Stewart O'Nan is ranked among Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, and Alice McDermott--the major living American realists. O'Nan could be called a hyper realist--his attention to detail is such that you feel you're living through the experiences that he describes. O'Nan opens his celebrated novel, "Last Night at the Lobster," with a portrait of a car, a semi-living thing. It's a damaged Buick Regal--something "a grandmother might leave behind." It's traveling through the "far vastness" of a suburban shoppers' parking lot; it's headed toward a Red Lobster. Though this part of the lot is utterly empty, the car observes all painted-on boundaries. The car also signals a turn--"for no one's benefit." (These details are helping to teach us about the fastidious driver, a man we have not met.) This is a story about capitalism, about appetite. It's a novel about eating. A child eats a sundae and vomits on the carpet of th...
I'm embarrassed about potty backsliding -- which means I should go ahead and describe it. In my head, once potty skills were attained, they would be permanent. This would be like leaving the womb. You don't *go back* into the womb. The process is complete. But -- at least in my house -- potty skills are more like landing a "triple lutz" in figure skating. Sure, you've done it once at a practice -- but this doesn't mean you can do it consistently. This doesn't mean you're going to pull it off in competition. I have nothing to complain about. Other people live with terminal illness. "Potty relapse" is just a phase. Yesterday, in my house, we talked so much about poop and pee, these nouns became like characters in a drama. In the evening, we went to an ice cream shop, and my son began to narrate a story about a Talking Poop -- he used a loud voice that one might normally reserve for a Monster Truck Rally. Other patrons observed in horror. And ...