Review: The Husband's Secret

The Husband's Secret by Liane Moriarty

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Read the hardcover of this book - what a beautiful cover. I was surprised with the depth and intricacy of the plot lines, impressive. I would have liked her to go deeper into the emotional impact of the many characters/twists/turns but by NOT doing so, I was able to read it faster, enjoy the ride of the plot line instead of weighing the consequences too much. Really loved the twists and turns. Loved hearing from all diff. characters throughout the book. Read it! Light enough to move along yet complex enough to satisfy.



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Money Man: How to find inspiration for a race

It’s our health issue and my sister and I both like to work out (bike or hike or run or walk). Nothing too crazy although we sometimes teeter on the brink of obsession — inspired by “incidents” along the way.

Mud, Sweat and Beers 2010, complete with jammies.

Here’s an example:

In our first mountain bike race, Peak2Peak at Crystal Mountain in 2006, we were treated to the unlikely sight of a man in stiff blue jeans. Us, in our $100 spandex shorts and $100 jerseys. Him, in his Levis. Passing us. Easily in the first mile. Up a hill.

But it wasn’t the jeans. It wasn’t the hill he sprinted around us on. It wasn’t the 20-year-old bike his gold-stitched denim pockets sat upon. It was the shocking jangle of chain as he whizzed by. From his wallet. His chain wallet. Sticking out of his back pocket.

This is when an obsession was born and bred on the hard-packed trail of a ski resort. We looked at each other and reached consensus with nary a word: He was going down.

We’re happy to say that there was a resounding comeback in that race. We caught the Money Man and his wallet later. (Six miles later, a sore spot in this story.) But we passed him on the climb out of the valley and never saw him again. And we were smart enough not to look back to see how close he might be.

That led to an obsession to beat all men wearing denim jeans and translated to many more miles on the trails over the next few years. Then came Mud, Sweat and Beers at Mt. Holiday.

But, before race day arrived, as our obsessions are wont to do, we faltered. This biking thing was hard and really, we were in it for the fun. So, when we stumbled on a rack of Disney jammies en route to Brick Wheels for spandex shorts, it created the perfect storm: We decided we’d wear our spandex shorts, but (light bulb!) hide them under matching pajamas.

What would be funnier than two grown women in striped Snoopy pajamas in a mountain bike race?

Everything apparently.

No one, and we mean no one, acknowledged our getups on race day. It was awkward but we marched on, proud to be creative in a world of disc brakes and sponsored jerseys. As we jostled for the front of the back of the pack at the start line, we got a few sidelong looks but still, no laughs.

On the trail, it got worse. We were talking and riding and enjoying ourselves when suddenly, it happened. The unimaginable.

We started passing people. There we were, faster than last year, our training paying off! We were ecstatic (understatement) and put the pedal down!

But there was something in the air with each person we passed. Something not good. Something close to distaste and perhaps, yes, there it was, straight-out disgust. What’s worse than being beat? Being beat by a couple of girls in Peanuts nightwear.

We had, unwittingly, become Money Man.

We passed men and women in $100 spandex and $100 jerseys. We passed them left, right and center and picked our way out of the front of the back of the pack to the back of the front of the pack. We were on top of the world. The Money Man obsession had paid off in spades

In the end, our time was so unimpressive that we couldn’t scare up a look of envy at the finish line. And, granted, it was the last time we rode a race out of “uniform.” But still, it was a memorable race. We were Money Man for a few miles that May and the obsession took hold.

Now we enter races here and there — biking races, 5ks, tris, whatever the passing obsession might be. And, while we never see a podium, it’s still hard not to love the thrill of getting out and trying. Who knows where we might be if not for the jangle of the Money Man?

The Night Hike - The Perfect Scary Summer Party Idea

Welcome to the entrance of The Night Hike.

We had an end-of-school party. We figured a few families would show up, a few drinks would be consumed, the children would scale a tree or two, someone would cry, and a child would need a Band-Aid before it was over. All of these things happened and then some.

Some 35 children showed and all of their parents — 75 people here all told. Our biggest party ever, a point of pride… and a little bit of terror. The kids all brought bikes, the adults all brought booze.

We live on 12 acres in the middle of nowhere. Our driveway is 1/3 of a mile long, which means we have some 1,700 feet of privacy. You feel like you’ve arrived somewhere outside of subdivisions and PTO meetings and have been delivered to a new world filled with possibility. Throw in some rum and it’s a party.

The kids disappeared from the scene the moment they arrived, spreading out over our property like the Lord of the Flies. By 8:30, a cloud of dust hung over the driveway from 70 turning bike wheels so mighty that it looked like the frontier being settled by a bunch of kids in shorts and t-shirts carrying iPods.

The women gathered on the front porch pretending to watch the children. Occasionally we saw a child dart between the trees. “There’s mine!” a mom would call. “Over there, I see another!” we would say, careful to watch them but not attract them.

The men gravitated to the back with the beer cooler. I had spent a good chunk of time at Target buying candleholders and patio lights for the back porch in preparation for this big blowout party, only to see it fall on the blind eyes of men carrying koozies of Bud Light. The women sat on the front deck with no ornamentation and the garden hose wrapped around their feet.

At 9:30, Tim opened Puerto Rican Rum. Tim handed each adult a shot. It took only one person to say yes for the others to fall in line. None, it turned out the next day, realized it was 151 proof at the time.

After 30 minutes of the inner workings of rum and the arrival of nightfall, I announced it was time to have our “night hike” out back in the woods.

What? came the shrieks of disbelief. But those who had been to our parties before quickly assembled. The hike was non-negotiable. Flashlights were discouraged but two were allocated (for the security of the newbies and those under the age of 10).

As tradition dictates, we hike to the backside of our property, as far as possible into the perils of Interlochen, and ask that all flashlights be turned off. And for everyone to stand still. And to be absolutely quiet. Then we stand together in the dark, in silence, in the endless forest, bonded by our solidarity.

Until someone (me) asks, in a quiet, quiet voice,
“Did you hear that?”

Cue the tears. Children scrambled for their mothers and women clung to each other like teenagers. There were lots of screaming, cardiac arrests and “Flashlight” apps opened on smart phones.

This year we had the added bonus of someone firing up an iPhone with the Dogman song. As tradition also dictates, we made the trip back to the house in half the time.

Confession: This is the signature move at all Chapple parties. After being scared to the limit, back at the house, we all bask in the glory of survival. I have found no better bonding experience at a party.

Now you know about this total crowd pleaser. You are welcome to it, but please don't try it on me (I hate being scared).