Author Archives

Melissahttp://www.missmeliss.comWriter, voice actor, dog-lover, and bathtub mermaid, Melissa is the Associate Editor-in-Chief at All Things Girl. To learn more about her, visit her website, or follow her on Twitter (@Melysse) or Facebook. You can also listen to her podcast, "Bathtub Mermaid: Tales from the Tub" at Bathtub Mermaid or on iTunes.

Review: Fixing Freddie, by Paula Munier

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Fixing Freddie
Fixing Freddie
by Paula Munier
Visit Amazon.com for a copy of your own.

When I was offered the opportunity to review Paula Munier’s wonderful book, Fixing Freddie: a true story about a boy, a mom, and a very, very bad beagle, I was excited. I’ve been in a non-fiction mood lately, and I love dog stories, so this seemed like the perfect match for my tastes.

Like someone already skinny who is taking clinicallix to lose weight, I was not disappointed. Munier’s first person account of her marriage, divorce, cross-country move, and first foray into home ownership and puppy parenthood is told with a blend of candor and humor that felt as if she was sitting in my living room telling me about her life. I could see her son playing video games, smell the roasted chicken that the dogs (Freddie had an older friend named Shakespeare), and see Freddie’s cute face. In fact, I was so caught up in the book that I brought it into the bath with me, despite my personal policy against reading hardcovers in the tub. It was that gripping.

Maybe it’s because I have three dogs of my own, at ages 10, 3 and 1.75, two of which I’ve had since they were eight weeks old (the oldest and the youngest) that I could sympathize when Freddie escaped from the yard, got caught on a frozen lake (my dogs have all done the former; my oldest dog has fallen into the swimming pool several times), or eaten something he shouldn’t (Miss Cleo and my chihuahua, Zorro, now at the Rainbow Bridge have eaten things as diverse as an entire t-shirt, the backs of my suede shoes while I was wearing them, the string from a roast, half a London broil, a stick of butter, and, once, all the topping from a pizza, though they left the crust and closed the box when they’d finished), or maybe it’s just that in Freddie we see the lost puppy in all of us – the part of our human selves that wants someone to direct us where to go, feed and bathe us regularly, and let us curl up in a warm bed, in exchange for mere affection and coming when called.

Or maybe it’s just that any woman who’s ever dated (or married) a man can understand Munier’s frustration with that species.

Or maybe it’s because Munier’s story is universal, and boils down to the search for a safe haven and a cozy home.

Fixing Freddie may be essentially a “dog story,” but it’s also a memoir about life and love and growing up, and letting go.

Even if you’re a cat person – even if you don’t even have a pet rock – you will enjoy this book, and come away from it with a new perspective.

Goes well with: roasted chicken, and a begging dog.

Booking Through Thursday: Day and Night

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On Thursday, September 16th, Booking through Thursday asked:

“I couldn’t sleep a wink, so I just read and read, day and night … it was there I began to divide books into day books and night books,” she went on. “Really, there are books meant for daytime reading and books that can be read only at night.” — Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, p. 103.

Do you divide your books into day and night reads? How do you decide?

For me, any spare moment is a good time to read, so no, I don’t divide my books into daytime vs. nighttime reading, but I do tend to have some titles I’m willing to travel with, and some I don’t.

Maybe it’s my version of my grandmother’s admonishment to always wear clean underwear, in case you’re ever in an accident, but there are some books I won’t read outside the safe confines of my house, and other’s I’ll proudly carry with me. For example, Harry Potter books generally stay home, and not only because they’re bulky, as do the occasional Silhouette romance novel I’ll admit to reading, but novels like Sarah’s Key, a recent favorite, I’ll carry with me everywhere.

Now that I’m a proud Kindle owner, carrying books is easier, because I have just one thin piece of technology to port around, although I have to wonder if the people who write car insurance quotes are keeping up with our addiction to such techy toys when they generate pricing. I know that some police forces, the one in Cincinnati, OH, are leaving security warnings on cars around town, reminding people to take their computers, cell phones, eBook readers and GPS devices with them (or at least hide them in the trunk), when they leave home, but it’s got to be a nightmare when break-ins do occur and there are those gadgets to catalog.

Speaking of books on the road – and car insurance nightmares – my stepfather was prone to visiting library discard sales and taking home pretty much anything he deemed interesting. At some point my mother issued an edict – he wasn’t allowed to take anything else home – so he kept stashing books in the trunk of his car, to the point where the weight of them made the car sluggish and non-responsive – an accident waiting to happen. Of course, this would be the car that was stolen by a couple of kids who just wanted to take a joy ride…it was eventually found with a jammed ignition and a note from the kids, “This car sucks.”

Insurance paid for all the repairs.
The books were still in the trunk.

Review: The Hypnotist, by M.J. Rose

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The Hypnotist

Reading the third book in a series without having read its prequels can sometimes be a little bit weird, even if each novel is a complete story. This may be one of the reasons that M.J. Rose’s latest novel, The Hypnotist has been a “slow” read for me – because I sense that there are relationships and backstories that I’m missing. In fact, my mentioning this here in this blog a couple of days ago caught the attention of the author herself, and she left a note expressing concern. Let me say right now that any author who takes the time to check in with a reader has to be pretty cool, but then, if you’ve read anything M.J. Rose has written, that should be pretty obvious.

While neither the plot nor the structure of The Hypnotist bear any resemblance to one of my all-time favorite contemporary novels, The Eight, by Katherine Neville, I found that this book reminded me of the other nevertheless. Perhaps it’s the way the author excels at conveying a strong sense of place. Much of The Hypnotist takes place in libraries and museums, and I found my breath changing with each change of scene, as if some imaginary curator or librarian might shush me for exhaling too loudly.

But I digress.

The Hypnotist opens with the brutal murder of a young painter, and the near-murder of her lover, one Lucian Glass. Twenty years later, Glass is an FBI agent assigned to the Art Crime Team. He’s involved in the investigation of an extremely unstable art collector who has been destroying masterpieces in order to make some kind of a statement, and it is this investigation that sends Glass undercover to the Phoenix Foundation, run by Dr. Malachai Samuels, an expert in hypnotism and past-life regression.

Reincarnation isn’t just a character hook for Samuels, however. Glass is haunted as much by partly-glimpsed past lives of his own as he is by the memory of his lover, and her death. It’s not surprising, then, that art, history, intrigue, and the study of reincarnation all twist together to form the threads of a gripping tale that I both didn’t want to, and could not put down.

Rose’s characters are well-drawn, with enough detail to make them seem real, but not so much that the reader can’t put his or her own imagination to work. Her plot twists are plausible without being too obvious. Her prose is simple, but effective.

Read this book because the story is fabulous, but don’t be surprised if you, as I did, found yourself wanting to visit Persia, spend a rainy afternoon at an art museum, and curl up in a comfortably worn library chair with a treasured read.

To learn more about the author or her work, check out her website: M.J.Rose.com

Goes well with: mint tea and chicken shawarma, or a hot pretzel with mustard.

Holding Pattern

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I’ve finished a few books that I haven’t reviewed yet, but rather like water from a Hansgrohe faucet, the ideas on how to phrase what I want to say can be turned on or off, and right now I’m stuck at “off.”

I’m in the middle of several books as well. Mainly I’m still working through The Hypnotist by M.J. Rose. I’m enjoying it, but for some reason it’s a slow read for me, almost as if it’s hypnotizing me into sleep. Still it’s a book I have a deadline for, so I’ll finish it in the next day or so.

In addition to that book, however, I’ve been downloading lots of free Kindle-friendly books, and have been reading one of them on my iPhone. My aunt ordered the new Kindle for me for my birthday and it should be here sometime between Tuesday and Thursday. I’m very excited, as a goal I had last year was to re-read all of Jane Austen’s novels, but I got sidetracked, and never did. Today, I downloaded the free Kindle editions of all of them, and I’m excited about working through them.

Otherwise, I’m having a quiet weekend, which is nice, actually.

Review: My Fair Lazy, by Jen Lancaster

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My Fair Lazy
My Fair Lazy
by Jen Lancaster

I’ve been a great fan of Jen Lancaster’s memoirs since before she published them, and was just another snarky blogger. I mean, even though our politics would never mesh, we’re pretty close in age, and have similar cultural landmarks because of it. It is with some regret, then, that I say I found her latest offering My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict’s Attempt to Discover If Not Being A Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or, a Culture-Up Manifesto less sparkly than her previous offerings.

Maybe it’s because we’re both getting older, or maybe it’s just because Jen is funnier when she’s playing her shallow consumer act (it is an act, right? Right??) but some of this book just seemed sad to me. I mean, her voice is still as sharp as ever, but I think I’m losing interest in her version of the world.

On the other hand, I did turn into a prune while reading this book in the bath, using my toes to add alternate doses of hot and cold water. I’d have preferred to be reading it while seated on my new-this-year outdoor chair cushions, but even the best Jen Lancaster book isn’t worth sacrificing oneself to the mosquitoes for.

But yes, I will buy her next book.
Whatever that is.

But it will probably be the Kindle edition.

The Sunday Salon: Paranormality

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I’m in the middle of reading this novel called The Hypnotist by M. J. Rose, which I classify as a paranomal mystery/thriller. It’s my first read by this author, but not my first foray into paranormal fiction. I’ve been thinking though, of what my first experience with this genre was.

I think, technically, the book that got me hooked on paranormal fiction (mystery, thriller, romance, or otherwise, was one I read several times as a young girl: Ghosts I Have Been, by Richard Peck. It’s about a girl named Blossom Culp who was a supporting character in Peck’s previous novel, The Ghost Belongs to Me, but so strong was her presence in the original book, and so long has it been since I’ve read either (I mean they were published in the 1970’s originally, despite Amazon only admitting to recent reprints) that I get plot elements of both stuck in my head. I know that The Ghost Belongs to Me was actually made into a movie called “Child of Glass,” in 1978, though.

In any case, Blossom is a feisty girl from a single-parent home on the wrong side of the tracks. She’s bright, but gets into trouble because of her cleverness, and she claims to be clairvoyant, except, as it turns out, she’s not just making it up because she ends up having a sort of out-of-body/out-of-time experience and being on the Titanic when it sinks.

Even if the entire plot hasn’t stuck with me, the essence of the book has.

I guess I’ve always liked books that explore the possibility of some kind of Otherness. I’m never entirely certain if I believe in it – I mean, sometimes I wake in the night and swear my grandmother’s perfume in my room – but mostly, it’s the possibility, the wonder, the not knowing, that I really enjoy.

As Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine wrote in Into the Woods, “Isn’t it nice to know a lot, and a little bit…not?”

Aluminum for Remembrance, Post-Its for Pleasure

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Anniversary Post-its from Just Paper Roses

There’s a scene in the movie version of Under the Tuscan Sun where Frances, having decided to pick one room at a time in her new Italian villa and make it her own, begins with her writing desk. She turns it so that she can look out the window while she works, and decorates it with pretty boxes, and bouquets of both pens and flowers. While I enjoyed the movie, for what it was, that scene really resonates with me, because I’m the same way about my writing desk. Oh, I can’t always afford to keep fresh flowers on it, but whenever I can, there they are, and even though I tend to compose everything I write at the computer keyboard these days, I have to have paper. Real paper. I have baskets of blank note cards and piles of post-its, and while none of them are about my anniversary, if someone gave me such a pad, I’d laugh delightedly, and add them to the stack. Post-its are great for jotting down notes, and the one thing I hate about no longer working in the corporate world is that I no longer get post-its for free from various vendors.

The post-it notes are just one reason I’m digging this great web-shop that specializes in wedding anniversary gifts, Just Paper Roses. Not only do they have a selection of faux flowers designed for every anniversary, in both artsy and “lifelike” versions, but they also have post-its, picnic-ware, teddy bears, and lots of other cool gifts for anniversaries, birthdays, and just because.

One of the items I thought was cool was that for the 10th wedding anniversary gifts, which are supposed to be aluminum, they offer metallic roses in a shiny aluminum vase, that should look tacky, but instead feels sort of retro-chic. In fact, if my next wedding anniversary wasn’t going to be my 16th, I’d be asking Fuzzy to get it for me, to put on the desk in the Word Lounge.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to give me the tiny square booklet-calendars she got free from the florist or the bank, or wherever. I always got a kick out of reading the list of anniversary gift themes. You know, first year, paper, and all that. I’m guessing the folks at Just Paper Roses liked those calendars too, because their products suit every taste from serious to silly, and their prices are reasonable.

One of my favorite books is a tiny missive by Alexandra Stoddard called Gift of a Letter, that basically talks about how letter-writing is becoming a lost art. I’m a die-hard letter writer. I’m also a die-hard lover of flowers, but I have many friends who feel sad about sending cut flowers because they don’t last. As you can imagine, I’ll be turning them on to the fabulous silk and paper roses Just Paper Roses offers.

Well, just as soon as I place a bouquet on the corner of my writing desk, light some incense, and sit down to write to them about it.

Booking Through Thursday: Giving Up

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On Thursday, August 26th, Booking through Thursday asked:

If you’re not enjoying a book, will you stop mid-way? Or do you push through to the end? What makes you decide to stop?

I try very hard always to finish books. There are some that have slow beginnings, but then surprise me pleasantly once I’m partway in, for example, and some that end up having one scene that is just so good, even if the rest of the book is bad, that scene will redeem the entire work.

Once in a while, however, there’s a book that doesn’t work for me. In fact, I’ve just decided tonight to stop reading Fay Weldon’s The Spa. Known as The Spa Decameron outside the United States (because apparently publishers think we Americans don’t get literary references), this is a modern dress pastiche of Boccaccio’s The Decameron set at a froufrou health spa over Christmas. The outside world is dealing with the Sumatran Flu (think Swine Flu), and this group of women have gathered at the Castle Spa to refresh, relax, and reinvigorate themselves.

The description sounds like something I’d love, which is why I picked it up (though of course the dust cover doesn’t mention Boccaccio), but the reality of this book is that, in spite of the lovely notion of a bunch of women telling their stories while sipping champagne and soaking in a jacuzzi, each trying to one-up the other, it’s overwhelmingly boring. I mean, these chicks put the idle in “idle rich,” and they are selfish and self-obsessed to the point that it becomes unendurable to read about them.

And so, as much as I hate to, I am closing the book on The Spa roughly 70% of the way through, else I decide to gouge my eyes out with rusty spoons.

Look, I don’t need a happy ending, but it would be nice if I could identify with – or at least like at least one of the characters I’m reading with.

Review: A Summer Affair, by Elin Hilderbrand

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A Summer Affair

A Summer Affair
by Elin Hilderbrand

This novel is both the seventh novel the author wrote, and the seventh of her novels that I read, but that happened purely by coincidence. I hadn’t read any of the others in order of publication date.

Unlike many of the other protagonists in Hilderbrand’s work, Claire Danner Crispin, art-glass blower, wife, and mother, is a full-time resident of Nantucket, where she and her husband have a relatively happy life, though she harbors a secret – she feels responsible for a car accident that her friend Daphne was in several months before.

When Claire is invited to co-chair a charity gala and create a new art piece for the auction attached thereto, she’s surprised, because the the person in charge of the charity, Lockhart, is Daphne’s husband, and Claire had assumed he held her responsible as well.

As the title implies, Claire and Lockhart begin an affair, which heats up as problems plague the gala planning, and Claire’s rockstar ex-boyfriend arrives to stay at her house (he’s the big draw for the gala, as well as the entertainment).

There’s also a B-plot between Claire’s best friend, a caterer, and her gambling husband.

In the end, A Summer Affair, is a typical Hilderbrand novel with great beach-town settings, well-written women, and men who lack depth, though they’ve improved somewhat in this novel. Both Claire’s husband and the rockstar boyfriend seem like decent men.

Goes well with lemonade and quiche

Carolina Dreams: It’s All Anne Rivers Siddons’ Fault

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Anne Rivers Siddons is responsible for one of my ultimate fantasies: a Carolina beach vacation.

I’ve been a fan of the author Anne Rivers Siddons ever since my mother and I started scouring the new fiction shelf at the San Jose Public Library for her work. Sure, she writes male characters that are only slightly more real than the men in Elin Hilderbrand’s Nantucket novels, but her women are strong, and three-dimensional. More importantly, the HOUSES they live in are amazing. When I think of Anne Rivers Siddons, I think first of the beach, then of women characters, and then of architecture.

Outer Banks

One of the first Siddon’s novels I remember reading was Outer Banks. It was about true love and lost love, coming of age, finding one’s path, and of the changing relationships between friends, lovers, and families, and of course it had a wonderful house where much of the drama took place.

Granted, Siddon’s houses are nothing like the Carolina Designs homes that people can rent for their very own Carolina vacations. Hers tend to be draughty old summer cottages with sand stuck between the floor boards, and weathered paint. Charming to read about, but not where I’d want to stay.

So, where do I see myself on my fantasy visit to Carolina? Well this house is my ideal. It sleeps ten, so Fuzzy and I could invite the entire family, but everyone would still have their own space. It has cable, wifi and a wet bar (because we all know vacations are all about booze and the internet), and xbox, so my vampire-skin husband would have something to do while I’m basking on the sand or splashing in the surf. It has a lot of bathrooms – really important – and it also has a full kitchen. And did I mention the pool and tennis courts.

I have an aunt whose husband’s family owns a “cottage” in the Hamptons. Like the old homes in Siddon’s novels it’s huge and cold, with beds that include one referred to as the double taco, because it folds you into itself so completely – and not in a good way.

My vacation fantasy does not involve being suffocated by an ancient bed.

My vacation fantasy draws elements from another of Siddons’ novels, Low Country, which was all about the relationship between Anglo and Gullah communities in South Carolina. As much as I’d love an ‘in’ into the Gullah world, what really drew me about that novel was the food. The characters in that story were tied to their food, to their Sunday dinners, to sharing meals together, and as someone who grew up in a family of amateur and professional chefs, food is a language I speak well.

I long to have my family assembled for a barbecue within sight – or at least scent – of the ocean, with those coastal breezes making everything taste better. I want to sit on a deck at dusk nursing a beer and nibbling on the perfect burger, and not caring that there’s sand in my hair and that my nose is a little sunburnt.

I want to have wonderful days by the sea with people I love, and then, like Ms. Siddons, I want to curl up and write about it, turning it into a novel, a series of short stories, a memoir.

I want to be in Carolina..and it’s all Anne Rivers Siddons’ fault!

Low Country