the end.

First: This is a spoiler alert. I am going to talk about the final two chapters of The Commitment, and how those final chapters ruined my opinion of the book.

I can't fully explain it -- the end is, literally, supposed to be the happy ending. Well, sort of, if you can ignore the fact Savage and his partner are married in Canada and not married as soon as the cross the border back home to Seattle.

But that's not what got me.

I got.... bored.

Tired of the Savage-Miller-Pierce family.

I got sick of Savage's back-and-forth, will-we-won't-we debate on whether he, personally, wished to get married.

And I started to feel just a little bad for his boyfriend and son, whose lives are also collected in this story. (Although I have to imagine successful relationships are built on sharing the manuscript before it goes to print.)

Look, none of these complaints should be taken as recommendations you shouldn't read this book. This book is great. Savage is a great writer. I really want to read more of his work. And I can't help but agree with Ira Glass's (unrealistic) review on the back: "I think America would be a better place if everyone on every side of the gay marriage debate would read this book."

I think I might take minor issue with the memoir as a genre -- and yes, I realize this directly contradicts my "I want to read more Savage lit" comment.

But hear me out: Real lives don't have happy endings. (Yes, this is a concept I struggle with constantly, as I try to wrap everything in my life up in neat little envelopes.) There is no natural stop-point in a personal narrative. No final story that says, "This is the end of that chapter of my life."

Yet the personal memoir, the autobiographical tale, expects just that. Conclusion. Happily-ever-after. The end.

Hrmph.

Meanwhile, I'm going to be away for a few days. I realize this is nothing new these days, but I have -- believe it or not -- been making an effort to get back into personal blogging.

So, during my off time, I offer a few readings....

Prepare for November -- and the challenge of writing your own novel.

Diablo Cody is going to Sweet Valley. Or rendering Sweet Valley on film. Or ruining Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield. Depending on who you ask.

Nick Hornby has a new book! Woot!

suck it, snow

Ok, friends.

Brace yourself for a Dan Savage factoid.

Yes, the Dan Savage of the hilarious, scary, frank, sometimes ew-inducing Savage Love column. The one you know and love and maybe shouldn't read when you're at work.

Ok, ready for the factoid?

His book, The Commitment, is super mellow. In this really great, memoir-ish way.

Yes, a book all about negotiating the politics of marriage and raising a kid would be seriously weird if it were scary or ew-inducing or heavy on the sex talk. I realize that. I'm still a titch surprised.

And I can't put it down -- it makes me laugh, it's, well, super great, and it is still edgy.

For example, on his relationship with the family dog: "Oh, I may get jealous sometimes. Terry drags Stinker around on a leash, takes him to obedience classes, and sometimes makes him wear a collar that administers a little shock whenever he barks. Terry's never done any of those things for me." (p. 8.)

Or, on how he and his partner incidentally slip into the roles one might expect of an old-school heterosexual couple: "We lead a far more traditional lifestyle than a certain unmarried, childless, withered, aging right-wing attack hag that I could name if I weren't so damn polite. (Oh, fuck it: Ann Coulter.)" (p. 23)

Clearly this is a book written by the charming Dan Savage you've heard, too, on This American Life.

By the way, if you're looking for a quick hit of Thank-God-that-day-is-over-let's-watch-something-that-will-make-me-laugh, look no further:

gobble gobble

On "carving foul:"
"If the bird is to be carved at table, be sure the
heated serving platter is large enough, and garnish it lightly with parsley or watercress. There is a subtle art to carving...."
-- p. 421 of Joy of Cooking, 1975
edition



My mother's copy of Joy of Cooking is an utter mystery to me; I have a difficult time picturing an earlier version of my mother who doesn't know how to cook. I can't imagine this mom flipping pages and flirting with the idea of making "sour cream apple cake souffle cockaigne" or "fresh cod a la Portugaise."



In my world, my mother already knows her ingredients. And they definitely do not include squirrel: "Gray squirrels are the preferred ones; red squirrels are small and quite gamy in flavor.... Stuff and roast squirrels as for pigeons...." (p. 515)



How fascinatingly preposterous, right?



So yes, I am spending part of my Thanksgiving weekend flipping through very old cookbooks. And wondering if I could ever style myself after Julie Powell. (Answer: No. It's been done, a movie's been made, the jig is up. Plus I don't have a husband to feed and one woman cannot ingest the amount of butter Joy of Cooking circa 1975 suggests.)



I am also spending much time contemplating the past, and wondering about the future. Blame Audrey Niffenegger, perhaps, and the fact that my second reading of The Time Traveler's Wife ended with me sobbing at 3 a.m. (Poor Clare! Always, always waiting for Henry! What is Niffenegger trying to say? That even in love, we are alone? Always?)



In the meantime, my unabashed begging for pointers to books that won't make me cry did not go unanswered -- if you flip to this blog's previous post, you'll find thoughtful suggestions from both TSS and Erin (my unofficial co-bloggers/generally awesome Edmontonians). However, before they weighed in, I made a therapeutic shopping trip to a local bookstore. And decided it was time to get to know Dan Savage a little better.





So, I've got The Commitment on my nightstand, waiting for me to finish The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews.


Yes, I realize neither of these books are guaranteed to make me laugh. Neither are as vapid as Fame (which I enjoyed, because there's lots of singing and dancing and very little character development or plot).


No matter how well written, Savage's book ties in with the ongoing battle in the United States to legalize gay marriage. And so by definition can't really be a laugh riot. And The F'ing Troutmans (as the title reads on the outside of the hardcover copy) begins with a psychotic mother left all but comatose by her illness. Her sister, the main character, is left with the shambles of piecing together family life. Parts are freaking hilarious because Toews understands children so well and puts them on the page in this utterly believable, uniquely beautiful way. But there's a sad, longing undertone to the whole thing.


Yikes.


I worry I just can't stop being serious.


Ok, folks -- back to the books, and other weekend adventures. Happy Canadian (and therefore awesome and understated) Thanksgiving.