Dumb Dumb Dumb

PRAISE FOR Dumb Dumb Dumb...

Dumb Dumb Dumb gives the reader an insight into Mary Jo Pehl's remarkable mother-a woman of many contradictions. A voracious reader who kept ratings and synopses of everything she read. A taste for the pragmatic and macabre, she doesn't suffer romance and I found that delightful. Also, an interesting category of hoarder. New or slightly used items stored in her gift closet and donated to good use. Get ready to take notes when you read this book. It offers so much in the way of attitudes towards life and a kick ass reading list not to mention many laugh out loud moments seen thru Ms. Pehl's endearing wit.-Laraine Newman, Founding member of The Groundlings and OG SNL

Let's face it. Everybody's mother is a piece of work. But in this often hilarious book, Mary Jo Pehl has done the impossible: figured out a way to honor her mother's tireless efforts as a compulsive reader by creating a portrait of her using the hundreds of short and often terse book reviews she left behind. When combined with the carefully observed and lovingly crafted anecdotes written by a devoted daughter who was also a fan, Mary Jo manages to bring her family to life as a group of folks who are fun to hang out with.-Merrill Markoe, Humorist, We Saw Scenery

Poignant and laugh-out-loud funny. A quest for understanding memories catalyzed when Mary Jo Pehl discovers her deceased mother's hand-written book reviews. A wonderful read. -Jim Goldman, NYT Best Selling Author of Carolina Moonset

In this endearing and hilarious memoir, Mary Jo Pehl celebrates the relationship she shared with her quirky, wise and opinionated mother. It's about love and loss and how humor enriches both. Dumb Dumb Dumb is funny, funny, funny; tender, tender, tender, and a joy, joy, joy to read.-Lorna Landvik, Chronicles Of A Radical Hag (With Recipes)

Through her mother's hilariously terse book reviews, Mary Jo finds a funny and touching kaleidoscope of memories, emotions, and life. -Elliot Kalan, The Flop House Podcast; writer, Maniac of New York; former head writer, The Daily Show with John Stewart

There were two "seasons" in our family. January to February was "tax season," a shorthand that we would barely see my father for four months as he put in long hours at his accounting office, and usually in addition to his regular job. Summer was "garage sale season." This was when my mother would pour over the newspaper ads and seasonal listings under the heading "Garage Sale." The folded paper on her lap, my mother drove the station wagon full of us kids, sans seatbelts, cruising neighborhoods and looking for handmade signs weaving us through Circle Pines, and sometimes, excitingly, neighboring suburbs. My mother's job was to drive slowly past the sales. It was our job to eyeball the sale from the back seat and report whether it was worth stopping for. It was nerve-racking, and I got nervous every time I had to make the call. Sometimes as the car crawled by, she'd glance at a driveway full of used wares and sniff, "That's not a garage sale, that's a junk sale." And it was eyes back on the road and foot on the gas pedal.