Commencez à lire Glitter and Glue: A compelling memoir about one woman's d... sur votre Kindle dans moins d'une minute. Vous n'avez pas encore de Kindle ? Achetez-le ici Ou commencez à lire dès maintenant avec l'une de nos applications de lecture Kindle gratuites.

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil


Essai gratuit

Découvrez gratuitement un extrait de ce titre

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil

Désolé, cet article n'est pas disponible en
Image non disponible pour la
couleur :
Image non disponible

Glitter and Glue: A compelling memoir about one woman's discovery of the true meaning of motherhood (English Edition) [Format Kindle]

Kelly Corrigan

Prix éditeur - format imprimé : EUR 15,09
Prix Kindle : EUR 7,99 TTC & envoi gratuit via réseau sans fil par Amazon Whispernet
Économisez : EUR 7,10 (47%)

App de lecture Kindle gratuite Tout le monde peut lire les livres Kindle, même sans un appareil Kindle, grâce à l'appli Kindle GRATUITE pour les smartphones, les tablettes et les ordinateurs.

Pour obtenir l'appli gratuite, saisissez votre adresse e-mail ou numéro de téléphone mobile.

Descriptions du produit


I shouldn’t be here. That’s what I’m realizing as I follow John Tanner down the hall of his house in suburban Australia. After the interview, I should’ve called back and said it wasn’t going to work. But I had no choice. I needed money, or I’d be back on my mother’s doorstep within a month, and wouldn’t that please her to no end?

It’s her fault. That’s another thought I’m having as I set down my backpack on a single bed in a room with a skylight but no windows, and John Tanner says, “I hope this will be okay.” If she had given me even a little money . . . a loan . . . 

This is not what I left home for. That’s the chalky horse pill I choke down when John Tanner says the kids are so excited about me moving in, they’ll be in here bouncing on my bed in no time. “First nanny and all,” he says.

I’m a nanny, a fucking nanny.

For the record, I didn’t touch down in Oz, open The Sydney Morning Herald, and circle “Recent Widower Looking for Live-­in Nanny.” If anything, I was thinking bartending, or at least waitressing. Good money, tons of laughs, guys everywhere.

My college roommate Tracy and I had been traveling for two months, burning through cash, so when we got off the bus in downtown Sydney, we filled out applications at all the restaurants and bars that sounded Yank-­friendly: Uncle Sam’s, Texas Rib Joint, New York Steak House. We followed up, we waited. Seven days in, we broadened the search—­surf shacks, burger joints, cafés, pubs. Nobody would hire us. We called friends of friends and left messages asking if they knew of any temp work. No one called us back. We tried all the bulletins posted at the hostels. No one would bend the rules to let us work under the table. So after three weeks, we did what no self-­respecting globe-­trotter would: We looked in the help-­wanted ads for nanny gigs, all of which were in the ‘burbs, where we would meet zero boys and have zero big experiences and learn nothing about anything.

I picked a rich family with an indoor pool and views of the Sydney Opera House, but Eugenia Brown turned out to be a total despot, and after I made a funny face about scrubbing her pool tiles and dragged my heels about helping with a mailing regarding her availability as a bridge tutor, I pointed out that her ad had said nanny, not nanny plus housecleaner plus personal assistant, at which point she said I was her first American—­she usually hired Asians, who had “worked out so nicely”—­and that I might be too “unionized.” Then she fired me.

After that, I interviewed with four more families. I told Smiley Vicki in Chatswood that I was open to babysitting on weekend nights, which would suck, and Skinny Jane on Cove Lane that I knew CPR. Didn’t matter. No one wanted a nanny who could only stay for five months, so I went back to the newspaper, and the widower’s ad was still there.

John Tanner was older than I thought a man with a seven-­year-­old and a five-­year-­old would be. His mustache was graying, and his hairline had rolled back a touch from where it started. His shoulders were sloped, giving him the outline of my grandmother’s Frigidaire. All in all, he struck me as someone who might participate in Civil War reenactments.

In a conversation that lasted under an hour, he explained that he was a steward for Qantas and used to work the overnights to New Zealand, Tokyo, and Singapore. It had been six months since his wife passed, and it was time to resume his usual schedule. He needed an extra pair of hands, someone who could drive the kids to school when he was flying. He didn’t care that I couldn’t commit to a year. He couldn’t either. He said this would be a good way to test the nanny plan—­he wasn’t sure it was the right long-­term solution for them—­and I said that sounds great to me, and we shook hands, the deal done. He did not ask to make a copy of my passport. He was tired and I was good enough for now.

The house is a rancher half-­painted in such an ill-­chosen orange—­probably called “Happy Face” or “Sunny Outlook”—­that I wonder if he’s color-­blind, or relied on his wife for those sorts of decisions. Gallon cans, half unopened, line the porch. There’s no discernible method to the painting, just halfhearted swaths of color here and there. The patches under the windows make it look like the house itself is crying.

In the living room, John’s widowhood is even more evident. There’s crayon on the walls and puzzle pieces sprinkled on the floor. The sofa’s slipcover is bunched up. On the side table, a plastic dinosaur is tipped over in rigor mortis beside a framed school photo of a girl in a plaid uniform, pushed back against a small treasure chest you might get from a dentist or a fast-­food restaurant. A piano bench overflows with drawings on pages that, I see as I get closer, are sheet music. Tilt, I hear my mother say, which I believe refers to the message pinball machines flash when players lose control, but I can’t say for sure. Some of her expressions are hard to deconstruct. (I learned only recently that when she says Mikey! after the first bite of something good, she’s alluding to the old Life cereal commercial.)

My bag unpacked, John’s son, Martin, trots toward me on the balls of his feet like a show pony. He’s scrawny, and his ears rise to a point, like the Texan Ross Perot, who just announced his campaign for president.

“Keely!” he calls, his accent lifting the middle of my name until it rhymes with wheelie. I met him only briefly during the interview last week, but that’s no matter to him. We’re friends already.

“Hello there!”

His smile is loose and wavy, and his lips have a line of red crust along the edges from too much licking. I have lip balm in my pocket. I could start fixing him right now.

“Listen!” he says. I watch as he bangs around on the piano, creating a soaring anthem of madness and joy before spinning around to check my reaction, making me feel important.

“Brilliant. Bravo! Do it again!” I say, clapping. He whips back around, raises his hands high in the air, and pauses like a pelican hovering over an unsuspecting fish. “Go!” I say.

He drops his hands to the keys in a free fall and hammers out a near cousin to his first composition.

“Genius. Pure—­”

“LOUD RUBBISH,” Milly, who would hardly look at me when we met, hollers from the TV room. “I’M TRYING TO WATCH MY SHOW!”

“I can play! Keely wants me to play!”

“Well, I don’t!” she shouts. “Daddy!”

“OY!” John silences the two of them. All three of us, actually.

I peek around the corner to make nice with Milly, who sits low in a chair, wearing her school uniform: a plaid kilt with a thin white shirt, untucked. Her lips are pressed together, her hands tucked under her thighs. If she could make herself disappear into the crease of the chair, she would. She has a round face, a dozen freckles sprinkled across each cheek, blue eyes, and thick sandy hair gilded with highlights that a middle-­aged woman would pay a lot for.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi,” she says, barely moving her lips.

“So, you’re coming up on eight, right? Wow!” She looks at me like, Really? Is it really so “wow”? Her fingernail polish is chipped. I have a bottle of polish in my bag. I could fix her, too. “What grade are you in again?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Amelia Tanner, Kelly is asking you a question,” John prods from the kitchen.


“What are you watching?”

“Television.” Little Miss Smart-­mouth, I hear my mom say.

“Do you like hard candy?” I hold out a lemon drop.

“No. Thank you.” Her accent brings to mind the British Royals, as do her robotic manners. She doesn’t want a nanny. She knows how it is that her family has come to need the help of Some Lady. She knows I’m here to help everyone Transition. Even if no one else cares that a stranger will soon be making her sandwiches, zipping her jacket, and signing her permission slips on the line clearly marked Parent’s Signature, her loyalty is with her mother, wherever she is.

“What’s your name?” Martin says, appearing behind me holding a big encyclopedic book called Marsupials.

“You know my name, silly. Kelly.”

“What’s your mum’s name?” he asks innocently. I glance over at Milly, who doesn’t seem to be disturbed by his question.

“Um, Mary.”

“What’s your name?”


“What’s your mum’s name?” he says again, in the very same cheery tone that, mercifully, undercuts what otherwise would be an unbearably sad call-and-response.


I look to Milly for help, but she’s busy transmitting her distrust using only her eyes: Don’t think you can come in here and take over just because you’re all buddy-­buddy with my chump brother. She will not be diverted by my cheer and candy. She will not throw open the gates to the territory and stand by while I tromp all over their sacred ground.

Well guess what, Milly Tanner? I don’t want to be here, either. I didn’t save for a year and fly halfway across the world to stir-­fry kangaroo meat and pick up your “skivvies” off the bathroom floor. This was supposed to be my trip of a lifetime, my Technicolor dream.

Things happen when you leave the house. That’s my motto. I made it up on an Outward Bound trip after college. During the Solo—­three days and three nights alone on a stretch of beach in the Florida Everglades with a tent, five gallons of water, an apple, an orange, and a first-­aid kit—­I made the most of what my hairy vegan counselor, Jane, called “a singular opportunity to plan your life.”

After deciding where to put my tent, dragging my water into a patch of shade, floating naked and singing “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, I pulled out my journal and mapped out my life in yearly, sometimes monthly, increments. No way was I going to be just another apple rotting at the base of my mother’s tree. I was going to roll. I was going to Do Things Worth Doing and Know Things Worth Knowing. Seventy-­two hours later, when Jane pulled up in the motorboat, all major decisions were settled: work, grad school, relationships, moves, marriage, childbearing. I went all the way up to my death, a peaceful event that I scheduled for 2057.

But for all my zealous imagining, a year later I looked up from my life and was deeply unimpressed. I worked at the bottom rung of a nonprofit in downtown Baltimore, and thanks to the understandably pitiful pay, I lived with Libby, my grandmother on my mom’s side, which meant that except for Tuesdays, when I had Weight Watchers, I spent every weeknight eating roasted meats and Pillsbury dinner rolls with Libby and her very crazy brother, whom everyone called Uncle Slug. By eight o’clock on any given night, I was up in my room—­the room where my great-­great-­aunt Gerty lived until she died in the rocking chair that still sat by the window—­highlighting The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People until my next move became clear.

If I really wanted to grow, well, that was not going to happen while I was living with my granny, driving my shit Honda two miles to the office every day, clocking in to happy hour on Water Street at five p.m., hoping some club lacrosse player would try to suck my face behind the phone booth after pounding a Jägermeister shot. I needed to get out. I needed an adventure. So I found a round-­the-­world ticket on sale in the back of The New York Times and talked Tracy into coming with me. One year, seven countries, bang-­o—­odyssey!

When I laid out the plan for my parents, my dad said, “Lovey, FANTASTIC!” He would know. He went to Australia with a lacrosse team back in the late fifties. “Go get ’em, Lovey!” He’s a Life Eater, my dad.

My mom said, “You haven’t been out of college two years yet. You need to focus on making money, saving up.”

“I have saved. How do you think I’m paying for the plane ticket?”

“You should be using that money to get established, get your own health insurance, not traipse all over creation,” she said. “I certainly hope you’re not expecting help from your father and me.”

“I’m not.” (Hoping, maybe.)

“Good. You don’t want to come home to a mountain of debt.”

“Mom, I get it.”

“You get it. I bet you get it,” she said, mostly to herself, as she cut a sliver of lemon rind to toss in her five o’clock drink.

“Anyway, I’ll go back to work when I get home.”

“You better hope they’ll take you back.”

“They will.”

She looked at me like I thought I knew everything. “You  really think you know everything, don’t you?”

“Here’s what I know: I want Life Experience!”

“You know what’s good Life Experience? Life. Real life is excellent life experience,” she said, pleased with her retort. “How does running around Australia apply to anything . . . like working, marriage, family?”

“Mom—­God! You know what? Things happen when you leave the house.”


“I’m not going to magically become interesting sitting on the sofa. I’m not going to learn anything—­my values, or purpose, or point of view—­at home. Things happen when you leave, when you walk out the door, up the driveway, and into the world.”

“I don’t know why you don’t walk out the door and go to an office, like everyone else.”

Despite my mom’s total failure to get behind me, I liked everything about the odyssey plan. I even liked the vocabulary of travel. Ripping yarns of distant shores, exotic vistas, excursions, expeditions. Show me the poetry in ground-­beef special, informational interview, staff development.

Two months later, my parents walked me to the gate at JFK. I spotted Tracy from a hundred yards away—­she’s six feet, a head taller than all the Taiwanese in line for our flight to Taipei—­with her mom. They have the same haircut because they go to the same hairdresser; they share clothes and shoes, sunglasses and jewelry, which they can do because Tracy’s mom has pierced ears, like a normal person. My mom wears clip-­ons that feel like little vises on my earlobes.

From the Hardcover edition.

Revue de presse

“Kelly Corrigan’s heartfelt homage to motherhood is every bit as tough and funny as it is nostalgic and searching. It’s a tale about growing up, gaining wisdom, and reconciling with Mom (something we all must do eventually), but it’s also an honest meditation on our deepest fears of death and abandonment. I loved this book, I was moved by this book, and now I will share this book with my own mother—along with my renewed appreciation for certain debts of love that can never be repaid.”—Elizabeth Gilbert, New York Times bestselling author of Eat, Pray, Love
Glitter and Glue explores how and why, in our exuberant and impatient youth, we launch ourselves into the world at large—and how and why we eventually circle back to home port, where, waiting for us, is the parent with whom we’ve had the more complicated relationship. Kelly Corrigan’s thoughtful and beautifully rendered meditation invites readers to reflect on their own launchings and homecomings. I accepted the invitation and learned things about myself. You will, too. Isn’t that why we read?”—Wally Lamb, New York Times bestselling author ofWe Are Water

“Kelly Corrigan is no stranger to mining the depths of her heart. . . . [In] Glitter and Glue,Corrigan turns the microscope on her relationship with her own mother. . . . Through her own experience of caring for children, she begins, for the first time, to appreciate the complex woman who raised her.”O: The Oprah Magazine
“Corrigan [is] a lively, nimble cheerleader for the joys of family.”People

“[A] funny, sparkling memoir.”More
“Corrigan writes with warmth and delicate humor.”The Washington Post

“[An] irresistible cocktail of lyrical writing and solid, useful insight.”San Francisco Chronicle

“In this endearing, funny, and thought-provoking memoir, Kelly Corrigan’s memories of long-ago adventures illuminate the changing relationships between mothers and children—as well as everything else that really matters.”—Gretchen Rubin, New York Times bestselling author of The Happiness Project
“Kelly Corrigan parses the bittersweet complexities of motherhood with humor and grace. Her writing has depth and buoyancy and light. It’s a river on a summer day. You slip into the current, laughing, and are carried away by it. Glitter and Glue is a perfect gift for anyone with a mother.”—Mary Roach, New York Times bestselling author of Stiff and Spook
“In Glitter and Glue, Kelly Corrigan gives us a lovely and insightful lesson in what it means to be both a mother and a daughter. This book will make you laugh, it will make you cry, and I know that you will gobble it up in a single day, just like I did.”—Ayelet Waldman, New York Times bestselling author of Bad Mother
“I teared up so many times while reading Glitter and Glue, thinking, ‘See? You never stop needing your mother.’ Yet with openhearted wisdom, Kelly Corrigan beautifully illustrates the idea that life goes on no matter what—and that even the impossible is always possible.”—Vanessa Diffenbaugh, New York Times bestselling author of The Language of Flowers
“Some books you quite like, some you even love, but especially rare are the books that remind you what reading is for. Glitter and Glue is my favorite reminder. Nobody tells a more natural story—with more easy charm, with such personal warmth and style—than Kelly Corrigan. In Glitter and Glue she’s your dream tour guide, making you laugh as she points out the biggies—love and death, mothers and daughters, sickness and health.  Buying this book feels like investing in a lifelong friend.”—Darin Strauss, award-winning author of Half a Life

From the Hardcover edition.

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 1019 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 352 pages
  • Editeur : Coronet (13 février 2014)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°343.923 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
  •  Souhaitez-vous faire modifier les images ?

En savoir plus sur l'auteur

Découvrez des livres, informez-vous sur les écrivains, lisez des blogs d'auteurs et bien plus encore.

Commentaires en ligne

Il n'y a pas encore de commentaires clients sur
5 étoiles
4 étoiles
3 étoiles
2 étoiles
1 étoiles
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur (beta) 4.4 étoiles sur 5  312 commentaires
52 internautes sur 59 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Enjoyable Read, but Missing Something... 2 février 2014
Par Sara M - Publié sur
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
I was swept through this sweet, sincere memoir in one sitting. While this was definitely well written and heartfelt, I couldn't help feeling like something (or a few somethings) was missing when I closed the cover. Corrigan finds herself analyzing her relationship with her mother as she interacts with the motherless children she has been employed to nanny. Though she has children of her own, we never get to hear how her experience with this family and with her mother has effected her relationship and/or parenting techniques with her own children. I felt like Corrigan couldn't decide if she wanted to write about her relationship with her mother as a child or her relationship with her mother as she went through cancer treatment. As a result, we never get a satisfying amount of information or reflection on either. Overall, I thought the book was a wonderfully nice read, but unfulfilling none the less.
12 internautes sur 12 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 A Well-Told Tale 22 février 2014
Par Ms Winston - Publié sur
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
Kelly Corrigan is a new author for me, but I will be seeking out her other works, as I was very impressed with "Glitter and Glue." This memoir was nothing like I was expecting from what I understood of the book when it picked it up -- I thought it was going to be a typical memoir of the author's childhood, with many stories of the differences between the author's mother and father. Corrigan's father is the "glitter" of the family and the title, but he hardly appears at all in the book -- he is the perpetual cheerleader for his daughter, always supportive and never critical. Corrgian's mother, on the other hand, described herself as the "glue" of the family, the practical, and generally critical, mother who rarely seemed to support any plan or scheme of her daughter.

But, the book is not much as I thought it would be -- rather the contrast of the mother and father are explored primarily in Corrigan's story of her 1992 summer in Australia when she was a young nanny to a family whose wife and mother had recently died of cancer. Corrigan had always assumed that when she married and had children she would be their glitter, and instead she found herself in a complex situation where there were no easy answers. The Australian family consisted of the father (older and an airline pilot), two young children (the names are not the same as the real life family), the father's stepson,and his father-in-law. In attempting to bond with the children, Corrigan finds that it was not simply a matter of indulging youngsters who missed their mother -- in fact there is very little discussion between Corrigan and the children about the mother related in the book, as most of that information comes from Evan, the stepson. Emotionally,Corrigan bounces between being her age (early 20's) and assuming an older role, rather similar to her own mother. In the near present time, we find out that Corrigan had had bouts with cancer as a wife and mother before writing "Glitter and Glue".

I highly recommend this book because of its conversational style, its tackling of difficult subjects (illness, dying, and death and how a family deals with the issue), and the age-old conflict between mother and daughter. My family was somewhat similiar to Corrigans, although my own father was an introverted cheerleader to my mother's very critical glue. One undercurrent of having a critical parent is the feeling that one cannot ever win approval from that person, and so when approval does come, if at all, it usually has more meaning than the easy glitter of the other parent. The true art in my opinion is trying to balance the two, knowing when to cheer and when to say "whoa". "Glitter and Glue" will give parents and their adult children much to contemplate.
21 internautes sur 26 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Better than The Middle Place and I didn't think that was possible 16 février 2014
Par Lucille Zimmerman - Publié sur
I cannot tell you how much I'm enjoying Kelly Corrigan's latest. Oh my, I find myself cackling and weeping out loud. This girl can flat out write! I think this newest book easily outdoes, "The Middle Place," and I didn't think that was possible. Corrigan re-creates a scene expertly and interweaves dialogue so true, you feel like you were there. The one question I keep asking myself: "Oh, I wonder if her mom is mad she wrote that?"

Corrigan has an uncanny ability to show a family's variegated dark and light sides while making you love them all the more. During her youth Corrigan struggles in the relationship with her mom who is old school, stoic, Catholic, stern, and appears to be no fun, while her dad seems to be the best. But after nannying a family in Australia, she learns how great it is to nurture---and how hard!---and she realizes her mom had to be the heavy so that her dad could be the fun one.

I resonate with the forlorn Australian family who loses it's mother. That was my family. My mom was very sick all the years I can remember, and she died three days before my high school graduation. I found myself wanting Corrigan to piece us back together, and I think she sort of did that (at least for me) in the writing of this book.

The author, young, fresh from college, looking for an adventure, shows up, out of money, and finds herself in this awkward family. You can see how her "normalcy" and her ability to nurture, brings healing to all of them. And the family heals Corrigan by giving her an insight of how much she wants to love and nurture others.

I can't imagine anyone not loving this book.
8 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Why the Fuss Over This Book 21 mars 2014
Par Word Lover - Publié sur
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
Glitter and Glue hit the bestseller list with a splash, which made me curious to read this memoir and learn who Kelly Corrigan is. The book is breezy and warmhearted, but I found it slight. First, it was literally slight—you can whiz through it in a few sitting. That’s not an issue. But I found it be thin in execution. Only while nanny-ing in Australia for a family with a recently deceased mother does Corrigan begin to appreciate her own no-nonsense mother back in Philadelphia. For those of us who in our lifetimes have found our moms to be in some way lacking, this is a fine message, but I wish there were more to the book—more wisdom, anecdotes of a more compelling nature, more depth.

For me, the book ended too soon, because the last chapter, when Corrigan reflects on what kind of mother she has become—one much like her own Mom—was the best one in the book. I was a bit bored by her Australian escapes. Grown-up Kelly seems far more interesting than Young Girl Kelly.

Also, I hate to be witchy, but during her rather long stay with the Australian family (a few months) Corrigan makes many references and draws comparisons to Willa Cather’s novel, My Antonia, that she found on the family’s bookshelf and started to read. She never, however, seems to finish the book. Did she read, say, one paragraph a day? Peculiar.
3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 I didnt connect 19 juin 2014
Par Half Fast Farmer - Publié sur
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
I have been on a memoir kick lately. There has been so much hubub about this book that it seemed like a must read.

Having now read it, I am not sure what all the fuss was about. Its not that its a bad book. It is fine. It just isn't great. Kelly's dad is the fun one. Mom is the practical one. Kelly doesn't appreciate this until she is halfway round the world caring for motherless children. She learns to appreciate the mothering of her no nonsense mom. Kelly reflects on these things while she is going through cancer treatment herself.

It feels like we are missing part of the story. I just didn't feel like Kelly connected to the reader. For that matter, I didn't see her really connecting to the other people in her life story. And she rather skips how this shaped her own mothering which would have interesting since their situation so closely mirrored that of the family she nannied.
Ces commentaires ont-ils été utiles ?   Dites-le-nous

Discussions entre clients

Le forum concernant ce produit
Discussion Réponses Message le plus récent
Pas de discussions pour l'instant

Posez des questions, partagez votre opinion, gagnez en compréhension
Démarrer une nouvelle discussion
Première publication:
Aller s'identifier

Rechercher parmi les discussions des clients
Rechercher dans toutes les discussions Amazon

Rechercher des articles similaires par rubrique