I didn’t care what Arrietty’s mom said (Homily, surely the most irritating literary mother ever) — I wanted Arrietty to keep talking to that boy. To go outside with him. To read to him. I think I wanted her to marry him . . . Which is an alarming notion considering that she was as tall as his hand. And that I was only 6 years old.

Here began an ongoing theme in my reading life — turning stories into love stories. Mentally supplying romance for my favorite characters. Always wanting more for them.

I remember reading Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH in first or second grade and thinking, “This is good and creepy and blowing my mind, but it would be even better if Mrs. Frisby would admit that’s she’s in love with Justin.” I didn’t even care about the mouse/rat differences. Justin was just what she needed; she couldn’t go back to a normal mouse after chemically enhanced Jonathan. (I mean, really.)

I did this — I do this — for almost everything I read or watch. I pick out a couple I like, root for them, then make up my own love story when the author fails me.

The world of fandom has supplied a brilliant word for this — shipping, short for “relationship.” Like, “I shipped Luke and Leia until I found out they were siblings.” Or, “I ship Harry Potter with anyone who isn’t Ginny.”

For me, this longing for romance isn’t about wanting all-romance/all-the-time — when I try to read romance novels, I can’t get through them. I just want the books I love to have more romance. I want love to be as important to the plot as “who gets the giant diamond” or “who wins the Hunger Games.”

Because love is important to the plot.

The plot. Life. Existence. Everything.

When we were in high school, my husband — then my friend — told me that he figured the whole point of life was finding someone to share it with. He said this in a very non-sentimental, matter-of-fact way. But I was already a little in love with him, and it made me fall a little bit more . . .

And damned if he isn’t right.

We live to share our lives — and that doesn’t always mean romantic love, but often it does, and there’s no shame in that. There’s no shame in loving love stories. In believing that romance makes a story more complete.

Okay, this blog entry is about to turn into a review of Mary Norton’s The Borrowers series. Which may or may not be what you came for. But it will continue on this shippy theme — because Arrietty Clock is one of the most boy-crazy characters in literary history.

I try to read to my kids ( I’ve got two boys, 4 and 7) every night before bed. Usually I choose a book that I loved as a kid because it gives me an excuse to read it again.

The Borrowers was clearly a huge favorite of mine, and my kids immediately fell for it, too. They were enchanted by the descriptions of the Borrowers’ tiny lives. What they use for furniture, how they get their food, how they make their clothes . . .

The series is 90 percent description, chapter after chapter describing candle stubs and stick pins and life in a Victorian house. There is some plot. Every once in a while, a gypsy shows up and chases the Clock family, or they find a new weed to use in their soup — but mostly they just hang out. Homily complains. Pod steals things. And Arrietty yearns for adventure and giant boys.

I thought my overactive 6-year-old imagination must have supplied the romantic angst I remember in the books — but no. Arrietty  is obsessed with boys. She won’t stop talking to the The Boy in the first book, and that’s such a disaster, her family has to go live in a field . . .

. . . where they would have starved if they didn’t run into another boy.  A savage, shirtless Borrower called Spiller.

What I like about Arrietty is that she’s boy-crazy and awesome. She’s smart. She’s brave. She’s taught herself to read and write, and she wants to explore the whole wide world. Which includes boys. Of all sizes.

As soon as Spiller shows up, Arrietty’s like, “We might actually be the only unrelated Borrowers left alive. We should probably get married.” But Spiller doesn’t even speak in complete sentences.

He helps the Clock family locate some intolerable relatives and settle into another house . . .

. . . where Arrietty immediately starts talking to another human boy. IMMEDIATELY. She sneaks out of her hole in the wall and stays up all night talking to him. It’s ridiculous. The family has to move again — her mom practically has a nervous breakdown. Spiller helps them escape through a drain, and the whole time, Arrietty’s like, “Mom, do you think me and Spiller could ever be a thing?” Homily weeps.

The books get weirder and weirder. For a while, the Clocks are living in an amazing model railroad garden. Then they get kidnapped and build a hot air balloon to escape. Spiller keeps coming around, bringing them dead mice just when they’re about to starve.

After three books of this, the unresolved romantic tension was driving me crazy. I’d say to my kids, “Do you think Spiller and Arrietty are going to get married? Arrietty keeps talking about it.” And my 7-year-old would say, “I wonder if Spiller made his own bow.” And my 4-year-old would say, “Is a Borrower bigger than a Pokemon?”

In the last book, the weirdest of them all, Spiller helps the Clocks settle into a fourth house.

The plot of The Borrowers Avenged boggles the mind: there’s a church flower show; a woman with a supernatural finding ability, lots of descriptions of Victorian larders; and a ghost! A dead child. But that isn’t even part of the story. Arrietty’s just walking down the hall, and Peagreen’s like, “Don’t mind that ghost, some kid died here. Moving on . . .”

Did I mention Peagreen? I think I did. In the last book, Spiller gets some serious competition for Arrietty’s affection — Peagreen Ovemantel, a handsome Borrower who injured his leg when he was young and now spends all of his time reading, painting and writing poetry.

Peagreen was depicted as child in The Borrowers movie and played by Tom Felton:

 

 

In the book, he’s a handsome, posh young man. So I like to picture him like this:

Norton is clearly setting up a romantic triangle for most of The Borrowers Avenged. Arrietty hangs out with Peagreen, wonders what’s up with Spiller and stumbles into a church robbery. The whole time, I’m thinking, “We’ve been reading these books for a year, this is the last book, the romantic confusion is at an all-time high — something is going to happen. Somebody’s going to kiss this girl on the cheek.”

BUT NO. In the last two pages of the series, Arrietty argues with Spiller about talking to humans and is comforted/scolded by Peagreen, who then gives her an egg and talks about Jesus.

“Today’s the day the humans call Easter Sunday.” (SERIOUSLY, PEAGREEN?)

Arrietty keeps pushing the human thing — she wants to tell a human friend that the Borrowers are finally safe . . .

Aaaand scene.

That’s it. No resolution. No ship. No ending, frankly — which is the only way these frustrating, weird, wandering books could end.

I totally recommend them by the way.

Norton — who also wrote the book behind Bedknobs and Broomsticks — is a gorgeous writer, and the Borrowers’ world is epically drawn. It fueled my kids’ appetites for small stories. Anything with pixies, fairies, leprechauns . . . Even, to my dismay, The Littles.

Read The Borrowers books. Read them aloud. Just don’t get caught up in Arrietty’s boy drama.

Or do what I did — imagine a happily-ever-after for her after you’re done.

10. Quiffs. When men have hair that’s short in the back but tall on the top. Like Morrissey.

11. Human beings described in bird imagery. Hatching. Wings spreading. The way bones feel fragile right under the surface.

12. Bones. Physical descriptions that talk about skulls and jaws and shoulders. Knuckles. Ankles. Elbow. Wrists.

13. These four words: Knuckles. Ankles. Elbows. Wrists.

14. Alliteration.

15. References to childhood songs and games. Olly olly oxen free.

16. References to TV and movies from the ’60s.

17. Using pop-culture references as parts of speech. Verbs. Adjectives. Adverbs.

18. Cliches that twist into something new.

19. Dialogue.

20. Dialogue that sounds hyper-real. Smarter and funnier than real people can ever dependably be.

21. Conversations that take place while people are eating.

22. Descriptions of what people are eating.

23. Conversations in cars.

24. Conversations that take place outside during snow and rain.

25. Snow.

26. Rain.

27. Clouds. Mist. Fog. Anything gray.

28. Characters who are wildly attractive to each other, even though they might not be conventionally attractive.

29. Characters fixating on imperfections. A too-big nose. A soft jaw line. A receding hair line.

30. When men are described with receding hairlines. Foreheads. Widow’s peaks. Temples.

31. When characters are going gray, especially too soon.

32. Grand gestures. When a character has to do something very public and possibly humiliating to help another character.

33. Grand gestures that don’t quite work out. That go wrong.

34. Male characters holding babies.

35. Female characters breastfeeding.

36. When a strong or powerful character humbles himself to a weaker character. Kneels or bows his/her head.

37. When any kind of character kneels for just about any reason (To propose. To apologize. To rest his/her head against another character’s knee.)

38. People doing things with their teeth. Uncapping pens. Holding something when they don’t have a free hand.

39. Repetition. Of phrases, themes, jokes . . . The way an idea or phrase can twist/change/evolve over a novel through repetition.

40. Funny writing that is poetic. Poetic writing that is funny. Language that feels flexible enough to be both.

41. Characters who have friends who are nothing like themselves. Different ages, genders, sexuality, education, economic class. Characters who respect each other’s differences. Conversations between those characters.

42. Heterosexual characters who are completely comfortable with homosexuality. Straight guys who have gay friends. Who are accepting of their own feminine characteristics.

43. Descriptions of smells. Especially when it’s not a smell you would expect in a scene — but that fits anyway.

44. People fiddling with their clothes when they talk or think. Worrying at a button, chewing on a collar.

45. Cussing. When characters cuss in ways that are specific to them. Or not at all, and that’s specific, too.

46. Dialogue with no other description. Just “he said”/”she said” and you have to read between the lines.

47. The word thick. Especially when used to describe something intangible like a mood, idea or feeling.

48. Color words. Especially gold and yellow and green, and especially to describe something that isn’t a color.

49. Anthropomorphizing things. Imagining what things would say. Imagining that they have feelings.

50. Things. Attachments to things. A favorite chair. A favorite sweater. A laptop or a phone.

51. Eyeglasses. Characters who wear eyeglasses. Characters messing with their eyeglasses. Characters being vulnerable without them.

52. Vulnerability. In just about every form.

53. Dialogue that doesn’t go anywhere. Conversations that don’t contribute to the plot.

54. Conversations between lots of characters. Big conversations that feel both natural and choreographed.

55. Characters whose feelings are all locked-up forcing themselves to talk or touch someone.

56. Inarticulate characters. Characters who don’t talk in complete sentences. Ellipses.

57. Rythmic sentences. Paragraphs that verge on sing-song.

58. Pop culture or historical references that I don’t immediately get — but that seem perfect when I look them up.

59. Freckles

60. Any reference to the back of someone’s neck. The way short hair looks at the nape. The way long hair looks in a ponytail.

61. Neckties and scarves.

62. A male character who doesn’t usually wear a necktie wearing one. A character who always wears a necktie wearing one well. Women wearing neckties.

63. Throat mechanics. Talking, breathing, swallowing. Tendons. Adam’s apples.

64. Sweaters.

65. Specific descriptions of any fabric.

66. Eggs. Cooking or eating eggs.

67. Chopsticks.

68. Cigarettes. (Despite the fact that I’ve never smoked one, and I get pretty instantly sick around smoke. I think I just like all the ways that people hold them in their hands and their mouths. And the fact that they make me sad.)

69. Phone conversations. Short ones. Long ones. Especially ones that start out casual and then go deep.

70. Comic book references.

71. Broadway references.

72. Narrative detours. Parentheses.

73. Run-on sentences.

74. When the main characters are truly kind and good.

75. When romance is treated as a main part of the plot and story — and not just as a tease or a time-out.

76. When true love prevails.

77. Scenes in offices, when coworkers are like family.

78. Characters crying. Characters crying in awkward situations.

79. Lists.

(I really do love lists. So is you have a list like this, I’d love to read it.)

Lincoln deserved this.

He deserved to be sitting in this sad, mauve cubicle, trying to make this Greg person like him. Which seemed impossible anyway. If Lincoln were the sort of person who could make people like him, he wouldn’t be pursuing a career in information technology.

It’s not a career, he reminded himself, trying to remember the high school counselor who once told him, “Life isn’t a ladder, Lincoln. It’s a jungle. It’s adventure and exploration. Don’t climb, live!” Somehow, Lincoln had managed not to do either.

Greg was telling him about the parking situation now. And the perks. He wouldn’t get a discount on the newspaper, but he could take as many Sunday coupon sections from the recycling bins as he could carry. It occurred to Lincoln then that Greg might actually be planning to hire him. Otherwise, why waste time explaining the perks? The almost nonexistent perks. And the rules. “The standard stuff. No online porn, no gambling sites. Your telephone extension won’t get long distance, let’s see . . . what else . .  .” Greg flipped through some sort of handbook. “Business casual, jeans are okay on Fridays. ‘Sexual jokes or harassment will not be tolerated,’ etc., etc. No visitors, no horseplay.”

Lincoln looked around The Courier’s information technology office. It used to be a darkroom about five years and two dozen fluorescent lights ago. With all the lights and the computer servers, it was like sitting inside a headache. And Lincoln would be working the graveyard shift. The Emperor of Horseplay himself would feel subdued in this room — and Lincoln wasn’t the Emperor of Horseplay. Lincoln wouldn’t be tolerated by anyone at the Court of Horseplay. Not even the eunuchs.

But Lincoln would be working here. Greg was offering him the job. Not that Greg liked Lincoln — Greg had hardly noticed him. But, Lincoln realized now, that was never an issue. Lincoln just had to show up.

#

“Lincoln? Is that you? Come back down here. How did it go? Are they going to call you?”

“No . . .”

“Why not? What went wrong?”

“Nothing, actually, I . . .”

“What? I can’t hear you? Come down here.”

“Okay, I’m coming.”

“What?”

“I’m coming.”

“Is that what you wore?”

“Yes, I . . .”

“You look so serious. You look like a bank teller. Where did you get that tie?”

“I bought it for graduation, I think, I . . .”

“Did you smile enough? I don’t know if you could smile enough to make up for that tie. That tie . . . it’s like trickle-down economics. It’s like the tie worn by the guy who thinks that good things are going to happen to him if he kisses enough ass . . . You know what? I’m glad you didn’t get that job. All those computers. All those sperm-killing electromagnetic waves. I’d never get grandchildren.”

“Mom . . .”

“I’m serious. You wouldn’t believe what they’re finding out about computers. Men who use computers all the time only have daughters. I mean, can you imagine what it’s like in China? You know what they do to their daughters there? They throw them away. Down wells. Like kittens. I’m glad you didn’t get that job. What a waste.”

“Mom . . .”

“You could do so much more than hunch your spine over a machine. You could do anything, Lincoln. So smart. Sky’s the limit.”

“Mom, stop. I got the job.”

“You did? Oh. Oh, sweetie, good for you. Of course you did. How could they pass you up? You’re too good for them. Even in that tie. Oh, Lincoln, good. Good.”

“Mom, what? What’s . . . hey, Mom, don’t cry. Please. Come on. Mom. Mom? What?”

“Nothing, sweetie. I just worry. I worry about you. I’m your mother. No one is ever going to worry about you like I worry. I want you to be happy. Can you be happy with these people? All day long? It’s just like when you were in school. I thought, how am I going to teach him about life when he spends most of his time with these women? These denim-jumper women who make you raise your hand for everything. You shouldn’t have to raise your hand to use the bathroom. It’s not right. Your kidneys . . . Better than the nuns, I guess, nuns with rulers. But it’s not right that you had to spend more time with them than you did with me, your family, your mother. And now? Now, you’ll spend all your days with machines . . . Lincoln, promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Promise me that this isn’t forever. Promise me that you’ll find a job worthy of you. Worthy of your gifts. Promise.”

“It’s just a job, Mom.”

“Promise me.”

“Okay. I promise. It isn’t forever.”

The bar, 27 Rue it was called, was more crowded than usual. There was a banner that explained it — “Monday is Ladies Night. Half-price draws.”

There was no one playing the Addams Family pinball machine. There never was; the regulars seemed to prefer darts. Lincoln played for forty-five minutes on his first dollar — a personal record. By the time his last ball dropped, he’d half forgotten how lonely and creepy and stupid he’d felt for the last forty-eight hours.

A woman standing by the side of the machine started clapping enthusiastically. “Wow,” she said, “that was incredible. You’re really good. Kind of a game hog, but still really good.”

None of the women at 27 Rue had ever spoken to him before. It took him a second to realize that this one was. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry. Were you waiting to play?”

“Actually,” she said, “yes. But I’m kind of glad I got to watch you. I didn’t know there were secret combos.”

“Oh,” he said, “yeah . . . left orbit, left ramp, swamp.”

“And I can never get the electric chair bonus . . .”

“I can usually get it if I’m not thinking about it,” he said, stepping away from the machine. “Here you go. It’s all yours.”

“You don’t have to go,” she said. “We could play two-player. I don’t mind waiting between turns.” She dropped in eight quarters and hit the two-player button. “Come on, my treat.”

He tugged the hair at the top of his head. “Um, okay, thanks.”

“I definitely get to go first though,” she said. She was a decent player, a little timid. Her strategy was merely to keep the ball from sinking. She stayed alive for about three minutes, not bad, but didn’t accumulate many points.

“I think you could have saved that one,” he said, as the ball rolled between the flippers.

“How?”

“Just give the machine a bump.”

“I don’t want to tilt it.”

“A gentle bump. Go ahead, try again.” He watched her play for a few more minutes. She was pretty. About his age. With shoulder-length, light-brown hair and a clean, friendly face. Her eyes seemed one size too big for her face, but it wasn’t a bad thing. It made her seem alert. She was wearing the bar’s virtual uniform — T-shirt and jeans. Other than that, she didn’t look gay. That’s stupid, he thought to himself, there’s no such thing as looking gay. He glanced around the bar. Well . . . maybe there was.

Her ball started to roll between the flippers. “Now,” he said. She shook the machine. Tilted it. “You’re a funny guy,” it called out in Raul Julia’s voice.

The girl laughed. “I told you,” she said.

“You were supposed to bump it,” he said, “not bruise its internal organs.”

“Your turn,” she said. They traded places. She watched him play for a few minutes. “I think I’ve seen you before.”

“Yeah, I work just across the street. I used to come here a lot.”

“I’ve seen you here,” she said. “You kind of stand out . . . But I think I’ve seen you at concerts, too. Are you a Sacajawea fan?”

“Oh,” he said, feeling caught. “Sort of. My friend is. I usually go with him. Are you? A Sacajawea fan?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve been following them since college.”

Lincoln missed a shot at the graveyard, and his ball started down the middle of the flippers. He hit the machine with his right hip and caught the ball with the left flipper. Raul kept his mouth shut. “Very nice,” the girl said.

#

They played the game out. He’d used up most of his pinball mojo on the first game, so she didn’t have to wait too long between turns. They talked easily, mostly about the game. She was laid-back and laughed a lot. Most of her turns ended with tilts.

“You’re like the Thing,” Lincoln said. “You don’t know your own strength.”

“I know, did you see that look the bartender just gave me? I’m going to get kicked out if I break this thing.”

“Maybe you should practice on another machine. This is the last Addams Family machine east of 72nd Street.”

“I’ll just go back to playing with less machismo,” she said. “Rematch?”

“I can’t, thanks. I have to get back to work. Technically, I’m on my dinner break.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s some dinner break.”

“Trust me, no one missed me.”

“Next time, then,” she said, smiling.

“Yeah, I owe you one … ” he started putting his coat on and stopped to hold out his hand. “I’m Lincoln, by the way.”

“Colleen,” she said, shaking his hand a little too firmly. Geez, she really was like the Thing.

Lincoln’s desk felt less depressing when he got back from dinner. He ended up playing chess online for the rest of the night.

#

He saw Colleen again at 27 Rue on Friday. He was hoping she’d be there. As much as he liked Doris, it was nice to get out of the building and to be with someone his own age.

Colleen waved at him when he came in, and got up from a table full of women to join him at the pinball machine. “I hope up you brought lots of quarters,” she said. “I’ve been practicing.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he said, “but I don’t need lots of quarters.”

They played through his dinner hour again. Colleen had been practicing. She only tilted once. She still wasn’t scoring many points, but it was a definite improvement. If Lincoln kept a ball alive for more than ten minutes, he let her take over. It was more fun that way. He liked talking to her. It was kind of like talking to another guy. (He wasn’t sure if it that was a horrible thing to think.)

“So,” she said after about an hour, “you don’t mind hanging out in a gay bar?”

“I guess I never thought of it as hanging out,” Lincoln said. “I just came in one night and saw the pinball machine.” He nailed a combo, and glanced around the bar. “Do you think anyone minds that I’m here?”

“Maybe a few people, but not really. People here are pretty low-key.”

“You must like hanging out here,” he said. “It’s okay,” she said, “my friend Jill really likes it. I just come to provide moral support, you know? This place beats The Base. She used to drag me there every weekend. It’s hard-core, have you ever been there?”

“I don’t think so. Do they have pinball?”

Colleen laughed.

I hope they’re calling him Rebound Blaine — because this isn’t going to last.

Nobody can break up Barbie and Ken. At least, not this cleanly. Not even Mattel.

Barbie and Ken are bigger than Mattel. Barbie and Ken are soul mates.

They’ve been together 43 years. That’s 43 years of pink plastic baggage. You don’t share that much good, clean passion, then decide to be just friends.

If Barbie and Ken are really over, its messy. It’s painful. And Mattel owes us a better explanation than they needed time apart.

Who is this Blaine guy? And what happens to Ken now? Mattel will still make Ken dolls, but will he be invited to the beach parties and the ballet?

Tell me this has nothing to do with Skipper.

Actually, I think the break-up might have something to do with Happy Family Midge.

Barbie and Midge have been best friends since 1963. While Barbie was out conquering medicine, fashion and politics, Midge was living a quieter life.

In 1991, Midge married her sweetheart Alan. Barbie was the maid of honor. Though she looked lovely in her pink bridesmaid dress — and Ken was a dashing best man — Barbie’s smile was painted on.

Who would have thought that freckle-faced Midge, Barbie’s sidekick, would beat her to the altar? (Kelly, the flower girl, caught Midge’s bouquet.)

These days, Midge and Alan are parents. They have a toddler named Ryan. They traded their honeymoon Ferrari in for a Volvo. And now Midge is pregnant again with a baby girl.