Holy cats! It's a girl!

Well, dang! I don't do politics, but I have to say that John McCain's choice of Sarah Palin as his VP is the most brilliant strategic move I've seen in a very long time. I'll concede her lack of experience --not that that's a bad thing, given what "experienced" politicians tend to give us-- but I think it's pretty exciting that a woman who's not afraid to speak her mind, not afraid to stand up for her values, appears to have no hidden agendas, and is willing to go on record as saying polar bears aren't the cute, cuddly things Coca-Cola has led us to believe, may end up as our vice-president. And let's not overlook the fact that she gave all five of her children very cool names--a sure sign of great creativity!

Which brings us to the reason that Gov. Palin is such an intriguing choice: her primary accomplishment thus far is being the mother of five children--one of them with Down's syndrome. Parenting one child is a challenge; parenting five deserves a medal (or maybe a vice-presidency?) and requires a massive amount of brains, energy, discipline, compassion, diplomacy, patience, strategic planning, guts, and humor. How hard could it be to run a country after raising five children to be productive members of society?

Frankly, the American family may be the biggest beneficiary of this year's political pandering. Obama, McCain, and Biden are excellent role models for fatherhood (if not husbandhood); they're loving, devoted parents and their affection for their children is obvious, genuine, and brought some welcome moments of truth in the carefully scripted events of this year's conventions. Gov. Palin's commitment to motherhood is apparent in every interview she does. Now, none of us really believe our taxes or insurance premiums or cost of living are going down come January, do we? Surely, you jest. But if all this rhetoric and grandstanding results in a few more moms or dads deciding time with their children is time well spent, then all parties can claim a victory and the whole world will be a better place. Now that's something worth cheering for!

Isn't 50 the New 30?

Okay, I have really, really depressing news from my literary agent. According to her (and she is definitely a woman in the know), it is now virtually impossible to sell a novel with a protagonist over the age of 40 because all the publishing house editors are under 30 and cannot even begin to relate to--or care about--characters of such an advanced age. Hello? We've been hearing "Fifty is the new Thirty" for quite a while now; did Publishers Weekly not get the memo?

Alarmed--and outraged!--I fired up my trusty search engine, determined to prove my agent wrong. To my utter astonishment and consternation, all the mentions of "hen lit" and "matron lit" (gee, why not "fiction about intelligent, interesting women of a certain age"?) that were there just a few months ago, are indeed now missing. And imprints created expressly for the purpose of publishing novels with more mature heroines have closed up shop. It's like someone flipped a switch and said, "Old girls ba-a-a-a-a-d; young girls goo-oo-oo-d!" (If you've read Animal Farm, that comment will be a lot funnier. And if you haven't, you must. Find it/order it/buy it today!)

Not that it'll do any good, but I must protest! Since when did Youth corner the market on compelling fiction? Who decided tramp stamps and college loans trump carpools and midlife crises? We should have seen this coming when Disney announced their plans to publish Miley Cyrus' memoir. Am I the only one who thinks a 15-year-old writing about her life experience is high comedy? The child's barely been on the planet long enough to make a carbon footprint, much less acquire sufficient material for a memoir! Why don't we just go ahead and lower the age requirement for president while we're at it? Maybe young Chelsea could do what old Hillary couldn't!

We've come to expect short-sightedness from television (witness the current glut of reality shows--a phenomenon that started long before the writers' strike), but to think the literary world would succumb to a lack of vision--not to mention abject discrimination--is truly disturbing. I liked Bridget Jones Diary as much as the next person, but please don't make that the watermark for all my reading yet to come! What loss to have never known Clyde Edgerton's Mattie Rigsbee, Louisa May Alcott's Marmee, Virginia Woolf's Clarissa Dalloway, Muriel Sparks' Jean Brodie, or Janet Evanovich's Grandma Mazur! What deprivation to think that, from this point forward, our fictional viewpoints might be restricted to that of people whose formative years never knew Herman's Hermits, Chatty Kathy, Whip 'n' Chill, cheap gas, or life without cell phones!

Hopefully, my agent is wrong. Hopefully, this post will pull comments from editors claiming "Au contraire! We'd love to see novels featuring 'seasoned' women!" Hopefully, I'll hear from book-buying readers clamoring, "Give us your tried, your true! Your middle-aged mamas living life to the fullest!" Because, frankly, the fifty-year-olds I know are a lot more interesting than the thirty-year-olds I know, the eighty-year-olds are downright darling, and how many times do you really want to read another account of Gen X angst?

Please, somebody send me proof that the stars of my novel-in-progress don't have to give up their senior discount to stay in the literary game!

P.S. Diane Lawrence has a funny blog here that explores this same subject from a slightly different perspective, and Mary Hirsch's assertion that Size 18 is the new Size 6 deserves a whole blog entry to itself!

C'mon, get happy!

Now hear this: the world is a happier place than it used to be, according to a study just completed by the University of Michigan. Yep, over the past fifteen years or so, in spite of droughts and wars and dollar cucumbers and five dollar gas, we humans are happier than we've ever been. Surprised?


Humans who live in Denmark are the happiest; that stands to reason: after all, this is the country that gave us "Babette's Feast," (one of the most glorious movies of all times), Hans Christian Anderson, Tivoli Gardens, and Legos. Obviously, these people understand the meaning of fun! Conversely, the unhappiest people on earth are in Zimbabwe; that stands to reason as well. (Stop right now and put those poor people at the top of your prayer list.)


The U.S. comes in at #16 on the Happiness List--not too shabby, given that most of us in this country go to bed with a full stomach and a roof over our heads every night. But get this: while most Americans are out there feeling pretty good, we Baby Boomers--that would be those of us between the ages of 44 and 62-- are apparently miserable. According to a survey by LiveScience.com, "Boomers are tired, overworked, strapped, bummed out and don't expect to get a break." How can this be? We have the best music of any generation, we practically invented the Internet, and we survived leisure suits; where is your pride, people?! Who needs a full night's sleep and a well-endowed bank account when we have David Letterman and eBay? (The latter not a Boomer invention but, hey, we're fast learners) Yes, we're tired. Yes, we are woefully short on our retirement savings. And, yes, we may all end up in Alzheimer's units together (the communes of the 60s, gone geezer!) But life is still a great ride, and Pollyanna is a much better role model than Eeyore. I say turn off Fox and CNN, quit reading the stock market report, and, as the Partridge Family so harmoniously suggested, c'mon, get happy!

If we tolerated Pam Ewing's dream, we can put up with anything. Live long and prosper!

At War with My Inner GRITS

Here lately, I am feeling overwhelmed. Given that I have worked 12+ hour days for most of the month of June, I suspect what I'm actually feeling is exhaustion, but that's a whole other issue. Granted, I am my own worst enemy: when asked about heading up a school event, writing a play for the children's sermon, or hosting a dinner party for six, I do know the word "no," I just have a hard time using it. I am, after all a Girl Raised in the South--which means I have a permanent responsibility to my mother and all who came before her to serve God, family, friends, and country with a smile on my face and a spatula in my hand.

The Good Southern Girl Code says nothing about a pen, much less a keyboard, so I have no one but myself to blame for overloading the straw on that proverbial camel's back with my literary aspirations. I mean, it's not like someone's holding a gun to my head, saying, "You'd better get that next book finished, girl!" (Well, my sister's pretty insistent, but that's just because she wants to go on tour with me again.) So I am the only person I can blame for those feelings of guilt, inadequacy, incompetence, and failure that attack when I collapse on my pillow at 1 AM and acknowledge that another day has gone by without me even opening the file for my novel, much less contributing to it.

Meanwhile, as I lay there beating myself up for not writing, I'm also apologizing to my Inner GRITS for the hot breakfast I failed to cook (my children are perfectly happy with cold cereal, but The Code demands homemade waffles with fresh fruit compote--or at least eggs and toast), the get well cards I failed to send my ailing friends and relations, the foot massage I failed to give my husband, the load of towels I failed to fold, the dire condition of my cuticles, and the feeble pat I offered my dog while ignoring the ball he held hopefully in his mouth. By the time I fall asleep, I am mired in a pool of shame deep enough to fry magnolia blossoms.

Such is the burden of being a Girl Raised in the South. We are kind to strangers, but we are brutal on ourselves. My generation of women is trying to hold up standards our great-grandmothers set and that's just dandy--except they did it without full-time jobs and with a maid and a gardener! True, they didn't have air conditioning, microwaves, or clothes dryers--things I consider pretty much essential at this point--but I suspect I would give up my microwave for a COOK in a heartbeat. My poor family has eaten so much pizza this month, they should have enough lycopene in their bodies to guarantee immortality.

You can say "So lower your standards!" to an overworked, overwhelmed Southern girl, but we interpret that as, "Sugar, you are obviously nothing but white trash and are not worthy of having inherited your Great-Aunt Fannie's crystal lemonade set," so those standards must remain firmly in place even if our sanity slips while trying to meet them. In my own household of all men--all of whom were born in the South but only one of whom seems to celebrate that fact--absolutely NO ONE but me understands why it is tacky to put the mayonnaise jar on the table. I do it frequently, Lord forgive me, but the scolding voice of my mother in my head is loud enough to make me cower. Condiment containers on the table is right up there with not wearing a slip or having a dirty car: certain proof that you are just this side of common--and to true GRITS, there is nothing worse than being common.

Oh, the shame of being a Common Goddess instead of a Comma Goddess! That's enough to give me the vapors. So I promise I'll do better this week, Mother! I'll get a manicure, make the boys cookies from scratch, and I'll mail every one of those get-well cards--right after I finish this next chapter.

Edith Needs You

As the end of the school year draws near, my thoughts turn to reading. Well, my thoughts are never far from reading, but summer brings the opportunity to read more than usual, so I'm on the prowl for great books to devour in the weeks ahead. For some reason, I'm drawn to classics in the summer months. Yes, while the rest of the world is scouting for "beach reads," I'm dusting off War and Peace, pulling out Eudora Welty, and gearing up for The Innocents Abroad. (So I'm different. What can I say?)

For some reason, summer makes me think of Edith Wharton. Not sure why, given all those frozen pages of Ethan Frome, but it does. Maybe it's those voluminous pale dresses in which she always seems to be pictured (Edith, Emily, Louisa May...ya think if I traded in my jeans for long white dresses I could have better luck selling my novel?). Whatever, when I think of summer, I always think of Edith, and now you need to think about her, too. It seems the home of this wonderful writer, delared a National Historic Landmark years ago, is about to be foreclosed upon. I can only imagine how much it costs to maintain "The Mount," as Edith's mansion is called, but it does seem horrid to let America's only monument to Ms. Wharton--and one of the few protected landmarks honoring a woman--fall into the hands of heaven-knows-whom. Given that many of Edith's books were nonfiction works about architecture and gardening, this estate offers definitive examples of what she wrote about. And it's impossible to put a price on the effect walking in the haunts of a beloved writer can have on an aspiring one. Having wept from pure bliss when I visited the homes of Helen Keller, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Carl Sandburg, and Louisa May Alcott, I know that impact first hand.

So if you haven't yet spent all your tax refund and are feeling just the teeniest bit philanthropic, visit http://www.edithwharton.org/ and consider making a donation to Save The Mount. They've been given till Halloween to raise a couple of million dollars; a couple of yours will help. Go read one of Edith's books to put you in the mood or, better yet, make a pilgrimage to Lenox, Massachusetts, this summer and visit the estate for yourself.

If you've watched TV recently, you know it's more critical than ever to preserve whatever shreds of intelligence, creativity, and dignity that are left on this planet. Here's your chance!

Nothing Sleepy About The Drowsy Chaperone

"The Drowsy Chaperone" is a Broadway play currently making its way across the country. It was in Greenville this week and, take my word for it, you should make every effort to see it if it comes to a city near you. (See the tour schedule here.) Unfortunately, many seats sat empty during the Greenville run because the play is fairly new and still largely unfamiliar. That's a real shame, because the plot is inventive, the music and dancing topnotch, and the voices among the best I've ever heard. Even the bit players are excellent. Georgia Engle, whom we know and love from The Mary Tyler Moore Show, is the biggest name in the cast; she isn't onstage often, but when she is, she's her sweet, softspoken, slightly ditzy self. The entire ensemble does a masterful job bringing to life this tuneful tribute to classic musicals; Cliff Bemis as frustrated impresario Mr. Feldzieg and James Moye as on-call lothario Aldolpho are particularly enjoyable, and a tap dance by bridegroom Mark Ledbetter and best man Richard Vida is pure fun. I just wish Fran Jaye ("Trix the Aviatrix") had been given more of an opportunity to cut loose; her voice promised way more than she had a chance to deliver.

The "Man in a Chair," who serves as narrator in this clever tale, gets it right when he talks about the ability of a darkened theatre to whisk us away from reality; heaven knows, a little escape from reality these days goes a long way toward maintaining sanity. That's why I hate that theatre tickets--especially top quality productions such as touring Broadway shows--are so prohibitively expensive. I don't know many families that can comfortably whip out $70+ a piece for a couple hours' diversion. Given the choice of playing to a half empty house or offering up a too-good-to-miss-out-on deal, seems to me the producers of these shows--any show, for that matter--would try to cut their losses. I know the argument: they don't want to offer last-minute discounts because then people will wait and not buy tickets at full price. The truth is, devoted theatre-goers, people who can afford it, and people who want to see the show from a particular seat will buy the same tickets they always have. But students, and families for whom cultural activities are too often a luxury, and people who would NEVER pay $70 for a ticket might just decide to buy a $35 one--and they probably wouldn't care if it was on the last row of the top balcony. They'd just like a chance to get in on the magic.

These days, with bell peppers a buck a piece and gas at four dollars a gallon, seems like we ought to at least catch a break on magic, doncha think?

More Family Fun

Okay, folks, word is that "A Plumm Summer" did well in Minnesota, Montana, and Alabama last week, but not so well in California. It's showing again this weekend, so if you're in one of those states or have friends there, hunt up this film and vote for family values with the price of a movie ticket. If you see it, let me know what you think.

And while you've got the fam gathered 'round, when's the last time you played board games together? Scrabble, naturally, is my all-time favorite, and I have devoted many hours of my life to Monopoly, but my newest favorite is a game called "Carcasonne." I would play it daily if I could find a partner. (I've worn out everyone in my household!) I don't even care about winning; just the act of claiming and building up kingdoms and roads, or planting myself as a farmer in a lucrative area, is enough. Carcasonne takes a bit of effort to learn, but I promise you it's worth it.

The all-around favorite in our house, though is the card game of Spades. Having grown up in a good Baptist household where cards where frowned upon, I didn't learn the joy of Spades till I went off to my good Baptist college, Mars Hill. (Go, Lions!) Before I die, I have to learn to play bridge, else I can't call myself a good Southern girl, but in the meantime, I've learned to play a mean game of Spades. Every summer since they were old enough to safely reach the stovetop, I've taught my sons how to cook one new thing, figuring that by the time they left home, they'd be adept enough in a kitchen to keep from starving or living off fast food. (I realize the latter is a matter of choice, rather than culinary capability!) But the year the youngest was finally old enough to hang on to a splay of thirteen cards in a reasonably discreet manner, I cast aside tradition for ready Spades partners, and many are the fine summer nights our tribe has enjoyed at the kitchen table since.

It's May, my middle son has just completed his first year of college, my youngest is on the home stretch, and the scent of summer is just around the corner. Seems like a good weekend to go to the movies and get out the games.