Category: Humor

The Folio: What I Read Mid-November through Mid-December 2024

· 2 Comments ·

The (Un)usual Humanity of It All

When I wrap up each month’s reading, I like to look for themes that connect the books I’ve enjoyed. I am exciting that way.

This month, the theme seems to be something like “Joke’s on you, asshole.” Fair. A little harsh. I should be nicer to myself.

Anyway, generally, I want my books to feel “slippery and wild,” as Gwydion Suilebhan described in his post about A Real Pain. . The books should make me work for it a little, challenge me, delight me, or knock me off-balance just enough.

This month has been mostly glorious, occasionally frustrating, and terribly on-brand for late November into December. There was so much illness in the house, including me. Two solid weeks of being sick cut into my reading time, as did an ocular migraine that I was sure was a retinal detachment (long story). Finals for the kids, Thanksgiving, and the usual chaos of life were all there too — the kind of busyness we’ve somehow convinced ourselves is virtuous. Spoiler: it’s not.

Still, there were hugs to give, cheers to yell as we clawed our way through heartaches, anger, joy, and everything in between. Most of the books I read this month fit the mood perfectly. And, as you’ll see next month, even Nuclear War (which I didn’t finish in time for this wrap-up) aligns thematically in its own toe-tapping way.

WHY do we do this? Why do we run around like caffeinated ferrets, scuttling to and fro with all our urgent ferret business, only to collapse in December like, “Yes, our ferret work here is done,” and then, immediately decide January is the perfect time to start sprinting again? (Side note: I am fully bracing myself for the onslaught of “Hard to believe, but it’s time to make summer plans for your kids!” emails by January 10th. No. Stop it. Please. Let us wallow in this current hellscape for five seconds before dragging us into the next hellscape — this time flavored with the bitter tang of FOMO over missing All the Important Things.)

Back to the books. There’s a clear thread of humanity in all its messy, ridiculous, and poignant glory.

Some of these were slippery. Some wild. Some both.

Which is all just to say these are the books that I (mostly) enjoyed enough to finish in the last month:

Glen Rock Book of the Dead by Marion Winik 

Marion Winik’s The Glen Rock Book of the Dead is approximately 50 brief, jewel-like portraits memorializing (if not nearly resurrecting)individuals who have touched her life. Inspired by the Mexican Day of the Dead traditions, where mourning and celebration dance together, Winik writes about people she’s known intimately and fleetingly. She flays open lives in just a handful of paragraphs, with warmth, precision, and dazzling compassion.

And oh, holy hell. Sometimes your new favorite book waits quietly, unremarkable in a groaning TBR pile. What a delight this book is. You will feel things you are unprepared to feel about the lives of people you don’t know and whose names you may never find out. Winik doesn’t so much write as she casts spells, allowing entire lives to unfold in under two pages. Each life is “introduced” in vibrant entrances, and their passing takes a back seat to their living. Each subject arriving fully realized, their deaths present but secondary to their lives. Winik seems more interested in how they lived and how our lives imprint on one another.

There is warmth here, and ferocity. There is compassion, too, and an unwavering sense of curiosity. What does it mean to remember someone? What does it mean to be remembered? These are the questions Winik circles, never directly, but with every story she tells.

It confronts pain and disappointment, isolation and failure, but it also finds joy, community, and the unyielding mystery of what it all means. The reader is left wondering what their own two-page version would look like. Disappointment? Pain? Trying to shield myself and my kids from it all, succeeding in some places, failing in others? That’s part of the story. But Winik reminds us that we get to write our own. And that pain? That joy? It’s real. It’s messy. It’s what makes life worth remembering. And it leaves you hoping, above all, that when your story is told, someone notices. Someone remembers. Because, damn it, you mattered. All of you. Your pain and your triumph.

These aren’t obituaries — they’re titrated snapshots of life, love, and the lingering weight of loss. is uplifting even as it wounds, surprising in its candor and its grace.

May we all be remembered like this.

This one is a stunner and you can expect to see it on my “Favorite Reads of 2024.”

Normal Rules Don’t Apply: Stories by Kate Atkinson 

Kate Atkinson’s Normal Rules Don’t Apply is a collection of linked short stories that’s equal parts literary magic trick and narrative haymaker. Atkinson throws you in — no hand-holding, no explanations. Just the weird, the wonderful, the unsettling. The result? A threaded, clanging tumble through lives and timelines.

This isn’t your run-of-the-mill short story collection. It’s a mind-bending, genre-hopping grab bag of what just happened?

This book is cheeky. Boisterous. It’s dark humor wrapped in a velvet glove, then slapped across your face for good measure. Atkinson sets you up with a grin, plays nice for a few pages, and then yanks the rug out from under you. And you’ll thank her for it, because it all tracks. It shouldn’t work, but it does. More than once as a story ended with a brilliant twist, my response was, “Clever girl. Of course.”

The rules of this universe are deliberately opaque. Atkinson leaves you to sort through the fragments, to make sense of the silences between what is said. It’s in those silences that her true mastery lies. She gives you just enough to see the edges of the abyss and then leaves you trembling on the brink.

The collection is quite the cocktail: a shot of Twilight Zone, a splash of Black Mirror, and just enough Grimms’ Fairy Tales to make you wonder what’s lurking in the woods. The rules of this universe are blurry, and that’s the point. And, you know, the title. Atkinson creates the illusion of coherence while actively undermining it.

You don’t settle into this book. You hover above it, guarded, watching through your fingers as the characters stumble into doom, misfortune, and the occasional epiphany. These are stories about endings large and small about how the world tilts on an axis so thin it’s a wonder we haven’t all already fallen off. The characters are magnets for misfortune, yet you are drawn to them, even if only to glimpse their ruin. You feel for them, in the way one might feel for a figure in a painting, separated by time and the inability to intervene.

Not every story is a slam dunk. Some are bumpy, but Atkinson’s gift for words, dialogue, world-building, and her ability to twist your brain into a Möbius strip more than make up for it. Her wordcraft is elegant, ruthless, and a lot of fun.

Standout stories for me included “The Void,” “Spellbound,” and “Classic Quest 17 — Crime and Punishment.”

Normal Rules Don’t Apply is fun. It’s spooky. It’s grim. It’s a Rube Goldberg machine of all sorts of end times — global, personal, and everything in between. And when you’re done, you’ll sit there, wide-eyed, and maybe a little haunted.

Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed 

Cheryl Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things isn’t your average advice book — it’s a mixtape of truths wrapped in gorgeous prose and raw humanity. It’s a book of dualities: brutal yet tender, despairing yet hopeful, profound yet breezy. This isn’t sugarcoated “life gets better” nonsense. No, this is Strayed, as “Dear Sugar,” rolling up her sleeves, grabbing your heart with both hands, and saying, Look. This is it. This is life. It’s messy. It’s painful. It’s achingly, stupidly beautiful.

The letters are raw, the writers, asking the questions many of us are too scared to admit we have: Am I enough? Does this pain ever stop? Do I matter? Why am I so lonely? Why does life suck so hard? How do I make it through another Tuesday? These writers are raw, stripped down to their essence, but they are also filled with the absurdity of being human. And Strayed is right there, tossing out lifelines. Not fluffy ones. Not Hallmark-card platitudes. Real, gut-wrenching ropes woven from her own heartbreaks, mistakes, and triumphs. She doesn’t shy away from the mess; she dives right in and invites us to do the same. The water may not always be warm, but you’ll adjust. As Strayed replies with wisdom and candor, there is, when appropriate, a certain lightness. She is sharp, sometimes blunt, but never unkind.

“Vespers” is a stunner — a piece that makes you sit there, slack-jawed, wondering how someone can take pain and turn it into something sacred.

This book isn’t a balm; it’s a salve that stings before it heals. It picks at the scabs of life and gets to the tender, raw human stuff underneath. It’s so much about fixing your problems as it is about reminding you that you’re not alone in the mess. That we’re all just stumbling around, wanting the same damn things: joy, connection, purpose. And, yes, you can probably fix what needs fixing, if you’re brave. You can probably get through this particular heartache if you’re brave. And you’re going to be brave because you are not alone in this.

Tiny Beautiful Things is a reminder to stay human. To stay messy. To stay hopeful, even when it feels impossible. It’s also a reminder that there are good, decent, people in this world who are here for you and me, and we for them.

Cheryl Strayed doesn’t just give advice — she lights a fire in your chest and dares you to hold onto the warmth. You get a lifeline! You get a lifeline! Everybody’s feelings get saved — or at least acknowledged — and isn’t that half the battle?

Tiny Beautiful Things is here to break your heart, stitch it back together, and then maybe poke at it a little for good measure. It’s a book that’ll make you want to hug a stranger, laugh at your own bad decisions, and send a text to that one friend who always puts up with your nonsense. It’s brutally honest, occasionally breezy, and profoundly human. Read it, feel all the things, and maybe grab a box of tissues. You’re gonna need ’em. Chin up, friend. We’re here for each other.

The Misanthrope by Moliere

For a script written in the seventeenth century, The Misanthrope by Molière has a strikingly contemporary feel. The sharp dialogue, biting wit, and complex interplay of ideals versus social niceties could easily be transplanted to a modern setting without losing its punch. Molière’s critique of societal hypocrisy still hits hard.

This wasn’t a game-changer for me, but it’s a classic I’ve wanted to check off my list, and I’m glad I did. There’s something refreshing about reading a script, where the dialogue and characters carry the story’s full weight. Alceste, the titular misanthrope with unyielding moralism, is both frustrating and fascinating, a man who despises the very world he’s hopelessly entangled in. His dynamic with Célimène, his perfect foil, creates a tension that still feels fresh. Her flirtations and charm contrast his severity and bluntness, and their relationship becomes the beating heart of the play. She is everything he claims to despise, yet he cannot look away.

Alceste’s disdain for pretense and societal hypocrisy feels less like a relic of 1666 and more like the bitter grumblings of someone scrolling through social media today. And yet, his rigid moralism isolates him, a reminder that the pursuit of ideals often comes at a cost. The play’s ending, where Alceste stubbornly clings to his principles, has sparked plenty of debate. Is it a comedic jab at the absurdity of rigid moralism or a quiet tragedy about isolation? Molière pokes fun at Alceste’s earnestness while acknowledging that society, in all its artifice, is hardly blameless. It’s not neat, not tidy, but just ironic enough to make you think. Alceste stomps off to be alone with his ideals, proving once and for all that being “right” doesn’t necessarily make you happy. It’s funny, frustrating, and real in a way that feels timeless. Classic Molière.

Look, it’s not going to knock “hanging out at Chuck E. Cheese for my twins’ 5th birthday” out of my top life experiences or anything, but I’m glad I read it. It’s clever, and its critique of human nonsense is as relevant now as it was when Molière wrote it. If you like your classics with a side of sarcasm and existential dread, give this one a shot. Plus, reading a script makes you feel fancy. Like you’re one latte away from writing your own play. And isn’t that lovely?

Arsenic and Old Lace by Joseph Kesselring 

Arsenic and Old Lace is a dark comedy that takes sweet old lady energy and spikes it with cyanide. Mortimer Brewster, your average theater critic, discovers his adorable aunts have been murdering lonely old men and burying them in the basement. One brother thinks he’s Teddy Roosevelt; the other is Creature Feature of the Month having a bad day. The whole thing is bedlam.

I read the play, having heard my whole life that it was a real treat. I didn’t not get it, but I also didn’t get it-get it. So I watched the film — it’s not entirely faithful, but close enough. Same reaction. It’s not for me.

I don’t usually review things I don’t like, or even finish them, but I finished this, so I’m marking it here.

Millions of people love the play and the film, and I leave it to them with warm wishes that it continues to bring joy for years to come (and with sincere hopes that the name “Mortimer” makes a comeback.)

Next week I’ll post my favorite reads from 2024. I’ve got my eye on a lot for 2025. I went through the NYT list of the top 100 books from the year and it made a nice little graphic of things that caught my eye. The local librarians are going to get very sick of me soon.

Were you able to read much this last month? Anything good?

On Monsters — October 2024 Month In Review

· Leave a comment ·

Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this one before

In lieu of my regular month-in-review post, I’m resharing something I wrote in May of 2023. Monsters are on our minds these days. November shall be reviewed in my usual nonsense way.

In the heart of the Muppetverse, amidst a tapestry of vibrant characters and whimsical narratives, stands a beacon of childlike wonder and boundless optimism, a giant whose iconic blue exterior conceals a tale of profound transformation and existential introspection. Few in Hollywood have the talent and range to achieve a level of stardom where one name suffices:

Streep.

Pacino.

Grover.

And he’s cute, too.

We meet at a trendy bistro in Williamsburg, eager to delve into his illustrious career that spans from humble beginnings in local theater to soaring exploits as a beloved superhero. Grover’s polymath talents have propelled him into the ranks of America’s elite artists. However, the journey from his nurturing roots at PBS to the esteemed shores of HBO was far from effortless, strewn with challenges that made success anything but elementary.

As we settle in for an intimate conversation, I ask about the delicate balance between the broad humor of Sesame Street and his infamously meticulous approach to zaniness. Sipping his cucumber lime spritzer, Grover ponders the question. “It is always a quest to find the heart beneath the punchlines,“ Grover shares, an unexpected surge of static electricity passing between us when his hand brushes against mine. “Every joke I tell, every lamppost I fly into, I strive to capture a truth, a moment of connection that transcends the silliness and connects with the human condition.”

It is evident before we finish our burrata and heirloom tomato salads that, while Grover’s on-screen persona is a bundle of joy, his off-screen persona can be enigmatic. Grover’s career isn’t just a litany of roles; it’s a manifold reflection of his ability to become and play

I steer the conversation to Method Acting. “I believe in authenticity,” Grover says. “Whether I am donning the cape of Super Grover or showing viewers the exquisite agony of working as a waiter to a fussy customer, I strive to bring truth to every character. It is all about connecting with the audience, being loud and soft. Do you know the difference?” Before I answer, he cries. “LOUD!” It is transcendent, a performance matching the ethereal mastery of Tilda Swinton’s shape-shifting in “Orlando.”

Indeed, from taxi driver to flight attendant, Grover’s preparation is exhaustive. “I do the research,” he says, his head gently tilting from side to side — one of his charming idiosyncrasies. “I have driven the cab. I have worked in restaurants, and I have sold ears door-to-door. If I want the audience to believe it, I have to live it.” Grover believes that his career isn’t just a list of roles; it’s a chronicle of his metamorphoses.

But this transformational zeal, while laudable, is the stuff of gossip on set. Some costars find his relentless process admirable, others roll their googly eyes when he refuses to break character and wears his Super Grover cape around all day.

Gentle giant Big Bird groused, “Grover is… intense. Sometimes, too intense.”

Pathological hoarder Oscar the Grouch shared, “Grover always had this existential itch, questioning the very fabric of his felted existence. It made for some interesting trash can conversations. Now scram!”

Pigeon fanatic and confirmed bachelor Bert added, “Grover spent an entire week engrossed in the study of prepositions for ‘Over, Under, Around, and Through.‘ It’s a level of commitment to something really tedious that I respect.”

Then there were those rumors of a rift between Grover and Count von Count, suggesting that their divergent approaches to performance caused tension backstage. Lines were drawn as Muppets aligned themselves with either the chaotic charm of Grover or the methodical precision of the Count. Both Grover and the Count deny this (“No! No! No! That’s three nos!”) although they acknowledge there were heated discussions. Grover explains, “That is about the work, man. It is not personal. It is like the Dadaist feud between Marcel Duchamp and Francis Picabia. Ultimately, it is the children who benefit.”

As we discussed his background, it is clear he grapples with profound questions about the role of some unseen hand in shaping his identity. Over plates of Wagyu beef carpaccio, Grover regales me with tales of his early aspirations as an actor. “I attended the School of Muppet Dramatic Arts, a place where the alphabet was recited in iambic pentameter. I sipped from the chalice of the greats there.“ For his senior performance, Grover presented an original piece entitled “BLUE GOD,” showcasing his groundbreaking jazz kazoo skills.

That early work paid off. Grover’s Monsterpiece Theater performances have been lauded for their depth and breadth. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him tackle a Shakespearean monologue, unblinking and unconcerned with emotional regulation.

Yet, as the shadows of middle age crept up, a yearning restlessness tugged. “I hit rock bottom in Season 19. I was unable to connect with the show or the characters. Maria and Luis got married. Elmo’s World took off. And where was I? Where was I going?” Grover struggled with a well-publicized problem with huffing fabric glue but traveled the world, got clean, and eventually found renewed purpose in his Global Grover segments.

What’s next? While he has no plans to leave Sesame Street, Grover gazes toward new horizons in brooding glory. “I am open to exploring opportunities to do prestige shows at HBO.” Grover then revealed, “I auditioned for the role of Roman on Succession. The control issues, the exploration of exotic fetishes — it would have been a good fit. I know what it is like to feel you are someone’s puppet. Like you are a version of yourself waiting to happen, but your story has not been written yet.“ He paused, allowing the profoundness of his words to sink in. “The Monster at the End of the Book? It is me. It is all of us.”

Whatever You Call It — September 2024

· 1 Comment ·

A Word Before My Shenanigans: While September brought its share of inconveniences for me, it brought devastation to entire communities. Both the community of Springfield, Ohio and those affected by Hurricane Helene faced unimaginable struggles. If you can support your fellow humans in need, I’ll list some places to donate in the comment section.

First, a formal apology for the excessive cuteness about to unfold. I know we’re all pulling ourselves out of the Septempurgatory like it was some sort of bar brawl. Honestly, I’m still finding to-do list shrapnel in my hair.

Septemperament feels like an identity crisis. It’s lumped into fall, and yet we’re standing here, sweating through our half-baked autumn dreams, waiting for the air to chill and pretending we’re not as swampy as an armpit. We can’t settle into the fiscal-year groove until October, yet Halloween candy is already out. Sure, maybe a sugar high is the only thing fending off the looming Septemburnout, but is it also contributing to our sweating? MAYBE. But fun-sized candy does help pass the time during the month’s IMPORTANT AND URGENT MEETINGS. Miss one of those and you activate Septemergency mode.

For a solid 75% of the month, my household was a Septempetri dish. The whole family was sick, overlap-style. And then it was me. Fortunately, just bad head colds, no Septemblarping.

There were new school year events, new responsibilities, and new car troubles, by which I mean Septempanic-inducing check engine lights popping on. Then off. Then on again. We even went to an event that required thematic costumes. My costume highlighted the bags under my eyes. I should have gone as a nice set of Samsonite luggage, possibly with a charming primate ready to toss me around to test my durability.

Emails started rolling in with all those “easy” one-pot meal recipes like it’s cuffing season for dinner plans. The Septemptation is real, though. If I could just toss all my responsibilities into a one-and-done situation — meals, laundry, driving, that would be the Septembest thing ever.

We watched the latest Ghostbusters film. I won’t go so far as to say it was Septerrible, but I didn’t look up from my book once, and I’m a big Paul Rudd fan.

Which is all to say, Septembrawl was a slap-fight with the calendar, the clock, and most of humanity. At any moment, it felt like I’d trip a wire and set off a Septimebomb if I didn’t run faster, farther, or with more finesse.

(That is all metaphorical. I don’t run.)

The busyness swallowed the month, and I haven’t even started on my Reedsy work, which doesn’t feel great. Once this newsletter is out in the ether (hello, Ether-friend!), that’s the next tab I’ll be clicking. Unless, of course, some turn-of-the-century cough starts going around the house again, because obviously.

Anyway, Septemblur has been brought to you (and me) by ibuprofen and my trusty day planner, which I now hope to fill in with ink rather than pencil.

And with that, we Septumble into glorious October — not a moment too soon.

Here are some splashes of marvelous from August, 2024

I got to attend this Printer’s Row Lit Fest and chat with the most marvelous Deborah L. King (whose books you really just have to read. I won’t argue with you about this). Learn more about her work here.

Have a poetry-hug.

We had milkshakes at Homer’s Ice Cream one night just because. And on another night, we went to Steak ‘n Shake. These are not the same, but each is satisfying in different ways.

Aaaand I’m realizing this blog is mostly an ice cream fandom account.

Apparently, referring to chores as “side quests” is a thing now. (See here and here.) I tried it. I still don’t do chores, but now I’ve got the added stress of imperiling entire worlds because I haven’t tackled the stuck-on gunk in the refrigerator crisper drawer.

Thoughts on creativity and friendship.

I love a good electric blanket, especially because I like to sleep with the windows open. Do not talk to me about how logical that is.

Do you love washi tape? You should, if you like fun and tape and loving fun and tape.

Cereal was something I tired of in college (after eating it three times a day for most of my freshman year), but boy, these are fun.

Ravelry is always a joy, prompting me to curl up on the couch — if only to scroll, if not to create. Do you knit or crochet?

This is all kinds of brilliant. Like, on a Frankenberry level, but for writing.

That’s it for now. May your cookies be dunkworthy and your milk cold and well-tolerated.