Here is the master list for the sixteenth tour of the Barren Bitches Book Brigade. What is the Barren Bitches Book Brigade? It’s a book club from the comfort of your own living room. The book club is conducted entirely online and open to anyone (male or female) in the infertility/pregnancy loss/assisted conception/adoption/parenting-after-infertility world (as well as any other related category I inadvertently left off the list). It is called a book tour because everyone reads the same book and then poses a question to the group. Participants choose a few questions to answer and then post their response on their blog. Readers can jump from blog to blog, commenting along the way. We read both fiction and non-fiction.

Anyone can jump aboard–it’s a book club where you can drop in and out as you wish and all in the community are welcome.

Book: An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
Author: Elizabeth McCracken
Start Date: December 4
Question Due: January 14
Question List Sent Out: January 16
Post Dates: January 20
(need an explanation of how a book tour works? Click here to go to a list of posts on the past book tours as well as information about future tours.)
Something New: the participants on this tour will vote for the next book we read.

About An Exact Replica…: From Bookmarks:

In Elizabeth McCracken’s heartrending memoir—a love letter to the child she lost and the devoted husband who suffered alongside her—McCracken displays her many talents. Her warmth, candor, crystalline prose, lovely imagery, and attention to detail bring her painful story to life. McCracken’s dark sense of humor ensnares unwitting readers, belying the sadness with which she writes, and she shows very little patience for self-pity and sentimentality. Critics praised her clear-eyed account in a genre replete with syrupy, self-aggrandizing books, though some expressed doubts that its subject matter would have wide appeal. “I’m not ready for my first child to fade into history,” explains McCracken. With this heartbreaking account of his life, there’s little chance of that.

The author was recently interviewed by Tash at Glow in the Woods.

Barren Bitches Book Brigade List (The blogs below are participating on this current book tour. On January 20th, you’ll be able to jump from post to post to read a plethora of opinions and thoughts on An Exact Replica... I will keep adding to this list until 11 p.m. on January 14. The list is currently open)

Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters
The Fertile Infertile
The Road Less Travelled
Slaying, Blogging, Whatever…
I’m a Smart One
I Won’t Fear Love
An Unwanted Path
Awful But Functioning
So It Goes
Aurelia Ann
TandCookies
Raspberry Chip
Destined to be an Old Woman with No Regrets
Clio
Once
Baby Smiling in Back Seat
Life From Here
Life and Love in the Petri Dish
A Little Sweetness
Northern Grin
Excavator

Not on the list and want to join? Drop me an email at thetowncriers@gmail.com. You can add yourself up until 11 p.m. on January 14.

How the book tour works:

(1) leave a comment or send me an email (thetowncriers@gmail.com) saying that you’re interested in participating. I need your blog name, blog url, and email address.

(2) read An Exact Replica… by January 14 (or at least enough of it in order to ask a question to the group).

(3) create a single question that would kick off a discussion (in other words, any question that leads to more than a “yes” or “no” answer where someone can express their opinion) and mail it to me on January 14 (or any time beforehand). I will send you a reminder email close to the date. Click here to see sample questions from tour #4.

(4) on January 16, I will send you a list of possible questions. Everyone will choose 3 questions off the list and answer them in a blog entry.

(5) on January 20, people will begin to post their entry. Each day, I will post a linked list of all the people putting up their entry that day so people can go around and read the entries and comment (start a discussion back and forth in the comments section). Reading the entries and commenting on the posts is the best part of the tour–by the end of the week, you should have a comment from every participant (and maybe even a few new permanent blog readers).

This is the twentieth installment of Barren Advice. You can ask questions that are fertility or non-fertility related.

Barren Advice is posted each Tuesday-ish. If you have your own question for Barren Advice, click here to learn how to submit. Please weigh in with your own thoughts in the comment section and indicate which question you’re addressing if there are multiple questions in the post.

Dear Mel:

How do you two stay connected amid parenting?

–Anonymous

Lots of sex.

There’s also this other thing we do that anyone can try regardless of how much their ass is dragging at the end of the day or how covered they are in spit-up or how unsexual they are feeling after an afternoon of parent-teacher conferences about behaviour.

Live like the Amish.

I don’t mean turn off the computer or television or strike up the kerosene lamps. What we’ve done is borrow the impulse that drives Amish philosophy. The Amish are against technology that splinters populations. Without cars, a family can’t move far apart from one another and not see each other. Ipods and cell phones keep someone from striking up a conversation with you. Electric lights and central heating mean that people can split up into different rooms in the house.

The point is to keep people physically together and leave lines of communication open in case conversation occurs. Therefore, from the time Josh comes home until we go to bed, we’re usually (with few exceptions) in the same room of the house. We’re not necessarily doing the exact same thing, but the option is always there to chat back and forth. We’ll read together on the sofa or watch a movie together. Sometimes I’ll be on the computer and he’ll be reading a book or I’ll be writing letters and he’ll be watching television.

The point is not to move together like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but to be physically close so that anything can happen. Including that sex I mentioned in the first place.

No really, the beauty of a blog advice column is that you get to weigh in with your two cents too. Let the questioner know if you support the advice, add to the response, or dispute it completely.

Leave a comment in the reaction box below–only keep in mind that conflicting advice is embraced and rudeness is not. Want to ask your own question? Click here to see what you need to send in order to be included in a future Tuesday’s installment of Barren Advice.

children mentioned and viewed…

I have an on-going, smoldering love affair with West Virginia. If I could, I would make sweet love to the land, but barring that, I decided early in life that I would never marry a man who didn’t share in my love of the Mennen’s Toilet Powder sign and I stuck hard and fast to that rule. Josh didn’t get to home base until he had passed the Harper’s Ferry Test.

When Manda announced she was starting a site called “Finding West Virginia,” I immediately begged her to take me along when they hit Berkeley Springs or Harper’s Ferry. Which led to me turning to Josh at 11 o’clock on a Friday night after Thanksgiving and saying, “let’s go to Shepherdstown tomorrow.”

“Like, tomorrow tomorrow?” he asked.

“For a Christmas festival,” I answered, glancing between the town’s website on the computer screen and Josh’s incredulous face.

“But we’re Jewish,” he reminded me.

“No one will know.”

Back in college, we had a term called “self-contained unit” that we used to discuss how little we were carrying–and carrying applied to anything that would leave our body at any point during the evening including our coat. The ultimate self-contained unit would be someone who only carried what could fit in pockets and wore a sweatshirt that could be removed and tied around the waist inside an overheated-in-winter Wisconsin building.

In order to become the ultimate self-contained unit, you needed to invest in a pair of old school long underwear. This would be worn underneath the outfit, ensuring that any good bra was quickly turned into a uni-boob. A breast shelf. Over that went a thin shirt–maybe even a t-shirt if it was still the 90s–and then a sweatshirt that could be removed. No one owned cell phones or iPods in college therefore, pockets contained keys, a credit card, some money, and a Chapstick. Voila–the self-contained unit.

Why did I need to be a self-contained unit for this trip? I don’t know. I mean, the point in college is that you didn’t need to deal with taking care of a coat at a party (or have someone have sex on top of it if you slung it over a bed). I didn’t really have a point for being coat-less this trip but I proudly strutted down the stairs in my finery–a March of Dimes sweatshirt and jeans with furry boots to ensure maximum leg warmth.

“Check this out,” I breathed at Josh.

“I think you’re probably going to be too hot,” he warned.

And twenty minutes later, as I sat in the living room, eating a meal of plastic food the ChickieNob prepared for me while we waited for Josh to get ready, I had to agree. I curled up on the floor, trying not to dampen the carpet with my sweaty forehead.

“This is like Dead Sea hot,” I panted.

“What is dead?” the ChickieNob asked.

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! I wasn’t prepared! I wasn’t prepared. I corrected myself. “This is Red Sea hot. Like Eilat in July.”

We piled in the car and I reasoned with the Wolvog that it was impossible to drive to West Virginia listening to Paul Simon who has been living in my CD player on continual play for about three months now. “Paul is fine for driving around here or going up I-95. But when you go west, you need John Denver.”

“I don’t know John Denver,” he told me.

“I’ll tell you all my favourite songs when they come on. You’re going to love him,” I promised.

“You’re not going to love him,” Josh corrected. “I don’t love him. She told me that I would love him and it still hasn’t happened.”

Except who was that in the driver seat, singing along to “Thank G-d I’m a Country Boy?”

I thought so.

We pulled into Harper’s Ferry first because I have been telling the twins the story of the Mennen’s Toilet Powder sign for four straight years. The story goes (as the man from River and Trail Outfitters told me) was that Mennen paid a native American man some time between 1903 and 1906 to free-climb the rock face and paint a sign that said: “Mennen’s Borated Talcum Toilet Powder” with his homemade paint. No one knows what he put in the paint but once they declared the area a National Park, they tried using a plethora of methods to remove the advertisement (which is also billed as the first billboard in America) including sandblasting and it is still there to this day.

Walking through Harper’s Ferry

Mennen’s Borated Talcum Toilet Powder up close and personal

The remains of the old bridge in the space where the Potomac meets the Shenandoah

This was the twins first time in Harper’s Ferry and we did the grand tour. We printed out worksheets from the website and went on a scavenger hunt through the town. We went into the dry goods store and bakery (which strangely enough, turned out to be public bathroom). We went over the foot bridge in order to get a better look at the Mennen’s Toilet Powder advertisement.

Walking on the foot bridge. Can you see the sign on the rocks above?

We walked up the hill to the church that the ChickieNob dubbed “Sweet Little Church” and had a picnic on the stone plaza. The railing overlooking the town below was festooned with pine and ribbons. We didn’t get to go inside because the church was closed so they missed out on the eight-foot-tall wax Jesus covered in 39 lashes. We also didn’t continue up the hill to the cemetery even though I wanted to revisit the site where Josh once dropped trouser next to a headstone for Mr. Butts (okay, raise your hand if you have the same photograph). You know, the whole “avoiding the topic” thing.

This church is one of my favourite places in the whole world. It is so quiet inside and it has this distinct, musty smell and dim lights that makes your whole body go quiet.

This is the space I always thought about when we spoke about bringing the twins here. I didn’t want to bring them until they were old enough to remember their first trip.

It was this sort of picnic–a pile on each other and rest and enjoy the view sort of picnic

The Mennen’s Toilet Powder sign from afar

Watching a train get swallowed by the mountain

After lunch, we walked through the town and discovered how sparkle lights are powered (a pressing question that had been bothering the Wolvog for quite some time). We also stopped in Aunt Irene’s and bought a pack of m&ms and fudge. Which is where we ended up with Little Stevie.

My brother once bought the ChickieNob a stuffed guinea pig that she promptly named Stevie after my brother’s roommate at the time who we called Uncle Steve. Stevie is well-known throughout Maryland due to his familiar cry of “goodie!” which he makes–apparently–before he poops on you. Everyone who has visited my house has met Stevie and has been pooped on and my mother often enjoys me calling her at odd hours and beginning the conversation with a “goodie!” Even Mr. Badger uses it to lighten the mood over at Chez Lindsay. It does feel good to say. Goodie!

I’ll give you a moment to wipe off the imaginary poop.

The Wolvog fell in love with a miniature version of Stevie that was being sold at the candy store and he gave up his own treat in order to bring home the stuffed animal that he named Little Stevie. Little Stevie came with a convenient clip which enabled the Wolvog to attach him to his coat zipper (yes, he was wearing a coat because he was not a self-contained unit) and hold him out from his chest at passersby to scream at them, “goodie! Poop, poop, poop.”

Once that occurred, it was time to hit the road again.

We got back in the car which we had left by the train station. This train station holds a special place in my heart because we had a rule in summer camp that you were not allowed to call home. Ever. The whole summer (which was probably only four weeks, but still. I was a very sensitive child in case you couldn’t guess).

Harper’s Ferry train station

On a trip to Harper’s Ferry, we left the group and ran down to the train station to use the pay phone. We called our respective houses and begged for candy. My mother seemingly came through a few days later. There was a rule at our camp that no outside food could enter because it was a kosher camp, therefore, all packages were opened and checked. A friend was in the office and saw the unopened box and snuck it out to our cabin. We hid it at the bottom of my sleeping bag and waited all day to open it. Once our counselor was gone, we slid off the wrapping to reveal a salt-water taffy box from Candy Kitchen. We literally couldn’t peel off the tape fast enough. Inside was a hand-held fan. And a note. Something about keeping cool.

That’s how I became the most unpopular girl in the cabin in under three minutes. The other reason was the time I accidentally pulled the sink out of the wall and the cabin flooded.

So we collected our car at said train station and continued on to Shepherdstown and the Christmas festival. We have an uneven love of Christmas in our house. I mean, yes, we’re both observant Jews who keep kosher and speak Hebrish with the kids. But I’m also a closeted Christmas lover. I like candy canes. I like sparkle lights. And I looooooooove Christmas music.

A make-sweet-love-to-Christmas-music type relationship.

So I mumbled my way through the description of the carolers and the sparkle lights and the Christmas show and told Josh that there was going to be Klezmer band–a Klezmer band!–at the war memorial hall that day. He agreed to go in support of the three Jews who live in West Virginia and said we could stay for the rest of the Christmas program including the roasted chestnuts.

And then we fell in love with Shepherdstown. We had never been there even though it’s only ten miles from Harper’s Ferry and you already know how I feel about that saucy wench. It is so cute and little and happy and sweet. Sweet. It is literally the sweetest town in the world with restaurants perfectly tailored to our tastes including the Three Onions Lounge, Kazu Thai and Japanese restaurant, and the Stone Soup Bistro (seriously, could there ever be a more perfect restaurant for me in the world?).

There are book stores and coffee shops. There is a little tea shop where I got a cup of English Breakfast for the road.

Art from the tea shop

Shaharazades tea shop

Everything we came for didn’t materialize–no carolers, no chestnuts, and the Klezmer band wasn’t a great fit. But we fell in love with this elderly man who did a magic trick for the ChickieNob while we walked through an art fair. And we tried out the Victorian Christmas toys at a museum, gently caressing the unlit candles decorating the tree. We walked on the stone walls and checked out the tiny creek that ran near the college–because it was that sort of town–the kind where you find these small wonders where you least expect them.

The creek by the college

We got back in the car at the end of the night so happy. Except Little Stevie.

“Goodge goodge goodge,” the Wolvog moaned from the backseat.

“What does that mean?” we asked him.

“It’s not me, it’s Stevie. It’s Little Stevie, I mean. He’s so sad. He doesn’t like your music. He only likes Paul Simon.”

We switched the CD and Paul Simon returned. I missed John Denver. He fits the space–the view from the bridge when you are about to cross the river into Harper’s Ferry and you can see the advertisement on the rock face and the sweet little church peeking out above the trees. I waited four years to bring the twins here–eight if you count the fact that Josh and I started speaking about our children years before they arrived. It was the perfect introduction to West Virginia (fine, fine, second introduction since the ChickieNob took her first steps in another town in the state). And I didn’t leave anything behind since I was a self-contained unit.

The Miner’s Lady, I was once told–again, by someone from River and Trail Outfitters (purveyors of white water rapid outings and West Virginia information)–was the name of a rapid in the Shenandoah River. Was the line referencing the almost Heaven, West Virginian point on the river or was the rapid named after the line in his song? Or was the Miner’s Lady something else entirely? This is what I thought about when the sun set over the river and we made our way home.

Show and Tell is wasted on elementary schoolers. Join several dozen bloggers weekly to show off an item, tell a story, and get the attention of the class. In other words, this is Show and Tell 2.0. Everyone is welcome to join, even if you have never posted before and just found out about Show and Tell for the first time today. So yank out a photo of the worst bridesmaid’s dress you ever wore and tell us the story; show off the homemade soup you cooked last night; or tell us all about the scarf you made for your first knitting project. Details on how to participate are located at the bottom of this post.

Let’s begin.

We have been on a massive lollipop making kick. By the end of the week, we could pop out 17 lollipops in a half hour (including the extensive clean-up ritual). The flavours in this cup are green apple, raspberry, and lime. They are all dye-free hence why it’s hard to tell the flavour based on colour.

Why are we making lollipops? I don’t really know. We are not eating nearly as many lollipops as we are making. We have been giving them away to friends to hang on their Christmas tree. We have been passing them out to pretty much everyone we see. And still, our entire kitchen counter is covered in bags of lollipops.

But they’re quite pretty.

We’re making pomegranate ones this week so be on the lookout for a giveaway quite soon.

Added: Ha–until Lori said it in the comments, I hadn’t thought of that. Hell yeah–Lollipop Goldstein should be making lollipops.

What are you showing today?

Click here or scroll down to the bottom of this post if this is your first time joining along (hint: link to the permalink for the post, not the main url for your blog and use your blog’s name, not your name). The list is open from now until late Tuesday night and a new one is posted every week.

Someone raised an interesting point via email and since we seem to be all over the board in terms of openness about our blogs, I turn the discussion to the topic of lurkers.

We have all of these de-lurking weeks and for me, the point is that they’re fun. I find new people to read because they finally leave a comment on my blog (hint: I always click over when someone comments to see their blog). But I can’t remember ever having someone from the face-to-face world confess to reading on one of those post.

I think there are a multitude of levels of lurking. There are those that I read via Google Reader and if I don’t leave a comment, they logically can’t know that I read. Which makes me a lurker. I have often given the caveat that if you’re on the big blogroll, I read you from time to time even if I don’t comment. How do you think we have such a mix each week with the Roundup? But that does make me a lurker if I never comment on a blog and I read it.

Sometimes I read a blog and can’t think of anything to say. But neither the writer nor the reader know each other so it is an acceptable form of lurking in my book. I try not to do that, but sometimes it happens. I don’t think there is anyone on Google Reader who has never received a comment from me but there are certainly people I read somewhat frequently, but I’ve never left a comment so they have no clue. Sometimes, if I don’t have time to leave comments, I hope that including their news in LFCA stands in place of the recognition given via a comment.

And then there are the people who know you in the face-to-face world–they are not a random online stranger–who read without saying anything. I think it reveals more about their character if they are reading and not letting you know that they are reading (and I am talking about people who continuously check in and not someone who clicked over once and then politely left when they realized you had a play group together). They are the sort who would likely read your diary if you accidentally left it out on the bed and they thought they couldn’t get caught. Am I wrong in this assessment? There is something inherently wrong in reading the thoughts of a person you know and not admitting to it. It crosses a line of trust.

My blog is open to the public, therefore, anyone in the world can read it and find it. And I welcome everyone I know in the face-to-face world to read it. To comment or even send me an email from time to time as my friend does that lets me know she is reading. It puts us on level ground when I know what she knows about me. I can also clarify, enlarge, fill-in-the-blanks. Tell more of the story. Because, we all obviously know that only part of the story is contained on the blog. The rest remains in our heads. We pick and choose what makes it to the screen.

So, to summarize my position,

Stranger not commenting = doesn’t phase me.

Person in my face-to-face world not admitting to reading = creeps me out.

What is your position on this? Especially those who said even their spouse doesn’t know? How would you feel if you discovered he had been reading your blog all along?

Just to clarify…The face-to-face person doesn’t need to mention the blog constantly or the fact that they are reading more than once. I am just distinguishing between the people who I know are reading because they told me (or I have them the url) and the people who read continuously who do not step forward and let me know they found my blog.