on the trail by the ocean, and go in the second gate past the blue tile bench.” That began my 30-year love affair with Isabel and Yelapa. Isabel and I were not lovers of course, but we loved each other dearly, and she passed away this year. I will miss her always. One of my fondest memories being the full-moon night, after a little too much local white lightning called ricea, she and I sailed her Catamaran in Yelapa bay, naked as the day we were born! Problem was we forgot to put the plugs in the pontoons and began to sink, and the closest beach was the main beach, where everyone else was partying. So… we sailed to the beach, lifted the very heavy pontoons and emptied them, laughing our asses off, and sailed back to our clothes. It was my birthday. Love you always Iz.
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My Friend Orlinda Naranjo

Orlinda Naranjo, aka The Honorable Orlinda Naranjo, Judge, 419th Judicial District Civil Court, Travis County – Orlinda is one of my very best friends and I love her and her family. She is a woman of integrity and is incredibly smart. Orlinda knows what it means to be a friend and I am so fortunate to have her in my life. Crouse and I have spent many hours with Orlinda and Jim in their beautiful homes and with their many lovely family members, in Austin and in Chama, New Mexico. I remember the first time I met Orlinda she came to a party on a ridiculously large yacht on Lake Travis, the date of a good friend, Jim Ewbank, a local attorney. She was so beautiful and so sexy, I thought, "I don't know Jim!" But gal-howdy she turned our to be a wonderful catch for Jim and a true friend. She and Jim unexpectedly got pregnant, so now they have a older daughter who is married and has twin daughters, and a young daughter who is around 12 years old. Hats off to Orlinda for being a mother when most of us were just glad to have the kids in college. Orlinda is a very popular and highly regarded Judge and I admire her so much. Love you amiga!
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My Friend Deborah Steward Harrington

The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey by Walter Mosley

2011-11-12T09:14:00.013-06:00

What is it about writers who unapologetically romanticize pedophilia? Vladimir Nabokov ( Lolita), Gabriel Garcia Marquez (just about every book he wrote), and now Walter Mosley’s The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey. I "get" the literary nuances of ageless, innocent love, but when it is set in the context of lechery, it is illicit, immoral, and icky.

OK, OK. Mosley’s book isn’t about pedophilia, but he is 91-years old and openly lusting after a 17-year-old girl. Because Penguin Books sent The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey to me, supposedly in hopes that I would read and promote it on my blog, I felt compelled to see past my personal disgust with that very small piece of the story line.

Ptolemy Grey has outlived his friends, is infirmed by his age, deep into dementia, pretty much deserted by his family, and living (if you want to call it that) in a filthy, bug-and-rat infested apartment in the inner city. Enter the 17-year-old orphan, Robyn, who is asked by Ptolemy’s niece to check on Ptolemy. She cleans his house, then moves in with him, cooks his meals, and eventually pushes him into taking part in an experimental anti-dementia drug test. Guess what, the drug makes him regain some of his mental and physical vigor.

Then there’s the stolen gold coins passed down to Ptolemy by his childhood friend, Coy-Dog, the most colorful and interesting character in the book. Ptolemy, recently "smarter," decides he wants to leave his considerable wealth (gold coins) to the 17-year-old, and he also wants to kill a guy that he suspects offed his favorite nephew in a drive-by shooting. (Apparently no one walks up and shoots anyone anymore.) And he has to do it all soon because the medication is wearing off and he’s starting to feel his age again.

Yes, The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey is more poetic and well written than I’ve made it sound. Walter Mosley can spin a yarn, and there were parts of the book that I really loved, including the sweet and innocent parts of the relationship between Ptolemy and Robyn. But there were also some shallow characters and dead-end plot lines, and I really, really had a hard time getting past the ickiness of Ptolemy lusting after the young girl. It felt like Mosley was acting out some impotency redemption fantasy, or perhaps he figured if it worked for Vladimir Nabokov and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, it would work for him and, in fact, it just might.

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times – Chapter 78

2011-11-05T14:15:00.001-05:00

#78 – “Never throw anything away. You never know when you might need it.”

Despite the above mom-maxim, she wasn’t a hoarder. I am sure of this because we could walk through our house without standing on garbage and we slept in beds. Until I watched a few episodes of the TV series Hoarders I thought that a hoarder was someone (mom) who kept 3 rubber bands on their wrist, a small pile of twisty ties in a drawer, 10 empty (clean) milk jugs on the back porch, and a 2-foot pile of Dallas Morning News and New York Times on the bedroom floor. Apparently mom was an amateur hoarder.

As it turns out, my first real experience with hoarding was when a friend told me about a house they were buying that was so full of stuff that when they went to look at the house they could barely walk through it. She said that there were only small trails throughout the house. I couldn’t quite picture what she was describing and thought that she must surely be exaggerating. Then I, along with millions of other mesmerized Americans, watched Hoarders. It is not just the stunning visual of homes stacked to the ceiling with stuff, and people living in unbelievably unlivable conditions that make it all so intriguing, but also the impact on the people and families involved: isolation, shame, anger, fear, sorrow, families torn apart by a seemingly uncontrollable need to keep things. Click on Read More Below...

But, on the other hand, there is the issue of wastefulness. Every time I buy foodstuff and then toss the container in which it was packaged, I feel a tinge of guilt, as I should. Then I pledge to keep and use those containers, until one day I open the kitchen cabinet and too many kept containers come flying out onto the floor and me. So I guiltily toss the most inferior of them and start over.

Of course it‘s not just food containers, it is hangars, giftwrap, clothes, dry cleaning bags, single socks. The list is endless. But this is just one of many conundrums I don’t seem to have time or resolve to solve.

Then there’s the absolute of needing something the day after you throw it away. I’ll hang onto some superfluous piece of something, let’s say a thimble, for 20 years and never use it. Then the day after in the fit of cleaning, I finally give up and toss it, my hubby will walk in and say, “Do you have a thimble?” I swear that’s how the gods tinker with us.

So, I’m not sure that the first half of mom’s #78 is true, “never throw anything away,” but I am absolutely certain that the second half, “you never know when you’ll need it,” is.

Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders by Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry

2011-10-30T07:55:00.012-05:00

I’m not entirely sure why I chose to re-read Helter Skelter (published in 1995) other than the fact that the sensational 1969 “Tate-LaBianca” murders left such an indelible mark on my memory. Having read my share of true crime, I have a peculiar curiosity about how and why people seem to get away with murder. For every person convicted, there are many more never caught. And, if you believe those convicted, they didn’t do it either, which means that lots of people are getting away with murder. I find this extremely annoying since I can’t even get away with driving five miles over the speed limit.

At seven hundred pages, Helter Skelter is not a beach read, and the story is so disturbing as to have retained its fascination for forty-two years. Here’s the 50-cent tour of this true-life murder mystery: Sharon Tate is a beautiful but talentless actress in her 20’s who is eight months pregnant by famous movie director Roman Polanski. One night, while Polanski is in Europe, Tate and a number of friends congregate at the Tate/Polanski Los Angeles home, including coffee heiress Abigail Folger, her boyfriend Wojciech Frykowski, and hair stylist to the stars Jay Sebring (Tate and Sebring are pictured above). The next morning, the Tate/Polanski housekeeper arrives to find the four of them, and a young guy who made an ill-timed stop at the house, all murdered in horribly macabre ways. That same night an older Los Angeles couple, the LaBiancas, are similarly slaughtered and I do mean slaughtered – Rosemary LaBianca was stabbed 41 times. Click on Read More Below...

In Helter Skelter, author Bugliosi, the lead Los Angeles prosecutor in the case, tells in explicit and self-aggrandizing detail, his version of the story of the murders and the eventual conviction of Charles Manson for “master-minding” and ordering the murders.

Aside from the fact that the story of those murders is more bizarre then fiction, what fascinated me was the relationships of the people referred to as “the Manson family,” the rag-tag bunch of misfits, hippies, criminals, bikers, prostitutes, runaways, etc., that congregated communally on an old abandoned and isolated movie set close to Los Angeles. The leader of the pack, Charles Manson, who at that time had spent 17 of his 24 years in jail for a series of crimes, is not unlike many other charismatics who sucker people into doing stupid things. He comes up with a goofy “meaning of life” scenario involving The Beatles, an uprising of the Black race against “whitey,” a plan to kill Liz Taylor and Steve McQueen, and a heaven-ish “bottomless pit” in the desert where he will lead his people.

His followers were mostly women. Manson claimed women were good only for one thing, but they demonstrated they were also good at something else: killing. And this is what I found mesmerizing. These women, and some of the men, saw Manson as Jesus, a savior, when actually he was just an illiterate criminal with amazing powers of persuasion. It just goes to show you that when people’s heads are vacant, some really stupid stuff can move in. Manson recruited women and men who had zero self-esteem, or who were not particularly physically attractive, by telling them they were beautiful and wonderful and smart, but not as smart of he. Then he told them to kill, and they did. That level of power over people certainly isn’t uncommon as demonstrated by history, but it is always disturbing and fascinating.

If you’ve a freakish curiosity and appetite for crime, criminal minds, crime investigation, and criminal conviction minutia, it doesn’t get much better then the super creepy Helter Skelter.

Some Girls – My Life in a Harem by Jillian Lauren

2011-10-24T05:58:00.001-05:00

As I sit here overthinking how to review Some Girls – My Life in a Harem by Jillian Lauren, I feel a curious sense of anxiety. Why? Because although not a dominate theme of the book, the issue of women being mean to women is in there; a topic that is already hovering in my consciousness because of the movie The Help, which is so much about women being mean to each other.

Let’s back up and get some context. First, Some Girls is not about life in a harem, it is about Jillian Lauren’s trek from rebellious New Jersey teen-dom to becoming a successful author and mother with an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University; all viewed through the universally blurry lens of hindsight. During said trek, she does a lot of drugs, drops out of NYU, dabbles in experimental theater, becomes a stripper and prostitute, is hired to join a stable of women at the disposal of the brother of the Sultan of Bruni in Borneo, and reunites with her birth mother.

Here’s a snapshot of Lauren’s harem life. Thirty to fifty handpicked women from all over the world are paid to come to Bruni for undisclosed purposes (duh). They are told that they will be paid approximately $20,000 for each 2-week period and, although they can choose to go home at any time, they cannot otherwise leave the lush royal compound that becomes their home. During the day they lie around and watch TV or workout. Then each and every night, they get very dressed up for “the party,” at which they sip Champagne, gossip and perform Karaoke. The “prince” comes into the party most nights, chats with a lucky few, and then chooses one girl to take back to his room for sex. If you are chosen to sit close to or sing for the prince, or to go on a rare and unbelievable shopping spree, you have status. Inevitably, they all want status, which is the dynamic by design, resulting in clicks, backstabbing and conniving. During the 18-months that Jillian spends in the “harem” the competition for the supposedly “charming and handsome” prince is nauseatingly fierce. Click on read more below...

Of course, “women being mean to each other” is indelibly tied to low self-esteem, and Lauren’s low self-esteem becomes the self-fulfilling prophecy. She makes one bad decision after another, as if purposely trying to top her all time low. Lauren’s observation of her frailties, which plays throughout this and her other book (recently-reviewed Pretty), are alternately charming, enlightening and annoying. Hindsight is always cheap, but nevertheless, every now and again, she weaves a sentence that is like a punch to the heart. For example:

“Ballerinas have long, thin, necks like swans,” my father had often said.

He didn’t need to complete the thought. I was a duck.

I would have to learn to take solace in the fact that water ran off my back.

For some of us, that is our specialness. We are ducks that can shed damage like water and just keep waddling along.

Another thing about Some Girls that resonated so strongly for me was the prologue – the story of Scheherazade (pictured), legendary Persian queen. The story goes that the King of Persia, angry that his wife had betrayed him, ordered his Vizier to bring him a new virgin every night, who he would then behead the following sunrise. After the King had killed more then a thousand virgins, the Vizier’s daughter, Scheherazade, insists, much against her father’s wishes, that she be sent into the King. When she goes into the King, she begins telling him a story, but doesn’t finish the story before the sun rises. So the King doesn’t kill her, but orders her to return the following night to finish the story. She goes to him every night, but never finishes the story and the King falls in love with her.

I think that Jillian Lauren is telling her story, and learning to love herself, and that is a lesson for us all.

Some Girls isn’t a perfect book, and Jillian Lauren isn’t a perfect writer, but she tells a story that makes me want to hear more. Give her a try and see what you think.

SARAH PALIN & HILLARY CLINTON ON SNL

2011-10-20T06:58:00.002-05:00

Tina Fey almost didn't do the Sarah Pain impression on Saturday Night Live because she felt, as I do, that women are hard on each other. On the other hand, regardless of your gender, a sense of humor is key to survival. Enjoy!
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One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times – Chapter 77

2011-10-09T12:04:00.005-05:00

Photo is of grandbaby #8, Ember Elizabeth Noelke. Welcome to the world soon-to-be very smart little gal!

#77 – “Don't drive with your shoes on; you'll scuff up the heels.”

The memory that comes rushing back to me as I consider #77 originated in 1983. A well known and well-liked Austin philanthropist, who at the time was a struggling attorney, is walking away from me after a meeting. The backs of her high heels are scuffed, and I'm thinking to myself, she shouldn’t have been driving in those shoes. My memories are riddled with such flashes of validation of mother’s lessons. I never know when they’ll come, but they all eventually do.

Just recently when trying to decide if a pair of shoes should stay for another season or go to Goodwill, I looked at the backs of the heels and sure enough they were scuffed, which was a little perplexing because I always take my heels off when I drive. Actually, I take off whatever shoes I’m wearing when I drive, be it Cole Haan or Croc, not because of mom’s #77 but because my feet are always hot.

This “hot feet” thing has haunted me for years. I can’t sleep with my feet under the covers. I can’t tolerate a sheet covering my feet when I get a massage. I take a fan with me wherever I travel to blow on my feet. I’m not kidding. It’s a problem.

After years of fruitless research, I’ve come up with my own theory about why my feet are so hot. Since I work from home, I go barefoot about 90% of the time, and as a result my feet are very calloused. Callouses prevent heat from escaping from my feet, and therefore they overheat. I should have been a doctor.

But back to scuffed heels and driving. Mom also said that cheap shoes were classifying, and since us Wades are all about looking classier then we are, not wearing scuffed shoes is important. Driving to a meeting? Take off your heels or you might get de-classified!

Smart Gals Sip – Drinks With Jan Goss

2011-10-09T11:58:00.010-05:00

New Mexico best gal-friend Deborah Fondren and I had drinks Thursday with Patti DeNucci and Jan Goss (pictured l-r). Yes, another riveting saga of Very Smart Gals! Since I’ve previously profiled both Patti and Deborah, I want to talk about Jan Gross, the principal and founder of an extraordinarily interesting company, Civility Consulting, which specializes in “Impression Management.” How important is that? Well, how many times have you pledged to never again do business with a company because their receptionist was snippy, or because their salesperson ignored you or said something offensive? It matters, and Jan helps companies train their representatives to put their best foot forward. Fascinating! Which describes both Civility Consulting and Jan Goss. Here, see for yourself.

Learning to Breathe: One Woman's Journey of Spirit and Survival By Alison Wright

2011-10-09T11:44:00.007-05:00

Women adventurers fascinate me. Well, to be accurate, adventurers of any gender fascinate me, but women who leap beyond the boundaries of the mundane are of particular interest. Alison Wright is a photojournalist who has spent most of her life traveling all over the world, primarily in Southeast Asia, photographing for magazines. She is also known for her photographic book Faces of Hope: Children of a Changing World. Learning to Breathe, Wright’s most recent book, is about a horrific bus wreck in the tullies of Laos that Wright barely survives, and her multi-year, very difficult recovery. Although the book cover subtitle includes “journey of spirit and survival,” it is a lot less about spirit than survival. Sure the Dali Lama is in there, as is the plight of the Tibetan Buddhists and Richard Gere’s predictable recommendation, but then my sense of the paucity of “spiritual” substance may just be a reflection of my existentialist’s predisposition.

What dominates the book are Wright’s gaud-awful injuries in the bus wreck, and her struggles with medical recovery. The irony is that she barely survives for weeks in remote, medically primitive villages, but doesn't fare much better when she finally makes it back to our "advanced" American medical system. CLICK ON READ MORE BELOW.

One sweet backstory is Wright’s brother’s dedication to being there for her. Upon learning about his sister’s injuries, he flies to her side and stays with her for weeks despite the fact that his wife has just given birth to their second child. He then maxes out all their credit cards and borrows $25,000 to fly his sister back to America. I’m pretty certain anyone would do the same for a sibling, but I couldn’t help but wonder how this set with his wife, who (more irony here) is pretty much not mentioned in the book.

What stuck with me about Learning to Breathe is the uncertainty of life. Sure Wright stuck it out there, traveling alone in far-fetched countries where danger seemingly lurks on every corner, but then haven’t we all been ambushed by some “defining moment,” that set the course of our life? I certainly know what mine is, and I’ll bet you know what yours is too. (Wright pictured to the left)

If you’re interested in adventure stories written by women, I’d like to recommend a couple that stand out in my memory: Four Corners: One Woman's Solo Journey Into the Heart of Papua New Guinea by Kira Salak, and Tales of a Female Nomad: Living at Large in the World by Rita Golden Gelman.

I read Learning to Breath in a day, partly because it was easy to read, interesting and because I’m a slut for stories about adventure and stories about medical gore, both of which were aplenty in this book. And I admittedly gleaned a couple of nuggets of spiritual succor. I was reminded of one of my favorite quotes, “Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take but by the moments that take your breath away.” Another was when Wright, walking along a beach for the first time since her injuries, silently wished good will to every stranger she passed. That seems the ultimate gratitude for life, and appeals to me. I’ll end this review by saying, if you liked Eat Pray Love (the book, not the horrible movie), you’ll probably like Learning to Breathe. Peace and good health to you and your loved ones.

Very DEEPak Chopra

2011-09-29T13:36:00.008-05:00

Hearing Deepak Chopra speak Monday night at Trinity University made my brain hurt. Or at least the brain I had that night, which according to Dr. Chopra is now gone since we are in a constant state of physically and biologically replacing ourselves, including our brains. Ouch.

I bought the tickets for Deepak Chopra for three reasons:

1. The event was a fundraiser for the Battered Women’s Shelter of San Antonio, which I like to support;

2. My daughter JoLene is sort of into “spiritual exploration," and this was a good excuse for us to spend a little adult time together; and

3. I thought I might learn something.

The evening started off nicely as JoLene and I joined Linda Benjamin and her hubby, Butch Miles, Linda’s son from Indiana, Eric Bippen, and Linda's San Antonio friend, Hope Drake, for dinner at Cappy’s on Broadway. Linda is former VP for the Texas Council on Family Violence/National Domestic Violence Hotline, and Butch is a Jazz Studies professor at Texas University and played with The Count Basie Orchestra for 14 years.

(Pictured l-r, JoLene, Butch, Hope, Eric and Linda)

When Linda asked Hope for what type of cuisine Cappy’s was famous and she said “seafood.” I silently gasped, leaned to my daughter and whispered “Anthony Bourdain said in his book Kitchen Confidential to never order seafood on a Monday because fish aren’t delivered on Sunday or Monday, so the fish aren't fresh.” JoLene ordered a petit fillet of beef, I ordered lamb, everyone else ordered seafood, and no one died of ptomaine!

When Dr. Chopra stepped from behind the curtain (I cannot tell you how ashamed I am to admit this), all I could think was, oh my gaud, he has a potbelly! How could someone that is such an icon of “wellness” have a potbelly? Then he began talking about his medical background and how that led him to a quest for deeper answers to, as Guy Noir from Prairie Home Companion would say, “life’s perplexing questions.”

Chopra believes, as do I, that by ridding oneself of negative emotions and listening to signals from the body, health can be improved. He also has an enormous following and has written 65 books. The man is obviously an intellectual, but honestly I’m more of a Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens kind of gal - we’re born; we live as well as possible; our body gives out; we die. If that sounds empty, I’m sorry, but my life is full, full, full, and if this is all there is, OK by me!

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve faced horrific issues, but as a therapist told me one time, your black hole of despair doesn’t help your children. Give them the gift of showing them how to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, and live a happy, healthy, full life. Click on Read More Below...

Unfortunately, just about the time Dr. Chopra was getting down to the nitty gritty, we had to leave so that JoLene could get home to put her three school-aged children to bed. So I wasn’t there to find out the “meaning of life.” Sorry!

As my daughter and I were leaving the auditorium I said I just don’t seem to have questions about my existence that preclude an interest in Deepak Chopra and his ilk. However, I did learn something! I learned that the Battered Women’s Shelter of San Antonio recently sheltered 193 women and children, which in my positive way of thinking means that more women and children are seeking help and being protected.

I learned that my Very Smart gal-friend Linda and her photographer son Erica are visiting, photographing and documenting very obscure Texas bars; something that Linda has wanted to do for some time. Just the few stories she told were so colorful and interesting (biker bars and scary parking lots); I feel something anthropologically significant is going to come out of their work.

I also learned that my daughter, who makes me incredibly proud, is more physically, mentally and spiritually beautiful every day. She and my other family members and my friends, are the residue of my life, and my eternity, and that’s all I need to understand.

Smart Gals Sip – Libby, Nicole and Rebecca

2011-09-29T13:23:00.010-05:00

(Pictured l-r, Libby Einhorn and Nicole Davenport)

My niece Nicole invited me and my hubby to have birthday brunch with her and her best friend, Libby Einhorn, at the Four Seasons Sunday and it was really nice, but probably not worth the $350 it cost for the four of us. Getting dressed up and mingling with the upper crust was sort of cool, and the panna cotta, eggs benedict and prime rib were delish, but the shrimp was mushy and had obviously been frozen. Bottom line, the company and setting were the best parts.

Libby is a super cool Petroleum Engineer for Eagle Rock, a small, local oil company in Midland, Texas. She also volunteers at the YWCA four nights a week teaching Aerobics, Spinning and Kickboxing. I can totally picture Libby bossing West Texas redneck roughnecks around out on a rig location. We’ve come a long way, baby! She was lots of fun and what is funny is that although Libby’s been to Austin four times, this is the first time she’s ever really stayed in Austin. She explained that she always flies into Austin to go to Lake Austin Spa, catching the shuttle at the airport, going straight out to the spa, and reversing the process to go home. I never cease to be amazed at how many Very Smart Gals there are out there!

My niece by marriage/divorce, Nicole Davenport is my x-sister-in-law Freida Kay Noelke Davenport's daughter (see her profile under “My Friends”). Nicole worked for years in television production in NYC, but decided about 5 years ago that being a chef was her true calling, and has spend the past few years sweating in a kitchen and loving it. Her most recent claim to fame is an appearance on TLC’s B-B-Q Pit Masters, a TV reality show that pits BBQ cooks against each other. I’ll never forget Nicole’s line in the show (sitting in her Marathon "White Buffalo Bar "cowgirl shirt and big-brimmed cowgirl hat), “I didn’t come all the way from Texas to get my ass kicked by a bunch of hippies.” When I told her I thought that was hilarious, she said, “Oh, that was in the script. They told me to say that.” So much for “reality” TV!

Monday night she and Rebecca Rather (pictured), of Rather Sweet Bakery and cookbook fame, came over for happy hour and dinner, and ended up spending the night. Can you believe I had the cajones to feed two chefs? Rebecca began her career as a private caterer in Houston, before moving on to become pastry chef for Houston restaurateur Tony Vallone and his group of restaurants. After apprenticing with Daniel Leader, she worked as executive pastry chef for research and development for Schlotzsky's Bread Alone cafés. In 1999, she started her own business, Rather Sweet Bakery, in Austin. In 2001, she moved the bakery to Fredericksburg. She has been featured in Texas Monthly, Gourmet, Ladies' Home Journal, Food & Wine, Southern Living, Chocolatier, and Saveur, where she was among Saveur's 100 favorites for 2003.

Rebecca and Nicole are cooking up a new restaurant in Fredericksburg and want to throw a party for the Very Smart Gals, so you may be getting an invite soon! Wouldn't it be fun for all the Very Smart Gals to finally meet!

We insisted that Rebecca try out my outdoor shower, so I snapped this photo (right). I may put up a sign that says “Rebecca Rather Bathed Here. “ We had fun talking about horses and food and men and food and men.

Alas Babylon By Pat Frank

2011-09-29T13:12:00.000-05:00

Written in 1959 by Pat Frank, Alas Babylon is a “classic” post-apocalyptic tale set in Florida that came highly recommended by Audible.com and Amazon.com and received “5 stars” by 46% of reader ratings. So, I read the whole damn thing trying to find something good about it. I never did.

It is sexist, racist and boring. Oh yes, and required reading in most American high school literature classes, which is truly depressing. When Pat Frank wrote at the end of the book that the surviving women would need strong men to lead them I sort of threw up in my mouth.

The End.

Smart Gals Sip – Nan, Marci, Shannon and Tosca

2011-09-24T14:55:00.007-05:00

Pictured, l-r, Nan McRaven, Marci Roberts, Shannon Sedwick and Tosca Gruber.

Who has happy hour on a Tuesday? Anyone who wants to have a happy hour with Shannon Sedwick, that’s who. Just about any other night of the week Shannon’s channeling Patsy Cline singing, “I’ve got these little things, she’s got you,” and pulling a saw out the top of her strapless formal. If you haven’t been to Esther’s Follies on 6th Street, you have no idea what I’m talking about, and cannot officially consider yourself an Austinite. Shannon and her hubby have been producing Esther’s Follies, a fabulous satirical musical comedy revue, since 1977. We always take Austin visitors to Esther’s Follies, and you should too, but be aware that the show is packed every performance, so purchasing tickets in advance is imperative. Shannon is also famous for Patsy's Cafe on East Ben White (Hwy 71). The food is fab, they have great entertainment and, if you’re lucky, you might even run into Shannon. My favorite memory of Shannon is at the Capital in 1989 for the presentation of Austin Women – 150 Years of Trial and Triumph, a freestanding exhibit of photographs and captions of Austin women's history, presented to the City of Austin as a 150-birthday gift. I was the chair of that project; Ruthe Weingarten and Janet Humphrey wrote the history; and Shannon and her troupe performed vignettes.

I’ve known Nan McRaven since 1983 when I went to work for County Commissioner Bob Honts and Nan was the Travis County Personnel and Budget Director. Ann Richards was a County Commissioner, as was Richard Moya (those were crazy days!). Nan went on to become a congressional staff member, a vice president for communications and public affairs for a number of high-tech firms (including Motorola), and has more recently become a business development consultant at Strategic Partners, Inc. working with Mary Scott Nabers. When Nan charged into Jeffrey’s Tuesday night, she was so excited I thought she was going to explode! She’d just bought an Armani suit to wear to a very special event honoring her brother, William McRaven, Nan’s Navy SEAL “Rambo,” UT grad brother, and the mastermind behind the discovery and killing of Osama Bin Laden! Shut Up! Seriously! I told Nan that I was going to buy her a bumper sticker that says, “My brother kicked Osama Bin Laden’s Ass.” I never do one of the Very Smart Gals get togethers that doesn’t produce something magnificent.

On Monday I got a text from my niece by marriage/divorce, Nicole, saying that she and Rebecca Rather (of Rather Sweet Bakery fame) would be in Austin Thursday to work with my hubby on a logo for their new Fredericksburg restaurant Sugar and Smoke. I said she should come in early and go to the Tuesday happy hour. She replied that she couldn’t, but that I should invite their restaurant architect, Marci Roberts, who was in town from Marathon. Turns out, Marci is fiancé to famous Marathon photographer James Evans. I’ve been an Evans fan for years and often go by his studio in Marathon to say hello and buy his fabulous photography books to give as wedding gifts. Marci, owner of meo design, moved to Marathon after working for 14 years in New York City, Barcelona, Connecticut and Austin where she worked for Graber, Simmons and Cowen (GCS Architects). AND, she owns my favorite grocery store of all times, and an icon of fabulous Marathon, 111-year-old The French Grocer (which by the way is for sale if you’re looking for an interesting second-life). Marci is cool, gorgeous, and an incredibly talented architect and designer. I made a new Very Smart Gal-friend!

Last, but far from least, is Tosca Gruber, who once and for all cleared up my misconception that you can’t look like Barbie and also be a uber-smart business woman! I met Tosca in the 1990’s when I was the Director of Development for The Center For Child Protection, and her then husband, famous 1992 World Series-winning Toronto Blue Jay baseball player, Kelly Gruber, was playing in a celebrity/charity golf tournament. I remember thinking how cool it would be to meet Kelly, but then I met his wife, Tosca, and realized rather quickly that she was waayyyyy cooler. Tosca is a Coldwell Banker realtor with what looks like the alphabet after her name - ABR, GRI, CRS, CNMS, CNRS – which I believe spell “Very $uccessful.” And she owns several businesses in town, including a famous music club, which she just bought from a famous local singer (all hush hush at this point so I can’t name names), Steiner Ranch Steakhouse and Walton Florist and Nursery. But, the thing that impresses me the most about Tosca is that she is all of the above, AND the mother of four children, including a college-age son, a special needs daughter, and a freshman and junior playing football at Westlake High School. The day after our Jeffrey’s happy hour Tosca sent us all an email saying, “I want to reciprocate with an evening of fun at Steiner Steak House on me, with a driver, or a tailgate party at UT Golf Course on Friday the 14th before our home Oklahoma game. Thank you to SueAnn for including me! I so needed a night of Crazy. Please know you all can call me for anything, even non-related real estate stuff. I have done many things, but being a friend I love most.”

What a great bunch of Very Smart Gals!

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me a Million Times - Chapter #76

2011-09-24T14:21:00.001-05:00

#76 - "Stand up straight, pull your shoulders back, chin up."

Just to give you some idea of how engrained in my psyche #76 is, I caught myself pulling my shoulders back, and pushing my boobs and chin out at 5:30 this morning as I stumbled back toward my bed to wait for the coffee to brew. I literally stopped myself halfway down the hall, my inner voice asking, “What the hell are you doing, SueAnn?”

At 5 feet 2 inches, mom was all about being as tall as possible which included exceptional posture, and she was determined to make me stand tall too. I suspect that she sent me to twirling camp when I was a teen because she knew they would beat exaggerated posture into me, and they did! Anyone out there that was a twirler in high school or college knows exactly what I’m talking about.

I also suspect that mom knew that a posture of shoulders out and chin up would give me a look of confidence, an invaluable quality. At a recent party, I saw one of my granddaughters standing slumped shouldered so I rushed over to pull her shoulders back and to lift her chin. “Stand up straight,” I said, feeling eerily like my mother. I suspect she was feeling a little self-conscious about her low-cut dress and was trying to hide her budding breasts. I remember being her age and trying desperately to sink what to me felt like horrifyingly gigantic basketballs sitting on my chest. I felt like a freak and that everyone was staring at me. However, after three or four twirling lessons, and a few admiring boys, I was sticking them out there so far it’s a wonder they didn’t trip someone.

When I was pregnant with my children, my posture nearly went to hell as I tended to slump everything onto the beach ball on my stomach. Then post pregnancy, I began to pull it all up again, trying unsuccessfully to disappear my persistent baby-belly. Now that I’m 60-something, I’ve convinced myself that if I don’t maintain my posture, I’ll start looking like one of those (gaud forbid) slumped over old people, and get one of those humps behind my neck, then comes the walker! Eeewwwwhhhh!

So mom was right! Stand up straight, pull your shoulders back, chin up.

Inside Scientology: The Story of America's Most Secretive Religion by Janet Reitman

2011-09-11T19:03:00.005-05:00

About every 50 pages of the 400-page Inside Scientology, I found myself thinking, “Has Tom Cruise lost his freaking mind?” You could write on the back of a matchbook what I knew about Scientology before I read this book, so I didn’t go into it with the burden of prejudice but I sure as hell came out of it with one. Can you say CULT?

Most religions have an element of crazy and cult (i.e., zealotry, exclusivity, the inevitable whacko splinter groups) so I’m not prejudiced against Scientology as much as I’m prejudiced against extremism. With the founder, L. Ron Hubbard’s very weird history (pictured), the code language, military-like uniforms worn by the officers of the organization, extreme secrecy and sketchy methodologies, Scientology takes the cuckoo cake.

I don’t know if L. Ron was pissed because his therapist told him something he didn’t like or what, but the man had (he's dead) a serious hard-on against psychiatry and that seems to be the basis for Scientology, which is pretty ridiculous. Hubbard goes really sci-fi saying that we are all reincarnated and have lived on other planets. These are secrets revealed only to church members willing to pay for them, and gal howdy do they! The Church of Scientology charges the hound dog out of their members for just about every service provided, and coerces their members relentlessly to recruit other paying members, milking them for every penny they can and, as a result, the Church is mega-rich with incredible real estate holdings.

And conniving! OMG. The Church methodically pursued and still pursues celebrities simply because they know this will gain them heightened exposure, even to the point of building them their own church (pictured), and it works. Who remembers hearing anything about Scientology that wasn’t tied to a celebrity, other then Hubbard’s books? (Which, by the way, the church bought huge numbers of so it would reach “best seller” status and attract gullible, sorry, I mean interested readers.)

OK, inquiring minds want to know, so here’s the list of celebrities who have been faithful members of Scientology, unfaithful members, attended one “audit” (recruitment), or drove by a Church of Scientology (the Church claims them all): Gloria Swanson, Dave Brubeck, John Travolta, Kirstie Alley, Juliette Lewis, Jenna Elfman, Anne Archer, Lisa Marie Presley, Nancy Cartwright, Jason Lee, Isaac Hayes, Edgar Winter, Tom Cruise, Chick Corea, and Katie Holmes. By the way, the Church broke up Tom and Nicole (Kidman) because Nicole wouldn’t get crazy enough about Scientology to please the Church, so perhaps we’ll see what Katie is made of soon!

According to the author, Janet Reitman (pictured) who interviewed many former Church members, some of which were very high up in the organization, the Church has “compounds” where they imprison and torture “misbehaving” members. How the leadership has managed to stay out of jail is a particularly bizarre aspect of the whole mess.

Supposedly this book was written to provide an unbiased view of the Church of Scientology, but if this is balanced, either Reitman simply couldn’t find much positive about the Church to present, or this “religion” is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen or heard of, or both. I found the book informative, interesting, mesmerizing, unbelievable, believable, and entertaining as hell. So if you’ve a pretty high tolerance for documentary style writing and an interest in Scientology, you’ll probably dig it. I sure did.

Pretty by Jillian Lauren

2011-09-11T18:56:00.005-05:00

As I lie here in a Best Western motel in Sonora Texas with the faux luxury bedspread of polyester chaffing my arms, I feel emotional and vulnerable and incredibly fortunate. I don’t know if these high-pitched feelings are because I just read on Facebook that a friend loves my youngest son too (a son that needs lots of love) or if it is because Jillian Lauren just slayed the shit out of me with her book Pretty, but tears are pouring down my face and it’s all good.

Shortly after receiving Pretty from the Penguin Group (they occasionally send me free books), I received an email from Milena Brown, Associate Publicist at Penguin, asking if I planned on reviewing the book and letting me know that Pretty author Jillian Lauren would be at the October Texas Book Festival. I emailed her back saying that I knew I was loving Pretty because I kept looking at the photo of author Jillian Lauren in the back of the book, as if there were a code hidden in the contours of her face .

Pretty is the story of Bebe, a 20-something wreck of a girl who survives a drug-fueled car wreck that kills her looser, yet pretty jazz musician boyfriend, Aaron. She is cleverly described on the book’s cover as an ex-everything: Ex-stripper, ex-Christian, ex-drug addict, ex-pretty girl, so I was primed right off the bat to dislike her. And I was pretty successful at disliking her for about the first 100 pages, but Bebe (or should I say Jillian Lauren with her relentless humanity) wore me down. Dang, I hate it when people burst my superiority illusion.

In Pretty, Bebe, who is living in a half-way house in LA and attending cosmetology school, limps through the final 72 hours of beauty school wrestling with the demons of her past, the psychosis of her man choices, and a bevy of interesting friends. If it weren’t for Lauren’s writing, by page 180 I would have just blurted out, “Good gawd woman, get a grip!” and thrown the book across the room. But in the context of Lauren’s poetry, I couldn’t put the book down let alone toss it. Here are a few random goose-bump-inducing examples:

Regret perches like an umbrella over all my days.

Jake is my right now but Aaron is my always.

Billy was famous, or whatever that means if you’re a jazz musician, but still. He was.

I drop his overcoat on the tar ground before I walk into the stairwell…I don’t bother running. They never follow.

When Bebe feels life spiraling out of control, she tethers herself to sanity by randomly identifying Jesus in the things around her, mumbling:

Jesus is in the slow sparkles of the water.

Jesus is in the cracks in the ceiling.

Jesus is in the polish on my nails.

Close to the end of Pretty, as I frantically whipped page to page, agonizing for Bebe to gain traction in her life, I mumbled, Jesus is in Jillian Lauren soul. I am pretty sure that I’ll be buying her other book Some Girls: My Life In A Harem.

Smart Gals Sip

2011-09-11T01:00:00.001-05:00

Mary Nell Mathis, Becky Beaver, Karen Sonleitner, Emma Lou Linn and Cecelia Burke (pictured) - what a powerhouse group of women! We convened at Jeffrey’s on a Tuesday night for some fun reminiscing and, sure enough, the magic showed up right on cue.

I met Mary Nell Mathis around 1989 when I was President of the Austin Women’s Political Caucus. She came to a meeting and introduced herself saying that she ran for US Congress out of Lubbock. Any woman with that much spunk simply had to be my friend! Mary Nell graduated from Mary Baldwin College in Virginia, taught mathematics at Texas Tech, and has been a fierce government watchdog as the Chair of Common Cause, nipping at the heels of governors through numerous administrations. When I asked Mary Nell about her 15 minutes of fame, she said she thought it was probably her 2007 live interview on CNBC. When I invited Becky Beaver to join the group for drinks, I had no idea that she had known Mary Nell even longer then I, so that made our little reunion even sweeter. I’ve known Becky so long that neither of us are sure when or how we met, but we decided it had to have been through the Austin Women’s Political Caucus, probably in the early 80’s. Becky graduated from Tech and then UT Law School, and has since become a preeminent Central Texas Family Law attorney and a well-know community philanthropist, serving on many local boards. Just Google her and you’ll see what I mean! Karen Sonleitner and I bonded when she was a Television News Reporter for KVUE and I was working as Sr. Aide to County Commissioner Bob Honts. Karen went on to serve as the Travis County Commissioner for Precinct 2 for eleven years. Karen said that her 15 minutes of fame was probably in 1995 when she was one of the very few democrats elected to office during a very atypical Austin Republican landslide year! Karen is a smart gal who is not afraid to stand up for what she believes in, and she accomplished so much during her terms as County Commissioner. Emma Lou Linn cracks me up. If I had to be stuck on a deserted island with one person, I could do a lot worse then Emma Lou! I met Emma when she was elected to the Austin City Council in 1975, along with a historic group of mold-breakers. She has a PhD in Psychology from UT, is currently Professor of Psychology and Forensic Science at St. Edwards University, and serves on the Forensics Board of the Texas Criminal Defense Investigators Alliance. And get this: She’s from Rocksprings! Another small-town gal makes it big. She regaled us with a funny story about being in Europe during the 70’s and being repeatedly mistaken for Barbara Bel Geddes who played the character of the “Grand Dame” Miss Ellie in the hit TV show Dallas. She milked the misidentification and enjoyed celebrity status all over Europe! Cecelia Burke was Travis County Tax Assessor Collector for six years between 1993 and 1999, when she became the Travis County Director of Domestic Relations. She also worked under Lieutenant Governor Bob Bullock when he was State Comptroller. Cecelia recently retired and when I asked her what she was doing now, she said, “I’m working out. I walk. I go to the gym. And I do Pilates.” So needless to say, she’s is great shape! She told some really funny stories about the Women’s Political Caucus, getting in and out of scrapes! This doesn’t even come close to telling you how important these women have been, and are, to Austin and Texas politics and women’s election to Austin offices. They all significantly influenced my political involvement, and they all “threw their bodies over the barbed wire” for Ann Richards as she approached her election to Texas Governor. A great bunch of smart gals with whom I feel fortunate to be associated.

The Intentional Networker by Patti DeNucci

2011-08-21T15:02:00.005-05:00

The Intentional Networker by Patti DeNucci (pictured) is a power-packed “how to” for young ambitious professionals seeking to build a career; or middle-aged professionals who can’t seem to reach the professional peak; or old, semi-retired professionals who need to be reminded that they don’t know it all.

Discloser: the author of The Intentional Networker, Patti DeNucci, is a long-time acquaintance, and our friendship is one that defies time and distance. We bonded over a mutual love of reading and something else indefinable, and I know that even if I never see her again, she will always be my friend.

I was in awe of and genuinely excited for Patti when I first heard that she was publishing a book, but then I blurted out that I wanted to read it and review it on my blog, and trepidation settled in my gut. What if the book was boring, pedantic, fluffy, or anything less than fab? Thankfully, it was none of those things, well, except fab.

When I started The Intentional Networker I found myself making a list of people to whom I needed to give this book. Among my copious notes in the margins were, “give a copy to the kids,” and “this book should be required reading for high school kids,” but by page 45, I had forgotten about helping others, and started thinking how this book could help me, i.e., when Patti suggest the reader list their “big three” life priorities, I listed, 1. Family; 2. Exercising my mind; and 3. Being still. Realizing that I valued "being still" was an important revelation to me.

The Intentional Networker is really about how to attract more business, particularly through what Patti coins, “intentional networking,” but since getting more business is a lot about being a person of good character, it provides a smorgasbord of thought-provoking and valuable takeaways, regardless of whether you are an ambitious business-climber or a lounge-lizard.

Other than the plethora of meaningful information that makes this book particularly successful at engaging readers is Patti’s presentation format. She makes what could have been snooze inducing, accessible, applicable and fun. Each chapter includes real stories of good and bad business behaviors and results; provocative but graspable exercises that help you look into yourself; and just in case you’re slow, at the end of each chapter is a reminder of why the info provided is important.

Patti’s "intentional" philosophy and methodology, whether networking, attending business meetings, socializing at parties, or simply living, significantly address behaviors that define the difference between being good and being great! And Patti apparently takes her own advice, because The Intentional Networker is great!

Learn more about Patti and order her book here. http://www.intentionalnetworker.com/books/

The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith

2011-08-21T14:48:00.010-05:00

I really wish I’d read Patricia Highsmith’s book The Talented Mr. Ripley before I saw director, Anthony Mingella’s 1999 movie adaptation by the same name, because the entire time I was reading the book I kept envisioning, Matt Damon as Tom Ripley, Jude Law as Dickie Greenleaf, Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Freddie Miles and Gwyneth Paltrow as Marge Sherwood. Oops, now you will too.

It never occurred to me that The Talented Mr. Ripley was a book before it became a screenplay, but when I recently did a search for “best thriller books ever,” it popped up on every list, along with The Killer Inside Me, which I previously read and reviewed. So I went into the book knowing who does what, and thinking that would diminish my enjoyment. It didn’t. First, I want to tell you a little about the author, Patricia Highsmith (pictured), mostly because I so loved her writing style, which was smooth, intelligent, and so subtly terrifying (Graham Greene called Highsmith "the poet of apprehension"), but also because she’s a Texas gal, born in Fort Worth, and a pretty interesting character herself.

Highsmith grew up in Texas and New York, but spent most of her adult life in England and France. During her life, Highsmith was a popular author in Europe, however, her books went in and out of print for decades in the US. Her first novel, Strangers on a Train did gain Highsmith considerable fame after Alfred Hitchcock made it into a film. And then there’s Danny DeVito's Hitchcock spoof Throw Momma From the Train. Also of interest is that many of Highsmith’s books, including The Talented Mr. Ripley, have very, very, subtle homosexual undertones. In Ripley it was an intriguing part of the mystery. Was he? Or wasn’t he?

Tom Ripley is one of those psychotically insecure people who wants to be a member of high-society, all the while hating them because they were born into it, while he must work for it. Problem is, because he blames the world for his ill fortune, he believes that he is justified in doing anything, anything to achieve social status. Shipping magnate Herbert Greenleaf approaches Tom (a former classmate of his son’s) to travel to Italy to persuade the errant son, Dickie, to return to New York to join the family business. Ripley agrees, exaggerating his friendship with Dickie, and off to Italy he goes, all expenses paid by Dickie’s dad.

Before long, Tom’s extreme jealousy of Dickie and his lifestyle, his girlfriend, and his happiness turns deadly! I remember early in the book thinking, Tom wasn’t such a bad guy. He’d just had a hard life. That is until he described how he wanted to stab his annoying aunt to death with her brooch. OK, I thought, this guy is pretty sick. Then he dresses up in Dickie’s clothes and pretends he is Dickie. Really sick! Then it goes downhill from there. Not the book though. It’s all uphill, as is the murder count.

The book is suspense upon suspense upon surprise done well. And the ending, well, let’s just say it was a surprise. Snuggle down with it. You’ll be glad you did. Highsmith, wherever you are, I salute you!

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me a Million Times - Chapter 75

2011-08-06T19:07:00.009-05:00

(Passport photo, 1957. We spent 3 months in Europe)

#75 - Always behave nicely with boys or they will never marry you.

Apparently I’ve behaved too nicely with boys my entire life because I’ve been married so many times I can barely keep track! Honestly, I wish mom had said, “You really need to be a little slutttier SueAnn, otherwise you’ll end up in a series of heartbreaking marriages.”

Bottom line, I came out of my first marriage with three wonderful children and a broken heart, my second and third with some fabulous (and not so fabulous) memories and lessons learned, and my fourth and last, a great friend and companion. A couple of years ago my daughter told me I was being mean to my husband, so I decided to be nicer to him. But that worries me a little because looking back on my history, being nice hasn’t really served me that well.

But let’s go back to puberty when this whole issue of being a nice girl first became an issue. I was a nice girl, or at least I think I was. Of course after I made out in the backseat of Mr. and Mrs. A’s car with their son all the way back from church camp (it was dark), they probably didn’t think so. But I didn’t go “all the way” with anyone until I was married, which seemed the criteria for “nice girl” when I was growing up. I thought I knew in high school who “did it” and who didn’t, but really I didn’t (know). I remember finding out about a pregnant girl a couple years younger then me and thinking, “Not her! She doesn’t even bleach her hair!” It would be an understatement to say that I was naive.

Sexual promiscuity, at least back then, was more closely tied to the length of relationships than unbridled passion. Most of the girls who ended up pregnant and/or married were those in a “heavy” relationship. Having married my high school sweetheart, I was one of those in a heavy relationship, but fortunately, my high school sweetheart wasn’t in high school and was a lot smarter about those things. I was so love-struck. I’m pretty sure I would have done whatever he wanted, but his more mature head prevailed and we managed to just “mess around” in ways that couldn’t possibly end up in pregnancy.

Were you a “nice” girl in high school? Or were you a “bad” girl? Did it matter?

Somehow I think that all that suppression gave me the false impression that you could only have one kind of relationship with a man: married. I’m not sure that was so good for me. But then my niceness sure got me married a lot, so I’ll just agree with mom. Always behave nicely with boys or they will never marry you.

State of Wonder by Ann Patchett

2011-08-06T18:35:00.003-05:00

I glided through Ann Patchett’s new book State of Wonder in my own state of wonder with her marvelous writing, the titillating theme, and my faith that this was going to be a tour de force to rival one of her best books yet, Bel Canto! But at some point, or several actually, I began to wonder if it was really as wonderful as I'd hoped.

Dr. Marina Singh is a demure employee of a pharmaceutical company and, of course we all know that demure women are good and pharmaceutical companies are soulless moneygrubbers. But I shook off my premonitions and clung to Patchett like a nursing baby.

Singh is demurely having an affair with the CEO of the company, who she religiously calls “Mr. Fox,” even after they’ve swapped body juice. She is not, however, having an affair with her co-worker, Anders Eckman, despite Anders’ wife’s suspicions - strange, but not strange enough to derail my wondrous journey with Patchett.

Anders Eckman (Singh’s co-worker), having gone to the Amazon to check on a project, dies while down there, so Mr. Fox sends Singh to the Amazon to find out what the hell is going on. But the project leader, Annick Swenson (the star of the book in my book), is too busy to be bothered by Eckman’s death, the pharmaceutical company or Marina Singh, and so the mystery builds!

Elements are added that add to the drama of the book (i.e., anacondas, a few more characters, some of which are interesting, wild back stories on Singh and Swenson, an endearing mute boy, women who chew on trees to extend their fertility and provide immunity to malaria, psychedelic mushrooms, medical emergencies, etc.) At this point, I’m still along for the ride but getting a little more uncomfortable.

However, as the drama crescendoed, the whole story began to fall apart. Without totally giving away the plot, I’ll throw out these clues:
1. Why would 65-year old women want to have babies?
2. Why would a pharmaceutical company let a project go rogue?
3. Why couldn’t this book have been about Annick Swenson?
4. And finally, why the hell would Marina Singh … well, never mind, I can’t bring myself to say it.

Read it? Yes, it’s beautifully written, as only Patchett can (pictured). But go into it knowing that the story is flawed. Better yet, read two other better books by Patchett, Bel Canto and/or Truth and Beauty.

A Stolen Life: A Memoir by Jaycee Dugard

2011-07-31T17:46:00.006-05:00

In 1991, Phillip and Nancy Garrido kidnapped Jaycee Dugard, age eleven, as she walked to her schools bus, just steps away from her home in South Lake Tahoe California. Eighteen years later, she, along with her eleven and fifteen-year-old daughters were discovered and returned to freedom. As I read this statement I feel a deep black hole widening in my chest. Although I now know much of the horrifying detail of Jaycee Dugard's hours, days, weeks, months, years of torture, rape, and captivity at the hands of the Garridos, as told in her recent book, A Stolen Life: A Memoir, I have a hard time understanding that humans are capable of such beastly, soulless behavior.

Dugard lived in a tent in the Garrido’s back yard, and gave birth to her two daughters there. Garrido’s wife Nancy would go to playgrounds and film little girls doing the splits and showing their panties to take back to her husband. Garrido told Dugard that by being there for him to rape, literally for days on end (he called them “runs”), she was saving some other little girl. The depravity of the situation is unimaginable.

The book was amazingly digestible considering the topic, and there were some interesting elements that came out in her story. One was her obsession with cats – the only good thing in her life. They didn’t hurt her, lie or expect anything from her. They were all she had until she gave birth to her daughters, who she was forced to treat as her sisters.

Also of interest, Jaycee didn’t feel that she could or should escape because who would take her back or love her after what she’d been through. Her captors would abuse her horribly. then tell her they loved her and bring her gifts. They became her world; the Stockholm syndrome, where the captive grows to love their captor, tragically played out.

A series of government errors, bureaucracy, and circumstance served to keep the horrible situation in place, the monster Garrido prowling, and Dugard secreted in his backyard. It finally ended in 2009, when Dugard and her children were discovered and returned to her family. The Garridos (pictured) were sentenced to a combined 467 years imprisonment. In 2010 the State of California approved a $20 million dollar settlement with Jaycee, to compensate her for "various lapses by the Corrections Department [which contributed to] Dugard's continued captivity, ongoing sexual assault and mental and/or physical abuse."

To watch Dianne Sawyers 47 minute July 10th exclusive interview with Jaycee Dugard you have to tolerate a series of commercials, including Bali Bras and Chase credit cards, but if you haven’t seen it and are curious about the story, here's the link. http://abc.go.com/watch/abc-news-specials/SH559036/VD55134743/jaycee-dugard-her-first-interview-p1,

Don’t read the book, it is just too horrifying, but do tell your children that you love them with every fiber of your being, and that there is nothing they could do, nothing that could happen to them, nothing that anyone else could do to them, that could make you stop loving them.

The thing that Jaycee always remembered about her mother, the long eighteen years they were separated, was that her mom didn’t kiss her goodnight the night before Jaycee was abducted.

Smart Gals Sip

2011-07-31T16:02:00.002-05:00

Jeffrey’s was cool and dark, a welcome relief as I’d just walked through a wall of heat between my car and the bar. Although I never drink hard liquor, on a whim I ordered a “Friendly Ghost,” gin, coconut water, lime and cucumber, and tried not to gulp it down. Francie Ferguson was the first to arrive, face lit up as usual, and viewing my cool concoction, she ordered the Ghost too!

I met Francie when she was the Executive Director of Foundation Communities and I was president of the board. Francie actually founded Foundation Communities, but at the time it was call the Central Texas Mutual Housing Association. We bought distressed properties (apartment complexes, duplexes, etc), fixed them up, housed low-income families, and provided onsite services, i.e., tutoring, tax preparation, counseling, job skills training, etc. Of course all the board did was show up and vote, lend credibility, advise and occasionally raise a little money. Francie was the brain behind it all and I’ve vowed to never let her out of my circle of friends. Francie has served as the Director of the NeighborWorks® Multifamily Initiative for NeighborWorks America since 1998, and holds her masters in business (concentration in real estate and finance) from the University of Texas at Austin, and her bachelor's degree from Oberlin College.

While Francie and I caught up we grazed on an eclectic selection of cheeses, figs and melons, Steak Tartare, Quail Leg Confit, and Pommes Frites. Sounds like a lot, but you know how it is, your pay $60 for plates of food that wouldn’t satisfy a small child (quality not quantity, my new mantra).

Melinda Rodriguez swept in next, obviously still buzzing from her board meeting with the Catholic Charities of Central Texas, for which Melinda serves as the Executive Director. Melinda has lost 85 pounds over the past year so I almost didn’t recognize her. She looks great! I met Melinda when she was the Director of Development at El Buen Samaritano, a wonderful organization in south-central Austin that provides services to primarily low-income Hispanic families. Melinda has since moved on to Catholic Charities, which provides a variety of human services in a 25 county area of Central Texas, and the woman is busier then a cranberry merchant on Thanksgiving! A native of Brownsville, Melinda has a master’s degree in Human Services from St. Edward’s University, a bachelor’s degree in Communications from the University of Texas, and is incredibly focused and bright, the criteria for membership in the Very Smart Gals! When I urged Melinda to have some of the snacks, she said she’d nibbled all during her board meeting and wasn’t hungry. I said, pizza? And she said, no, turkey out of the sandwiches! She also drank water. I tell you the woman is focused!

Last to arrive was Andrea Torres, and when I hugged her, she was so hot from being outside in the horrible heat; I thought I was going to spontaneously combust! I was on my second Ghost and was seriously flammable! Andrea is the Director of Development at Meals on Wheels and More, and I met her when I was writing grants for their capital campaign. There’s really something special about walking into a new building serving hungry elderly and homebound people, knowing that you helped make it possible. Andrea graduated from Stanford University, a school I've always wanted to attend, and may yet! She’s super smart, cool as a cucumber and fun too! Especially after she’s had a gin and tonic!

Before long, we were all baring our souls, commiserating, talking about everything and nothing – which is my second favorite thing about these get togethers. My favorite being the Very Smart Gals, with whom I feel fortunate to share oxygen! Thanks for a fun happy hour, Francie, Melinda and Andrea!

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me a Million Times - Chapter 74

2011-07-24T09:45:00.008-05:00

#74 - A sweet potato makes a beautiful, inexpensive, fast growing houseplant.
(Photo is of mom upon her college graduation - she was 40-years-old and had five kids when she graduated)
I love sweet potatoes and would probably eat them three times a week if the hubby shared that affection. Pan roasted with a little olive oil and a sprinkling of chopped rosemary, yum! I buy them often with the best of intentions, but in reality only cook them occasionally. Those that don’t get cooked sit in my veggie basket patiently waiting to please me, slowly loosing their moisture, their skin shriveling in seeming despair. I glance at them briefly, guiltily, like I’ve somehow let them down by not relishing their sweet, creamy being, and eventually toss them, all the while looking over my shoulder not making potato-eye contact. But, every now and then, I catch a glimpse of a root, reaching out, like a begging hand, and somehow know that this is one sweet potato I cannot get rid of because it reminds me of my mom.

Mom had a particular fondness for simple plants. I cannot pass by a stand of morning glories without tearing up, and I cannot throw away a sweet potato that has sprouted a root, because those were my mom’s two favorite plants. Morning glories grew prolifically out by mom’s back door, their purple and blue flowers trumpeting their vibrant beauty only briefly and yet gloriously in the cool of the morning.

Her sweet potato plants brought a deep green jungle of trailing vines and giant leaves into our home, adding a living breathing feeling to the otherwise inanimate furnishings. She would show me an aging sweet potato, pointing out the tiny roots reaching out of their eyes and say, “We’ll put this one in a jar.”

Mom wasn’t fond of prepared food, but the occasional purchase of a big jar of applesauce, once emptied and cleaned, eventually became home for a sweet potato plant. The top of those applesauce jars were just the right size to cradle the potato, roots-down of course, in plenty of water. It was always a glass jar. Mom said that the potato roots liked the light that shown through the jar, but I think it was just as much that the wad of twining roots were an entertaining proof of life that grew so fast you could almost see their movement.

What was really magic was the sprouting of emerald green vines and leaves that grew out of the opposite top-end of the potato. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that color of green in any other plant, or perhaps it just seems unique and mysterious to me because what was once a plant became food, then back to a plant, right before my eyes. The green of the leaves were so rich that they made you feel special just looking at them, as if they were giving you a gift and saying, “Thank you for letting me live again.”

But sadly, the day always came, as it does for every living thing, when it had cycled its life. The plant would stop producing vines and tea saucer-sized leaves, the water around the roots would cloud, and it was over.

I have a sweet potato plant growing on the window shelf above my kitchen sink right now. A potato that didn’t make it to our plates, but which beckoned to me as I picked it up to toss it into the compost bin with it seeming to say “I can make a beautiful plant for you if you will give me a chance,” and I think of mom and I do.

Emily and Einstein by Linda Francis Lee

2011-07-24T08:00:00.005-05:00

I struggled to come up with an honest description of Emily and Einstein by Linda Francis Lee because I sort of liked it, but was also sort of mad at it because it didn’t pan out to be everything I wanted it to be (although I would also struggle to tell you why). So here you go. It was a sweet little book.

Emily is a too nice gal from modest origins married to Sandy, a despicable guy from old money. A cliché. Sandy steps off the curb in New York City where they live, gets hit by a bus, dies and comes back as an injured dog that is sent to a pound where he is nursed back to health and eventually adopted by a volunteer at the pound, his wife, Emily. Not a cliché, although it seems everyone is writing dog books. Who doesn’t have a special place in their heart for unconditionally loving canines? The theme of a husband dying and coming back as a dog, Einstein, was titillating, but Sandy/Einstein was such a terrible person and dog, I eventually found myself wanting him to run out into the street again.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and Sandy/Einstein’s “e-ville” mom hardly waits for the dirt to settle on her son’s grave before she begins eviction proceedings to get her daughter-in-law thrown out of her son’s apartment at the famous Dakota building. OMG, I can’t tell you how any times I’ve stood outside the Dakota and imagined myself living there, in an apartment overlooking Central Park of course.

Sandy has come back as a dog because, in some weird supernatural situation I could never seem to understand, he must make amends to Emily for being such a shit before he can go to heaven or wherever. That whole theme is never explained to my satisfaction, or perhaps I zoned out when author, Lee (photo below), explained.

Enter the whacky sister, a wad of really mean people, and the man of Emily’s dreams, all of which felt way too predictable. Of interest was Emily’s mother, a famous feminist and activist. There were also some women in the book who tied interestingly back to Emily’s mom. Those parts of the story always drew me back into the book but weren’t developed enough to keep my attention for long.

So how did the story end? Well how do you think? These types of books don't end sadly, so I’m sure you can figure it out. Need a lite, well-written summer read - very light? Here’s your book.

My Editor – Deborah Fondren

2011-07-24T07:45:00.000-05:00

I would like to take a few lines to thank my editor and best friend, Deborah Fondren, who gamely puts up with my weekly, and sometimes painful attempts at grammar and punctuation. Believe me when I say that any slaughter of the Kings English in my blogging is probably due to my diddling with Deb’s edits.

Thanks to Susan Eason too for stepping in as a substitute editor when Deb is busy, away from her computer, or justifiably ignoring me!

Photo was taken in San Miguel Mexico in 2007, and is my favorite photo of us because it is flattering to us both! We have been such good friends for so long that a few people have accused us of being lesbian lovers, which if we weren't such devoted heterosexuals, could actually be true (gag reflex engaged). I love her (platonically) that much.

Area 51: An Uncensored History of America's Top Secret Military Base by Annie Jacobsen

2011-07-19T07:30:00.007-05:00

What is more disturbing than aliens in Roswell? The “big reveal” at the end of Annie Jacobsen’s book, Area 51: An Uncensored History of America's Top Secret Military Base!

Let me preface my review of Area 51 by saying that I am not a conspiracy theorists, I do not believe aliens from another planet have landed in Roswell, New Mexico (or anywhere else on Earth), and I am not particularly enthralled with government cover-ups. I am, however, very curious about just about everything, which is what led me to read Area 51.

Ever wonder why you can’t seem to get your teeth as white as the “whitening strips” promise? Ever wonder why your third cousin removed says, “like” a lot? According to author Annie Jacobsen, your permanently yellow teeth and your cousin’s annoying linguistics are both because of Area 51. Not really, but by the time I finished reading Area 51, it seemed as though there were less then seven degrees of separation between every event and circumstance in the world, and Area 51.

In case you’ve been living in a cave for 100 years and don’t know what Area 51 is, it is a not-so-secret yet unacknowledged US military base about an hour west of Las Vegas, Nevada, with an amazing real history and very entertaining imagined history. It really is a base where much fascinating military technology was developed and/or tested (i.e., supersonic jets, stealth technology, atom bombs, reverse-engineering of the Soviet MIGs, satellite espionage, etc.). Jacobson, a long-time and well-known reporter for the Los Angeles Times, relates some fun, albeit rehashed, stories about the plethora of history tied back to Area 51. And then there are the sagas about elaborate tunnels that run all the way from Nevada to Washington DC, alien bodies, bazaar human experiments, and the filming of the “fake” lunar landing. In any case, Jacobson’s connect-the-dots book about the 50-year history of Area 51 was pure-d-o fun.

The reviews of Area 51 were almost as entertaining as the book. Half claimed it was an unprecedented and immaculately researched account, while an equal number of commenters were rabid-dog pissed at the inaccuracies. What makes Area 51 (the book) really thought provoking is that it is supposedly the first book based on interviews with eyewitnesses to Area 51 history. Apparently enough time has finally lapsed that some records have been declassified and Area 51 engineers have began to talk. Of course the few remaining witnesses are all really, really old, so it could be just senile ranting, but whatever, it was entertaining at least and mind-boggling at best (and OK, occasionally stunningly stupid).

I loved Jacobson’s story about trying for more than a year to pry info out of her star witness, a well-placed and long-time engineer at the facility. One day while having lunch, she asked the engineer, “If this crouton (from her salad) is what you’ve told me, how much more is there that you haven’t told me? Is what you’ve not told me bigger then this plate?” After a very long pause, his reply was, “No, it’s bigger then the table.”

So, what about the big reveal at the end of the book, well, I’ll just tell you it involves Joseph Stalin, Josef Mengele, children, and Occam’s razor!

Three Cups of Deceit: How Greg Mortenson, Humanitarian Hero, Lost His Way by Jon Krakauer

2011-07-19T07:26:00.006-05:00

Nobody likes a tattletale. On the other hand, even depressing circumspection is good.

Jon Krakauer, whose books Into Thin Air and Into The Wild I loved, has stirred up a hornet’s nest, al la Oprah Winfrey/James Frey (A Thousand Little Pieces). In Three Cups of Deceit, he provides details and “evidence” that Greg Mortenson’s book, Three Cups of Tea, is full of lies and exaggerations, and that Mortenson has exploited the non-profit he establish, Central Asia Institute and its donors, for his own personal gain.

Three Cups of Tea is Mortenson’s huge best seller about how when lost in Afghanistan after trying unsuccessfully to climb K2 (second highest peak in the Himalayas), he ends up in a village where he is taken in and cared for. In appreciation, he pledges to return and build schools all over Afghanistan, which he does, via the non-profit he establishes, Central Asia Institute.

Three Cups of Deceit is Jon Krakauer’s claim that Three Cups of Tea is 90% false, Central Asia Institute is poorly run, and Mortenson is a deceitful opportunist.

Supporters of Mortenson (left) and Central Asia Institute agree that Mortenson may have embellished his story, and the Central Asian Institute may not have been as financial prudent as it should have, but that the outcomes overall -170 schools built and tens of thousands of children, mostly girls, educated - are still astonishing and worthy. Krakauer (right) claims that it is by and large a hoax built upon Mortenson’s ego and greed. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in-between.

More then anything else, Three Cups of Deceit is a cautionary tale of how, absent of accountability, money can corrupt even the best intentions.

Summer Fun With The Grandkids!

2011-07-19T07:17:00.005-05:00

The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson

2011-07-04T16:50:00.001-05:00

Researching for something to read during an upcoming weekend in Marfa, I googled “the best psychological thrillers ever” and The Killer Inside Me popped up in the top three of every list I found.

The Killer Inside Me is about the chillingly sociopathic Lou Ford, deputy sheriff in a small Texas town in the 1950s, who has a secret need for sadomasochistic sex with compliant women. And he really must kill the people he loves, and anyone who gets in his way, but in disturbingly interesting ways. The fact that I, and many others, enjoyed this book so much is more than a little unsettling. I think (hope) it was the exceptional writing that was the book’s hook and the interesting perspective provided through the first person telling of the story, but I also think that humans have an innate curiosity about things they would never do.

Just to give you an idea of how “rough” this book is (as my mom would say), it and the movie have been described as “misogynist hate-porn with a fancy wrapper.” The movie has even been criticized in Europe where just about anything goes. Hitchcock’s shower stabbing scene in Psycho, which is pretty much the same hate-woman-kill theme as in The Killer Inside Me, doesn’t seem as brutal as what is portrayed by Thompson.

The Killer Inside Me was so sick in fact that I was curious about what kind of person could write such a story, but author Jim Thompson’s bio didn’t present anything particularly provocative. Well, other than the fact that he was raised by a highly educated and politically involved family that was ruined by an embezzlement scandal, and he was a terminal alcoholic. I didn’t see anything especially strange about his life. But then that’s what Thompson wrote about – very peculiar goings on that people don’t see. He wrote more than thirty novels during the1940-50s, but was one of those individuals only truly recognized after his death.

On a side note, why are so many hyper-talented people only discovered after they are dead? I fantasize that a commentator on NPR will someday, far into the future, say, “SueAnn Wade-Crouse, who died penniless in a fleabag hotel in lower east-side Manhattan, was an insightful observer of the human condition during her lifetime and yet her writing was only recognized many years after her death.”

The Killer Inside Me has also been adapted to movies, most recently in 2010, staring Casey Affleck, Kate Hudson, Jessica Alba, and Ned Beatty and, in a particularly strange cameo, Bill Pullman. We watched it several nights ago and were simultaneously sickened and impressed! Several of his other novels were adapted to movies as well, including The Getaway and The Grifters.

Don’t read The Killer Inside Me or watch the movie unless you have a strong stomach and understand that there are some truly sick people out there, and a whole lot more who aren’t.

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me a Million Times - Chapter 73

2011-07-04T14:38:00.009-05:00

(Photo is of my son Colt, his partner Heather, and her two daughters, Taylor and Gracie. There's also a baby bump on Heather that is my newest granddaughter, scheduled to arrive in early October!)

#73 - When blankets get old and thin, patch them together.

If I had a backbone I would have buried my mother with an old blue blanket she loved and had patched so many times that it was as soft as a baby blanket. However, I couldn’t seem to get her in a coffin and in the ground fast enough. This is a very emotional confession for me, and I knew it would be when I saw #73 come up on the list of things mom taught me a million times. The reason I was in such a hurry to bury my mom was because it was so very painful to see her dead, and I’d been looking at her dead for a year. Not physically dead, but mentally – or so it seemed. She progressively lost her ability to talk, to recognize her family, to make eye contact, or to do anything that seemed familiar. It just didn’t feel like she was “in there,” and I was pretty convinced she wasn’t. But let’s talk about patching blankets, because I really don’t want to cry.

I’m not sure if it was because they were around forever or what, but the blankets at our house when I was growing up seemed like old friends - not something you would toss out when they sprouted a hole or stain. Mom’s frugality and commitment to reuse/recycle created bed linen sentimentalism, a trait that my “throw-away,” “give it to Goodwill,” “buy another” generation is loosing, and that seems sort of sad.

Many families have quilts made from the fabric of old dresses, shirts, tablecloths, etc., each piece a memory stitched into a lifetime of memories to hug close and to keep you warm, and those are my favorites – the ones I always want to snuggle into, with a good book on a cold day. They just seem warmer, softer, more soothing – offering so much more than “bed in a bag.”

I was watching Kevin Costner’s abysmal post-apocalyptic “Waterworld” movie recently and thinking that my mom would have been really good at sewing together scraps of cloth for clothing, as was portrayed in the movie. In fact, she would have been one of those intrepid survivors in a nuclear holocaust – needing little, able to make anything from nothing.

I came across mom’s old blue blanket recently, and couldn’t throw it away. It is tucked away in the back of a closet somewhere, like these memories – not often seen, but never forgotten.

The Automatic Detective by A. Lee Martinez

2011-06-26T21:31:00.006-05:00

Page 2

I have a huge crush on Mack Megaton, a seven-foot tall robot with a free will glitch who becomes a reluctant detective and refers to humans as “squishy biologicals.” Mack is the main character in the wittiest book I’ve read this year, and possibly the best book I’ve read since The Help, which is saying a lot since The Help is a literary blockbuster and The Automatic Detective is sci-fi pulp fiction.

Apparently this theme isn’t original, i.e., Isaac Asimov's Caves of Steel, and I-Robot among others, but it’s new to me, and I loved it! Just imagine a hard-boiled Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler detective mystery, set in a bizarre retro near-future full of mutants, aliens from an undisclosed universe, and robots. I know that doesn’t make sense, but it does in the book. I wouldn’t have picked this book if I’d known what it was about, but people were raving about it so I decided to give it a try, and I’m glad I did.

Mack Megaton, seeking a more human existence and citizenship in a world oozing biological nastiness and mutant creatures, gets dragged into the rescue of a human family of friends who have been kidnapped in a bizarre conspiracy. Forget about that though as the story is secondary to the hilarious dialogue and whacky characters. I loved Jung, Mack’s sidekick, a gorilla-like human who loves to read Jane Austen. And get this, Mack is all man, but he’s not sexual. There are sexy women characters and seductions, but there is no sex, zero, zip, nada.

The plot of The Automatic Detective is twisty and satisfying, and the first-person narrative is crammed full of terrifically clever wisecracks, as well as some seriously smart insights. I listened to the audio version and the voices were just as fun as the writing. There were a couple of sections that lost me with repetitious and over-the-top plot lines, but it didn’t take much for author A. Lee Martinez and Mack Megaton to lure me back in.

Speaking of A. Lee Martinez, he’s an El Paso boy, and I love that too because this book is going to be wildly popular and go on to become a fabulously fun movie!

Step out of your book genre comfort zone and read The Automatic Detective. You’ll thank me later.

Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography by Rob Lowe

2011-06-26T20:55:00.007-05:00

I didn’t want to read Rob Lowe’s autobiography, Stories I Only Tell My Friends, and I sure didn’t want to like it, but I did both. When I told my hubby who was equally disinterested in Rob Lowe that I’d really enjoyed Lowe’s book, he said, “What was so good about it?” I effortlessly ticked off the following:

1. Lowe apparently wrote Stories I Only Tell My Friends, himself, and he did a good job. His mother was a prolific, yet seldom published writer, and his family ran in a pretty educated circle. This literate foundation provided a more apt and cultivated narrative than I expected. No doubt he has a good editor too. Plus Jodie Foster is one of his best friends, and I doubt she suffers dummies.

2. I listened to the audio version of the book, and was entertained and amused by Lowe's exceptional voice impersonations of the many recognizable characters he talked about in his book. The way he introduced his famous friends was fun too - almost like a game of charades. He would tell a little bit of a story about someone, tossing out clues, then came the big reveal. I had fun trying to guess who he was introducing based on a clue like, “We both took our trash out on Tuesdays, and he would fix me with that look and say, ‘I’ll be back.’” Well, not that obvious, but you get the picture (no pun intended).

3. When Lowe was a teen, he and his mom and brothers moved to Santa Monica where he met, went to school, and ran around with the Sheen kids (Emilio, Charlie), the Penn kids (Sean and brothers) and Robert Downey, Jr. Not surprisingly, while other kids were surfing, they were filming amateur movies.

4. Rob Lowe’s memories about the making of the hugely important, 80’s coming-of-age film, “The Outsiders,” was detailed and fascinating. Patrick Swayze, Tom Cruise, Emilio Estevez, Ralph Macchio, Matt Dillon, C. Thomas Howell, Diane Lane – all angsty kids, all unknowns, except for Dillon and Lane, trying out for, and getting parts in the movie. His stories about Swayze, Cruise and working with very, very weird director, Francis Ford Coppola were notably satisfying.

5. Lowe was full of titillating tales about Martin Sheen, who he met through Charlie and Emilio, right after Sheen returned from his famously tempestuous filming of “Apocalypse Now.” Yes, Coppola strikes again. Apparently the combined effect of Coppola-stress, and the jungle, gave Sheen a heart attack at age 33, and some type of (seemingly) temporary psychosis. Lowe and Sheen’s paths would cross again in the TV mega-hit series, "West Wing." Click on Read More Below...

6. The book is liberally sprinkled with yummy tidbits about Lowe’s dating drama. Anyone as handsome as Lowe is going to attract some babes. Of course there are too many to list, and I don’t want to spoil it for you, but I’ll toss out a few, some of which were brief affairs, i.e., Jennifer Grant, Cary Grant and Dyan Cannon’s daughter, Natassia Kinsky, and most interesting, Princess Stephanie of Monaco (an especially saucy story). Then there was Amy Grant ("Little House on The Prairie"), who he barely mentioned, but dated for years, and according to the many irate reviews of his book that I saw, apparently screwed royally. (Photo above is of Princess Stephanie)

7. Then there was the reoccurring and over-used theme of “the burden of being gorgeous, rich and famous,” which although understandable and no doubt real, is just a “whatever” moment for the un-gorgeous, un-rich and un-famous of us.

8. Lowe seems to lose a little steam about halfway through his book, not providing as much depth to the equally ripe topics of his life-after-age 25, i.e., his friendship with Mike Meyers and involvement with Saturday Night Live, "Wayne’s World" and the Austin Powers movies, his "West Wing" stint, alcoholism, 20-year marriage, and a rather baffling insinuation that he was a target of al-Qaida and a passenger on a dry run for the WTC high jacking. Oh, and one more complaint while I’m at it. The book begins with a story about Lowe’s brief but interesting encounter with JFK Jr. just prior to said Kennedy’s death. Although I am fascinated by anything “Kennedy,” as are most breathing humans, it felt a little exploitive. I got Lowe’s legit point in bringing it up, but well, you be the judge.

9. The book never lost my attention. I tend to drive out to west Texas a lot, during which I listen to books. Since it’s 400 miles of virtually nothing, screaming by at 82 mph, my mind tends to wander if not firmly tethered to an especially enthralling anchor. I’ve made that drive so many times that I frequently find myself on autopilot, mentally skipping from an audio book, to why my mother said so-and-so, and then to what I should cook for dinner next week, then back to the present, “waking” and wondering, “Have I gone through Sonora yet?” That didn’t happen with Stories I Only Tell My Friends. I was with Lowe the whole trip.

10. This book made me realize that I’m guilty of judging people based on one life mistake. About all I knew about Rob Lowe was that he was (1) pretty, and (2) had sex with an underage girl, for which I hated him. Stories I Only Tell My Friends, reminded me that there’s much, much more to Rob Lowe then that error– not that it was his only one, but it made me wonder. What if I was judged by only my mistakes? We are not our stumbles; we are the sum of our mistakes, our victories, and even our banal existence. I learned something, and I learned something about myself, which is always valuable.

Oh, and if you’re wondering if he talks about all his life-errors, the answer is, barely - to err and gloss over is human, to forgive is divine. Read it, or better yet, listen to it.

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times – Chapter 72

2011-06-11T18:30:00.010-05:00

#72 – “Use Palmolive dish soap to shampoo your hair. It is less expensive than shampoo, and makes your hair really shine.”

Apparently Palmolive dish soap was pretty cheap when I was growing up as we always had it around. The only reason we didn't use Tide, which was even cheaper, for washing our hair and dishes in addition to our clothing, was because it burned your skin!

Mom was frugal, but not just because she grew up in the Great Depression, or because that was the way she was raised. After my dad died and we sold everything to pay off the loans on the road construction equipment (dad owned a fairly lucrative construction company), we were left with no home, an old car, mom’s $300 a month teaching salary, and her undeterred desire to groom me for marriage to someone who could give me a “better” life - or at least to become a strong independent woman capable of giving myself a better life. If washing our hair with dishwashing soap could save a few pennies to buy me a prettier dress, dance lessons, or books to “expand my horizons,” then that’s the way it would be.

When you are a kid you are oblivious to the sacrifices made by your parents, their motives, the what’s and why’s. I recall a child psychologist telling me one time that my kids were more concerned about what time their favorite cartoon was coming on then whether or not I was with them 24-7 - which I had a great deal of difficulty accepting.

I recall agonizing for three days about having to tell my 8-year-old daughter she couldn’t go swimming because of an ear infection, but that her brothers could. When I told an old friend that I thought I shouldn’t let the boys swim either, he said to me, “You must teach your children to accept disappointment. If you fix everything for them, and they go out into the world and you’re not there to fix things, they are at a disadvantage.” I took his advice. My daughter cried for 5 minutes and got over it.

So back to washing your hair with Palmolive - I also think mom justified washing our hair with Palmolive dish soap because it was the same color as Prell shampoo, which was the most popular shampoo of my youth, and which Jerry Seinfeld refers to as “the hard stuff,” because of its notorious color-striping qualities. Of course we all wanted to be “Breck Girls,” Cheryl Tiegs, Cybill Shepherd, Jaclyn Smith, Farrah Fawcett, but that was so fancy we really didn’t see much Breck in our house.

Mom’s comment about “shiny” hair is important. Before the 60’s, it was all about shine. In fact mom insisted that I rinse my hair with diluted vinegar to get all the soap out because the soap residue made the hair dull. Of course getting Palmolive or Prell out of your hair was no small feat with or without the help of other kitchen products.

I did a little research just to see what was out there about Prell and Palmolive, and although there weren’t any references to washing your hair with Palmolive (imagine that!), there were tons about Prell, mostly having to do with removing unwanted color from your hair, for which Prell is particularly suited. I was not too surprised to find that the ingredients of Palmolive and Prell are very similar.

So, essentially mom was right. You can use Palmolive dishwashing soap to shampoo your hair – that is if you don’t use hair color (that eliminates 80% of us), and if you are sure to rinse with vinegar. But with apologies to mom, I have to admit that I won’t be using Palmolive on my hair because “fancy” shampoo is a status symbol thing for me, and I’d rather my hair smell like cucumber/melon than dill pickle.

Bossypants by Tina Fey

2011-06-11T18:27:00.008-05:00

Although I didn’t know much about Tina Fey before I read her book, Bossypants, what I think I know about her now is that she and I hide our insecurities behind humor. When going though the life-defining time of Junior High and High School, I was never pretty, smart or nice enough to be cheerleader, valedictorian, or most popular (my generation’s Nobel Prizes of Teenage-dom), so I fell back to baton twirler, clever gal, and class clown. Some of my classmates are probably thinking, “I don’t remember her being clever or funny!” But by gaud, no one can take my twirling medals away from me! So back to Tina Fey and her hilarious and interesting book, Bossypants.

Ever wonder where the fancy pants, smarty pants, bossy pants, linguistic formulation came from? Really? OK. Never mind. Let’s (I’ll) talk about Bossypants.

For those of you similarly unfamiliar with Tina Fey, she is (in her words), “a wide-hipped sarcastic Greek girl." She is also the former head writer for Saturday Night Live, and currently the star and executive producer of the Emmy-winning TV sitcom, "30 Rock.” Bossypants is her subtly deep book about her evolution from middle-class Pennsylvanian misfit to iconic liberal female humorist of the 2000’s. Do conservatives even have humorists?

When I first started Bossypants, I thought, well, this is funny, but it is really just a Tina Fey monologue, which is a ridiculous observation since that’s the whole point of biographies, but it felt like a stand-up comedy routine rather than your typical biography. What I soon came to realize is that Fey is really just too smart to do a straight-up story of her life. She has to weave her comedic magic by hiding her honesty, wisdom, politics and stunning intellect like Easter eggs. Granted, they were hidden like you would hide eggs from a 3-year-old, but that was the coolest part. It wasn’t in your face, but you also didn’t have to work for it. Click on Read More Below...

So here’s an abridged list of what I got (or re-got) from Bossypants:

1. Comedy is a serious craft (is that a pun?)

2. “Only in comedy does an obedient white girl from the suburbs count as diversity.” (Fey)

3. Lorne Michaels, creator and head honcho forever at “Saturday Night Live,” like Yogi, is smarter than the average bear.

4. “Everyone, everyone, everyone on a magazine cover is wearing something closed in the back by elastic and safety pins.” (Fey)

5. Talking about tit-nazis is funny.

6. Talking about working mothers (what mothers don’t work?) and the stresses they bear isn’t funny, but it is important.

7. Although a pinnacle moment for Tina Fey, her impression of Sara Palin in the SNL skits was not something she wanted to do. It seems Tina Fey shares my opinion that when men are caricatured it’s funny but meaningless, but when women are, they’re somehow damaged. I also got the impression that Fey had mixed emotions about doing the Palin piece because she believes (as I do), that woman tend to be hard on each other. We want all women to represent our gender in perfection, and that is simply not real. A women is entitled to be as stupid as a man! And that’s all I’m going to say about that! Instead, I encourage you to watch the video below. It is really funny (click on the arrow and turn up your volume).

Fey ends her book with, “But if you have an opinion, please feel free to offer it to me through the gap in the door of a public restroom. Everyone else does.” So, I’ll just say this: Hi, Tina (I’ll use her first name like I know her). Is that you in there? I liked your book. Oh, and one more thing, by and large, Texas women are very smart gals.

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The Legacy Continues

2011-06-11T17:00:00.004-05:00

SueAnn Wade-Crouse - Miss Iraan, Texas Baby 1949 and Miss Iraan 1966.

Mini Miss Texas, 2011, Granddaughter, Khloe Noelke.