The End of the Year

Thursday night: I’m at my sister’s house right now and cannot remember the WiFi password. She’s asleep, so I won’t bother her. Thank goodness for offline Google Docs. I can still write even when I can’t get online. Because wouldn’t it be the greatest of tragedies if  you couldn't read this bilge? Too much to contemplate, I know--too great a potential literary loss.

Meanwhile, just about a year to the day after I wrote this, I found myself at the Gateway Pharmacy, once again singing along to Chicago ("Searching So Long") and contemplating the purchase of several different types of fancy soaps. I think I go there just for the music. And the soap, of course. I bought several, and I’m looking forward to a very clean January.

It's hard to believe that the holidays are drawing to a close. Every year, right around December 14, I panic at the rapid and inexorable approach of Christmas, just 10 or 11 days away, with so much of my shopping and baking and decorating yet to be done. And then it’s December 27, and mid-December seems ages ago; nowhere near Christmas. It’s still holidayish, especially here in the Philadelphia suburbs, where holiday nostalgia is a way of life. But the magic is wearing off. The post-Christmas sales already look ragged and picked-over and children are a little frantic, desperately wringing every drop of fun out of their waning Christmas vacation.

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Friday: We finally made some decisions on the Ireland trip; most importantly, what place other than Dublin to visit. Our original proposed itinerary had us in five different places in six days, and since I can barely manage to force myself out of the house most days, I suggested that we limit it a bit and try to minimize the driving and checking in and out of hotels and spend more time just being wherever we are. So we have a compromise.

The place other than Dublin is Kerry, and now there’s an additional layer of confusion because it appears that Kerry and Killarney might be the same place but I’m not 100% certain and I don’t want to be the person who asks. Later this weekend, I'll have an in-depth chat with Google and settle the matter. Meanwhile, I’m up to my eyeballs in picturesque Irish names and I’m feeling like I just can’t. I steered us away from a trip to Bunratty Castle because I object to the name Bunratty. That name conjures crowds of Boston and New York and Philadelphia tourists, festooned with claddagh jewelry and sentimental about their Irish roots. Not to mention the two rodents in one name. No thank you. I'm sure we will find another Irish castle.  They have a lot of them in Ireland.

Saturday: We're back home now. Our house still feels very festive and Christmas-y, and we still have way too many snacks and treats. Just a few minutes ago, I was looking for another snack. I found a half-empty bag of tortilla chips from last weekend, when we had friends over to watch the sad sad Redskins game. The bag has a clear window in the front, and the words "Great at Parties," with an arrow pointing toward the window.

I thought about that little arrow. Was it meant to prove that there are, in fact, chips in the bag? Or that these particular chips have a special quality that makes them better for parties than other chips? Maybe the consumer is meant to watch these chips in action, on their best party behavior, vying for attention. "Invite me to your party," a chip will exclaim, "and I won't ask to take over the music selection!" A second chip will chime in. "Invite me to your party! I won't say ONE WORD about Trump." Then a third. "Invite me to your party! I won't double dip. I won't even single dip. I'm a chip. I stay away from dip altogether."

I don't make New Year's resolutions, but as I listened to the imaginary chip chatter, I realized that I'd better at least resolve not to eat everything that doesn't move, as I've been doing for the past few days.I put the chips away, and got some carrots instead. Carrots are quiet. They keep to themselves.

Sunday: I suppose I do make resolutions. I resolved to stop eating junk; and then I also resolved to stop spending so much money.  Five minutes later, I spent $150 at Ikea's post-Christmas sale. I went there for a lamp.

I just finished a book that I liked much better than I expected to. My Paris Dream, by fashion writer and editor Kate Betts, is kind of a memoir of Paris in the late 80s and early 90s, but it's more the story of Kate Betts' life and career, told through fashion. My Paris Dream is very different from The Long-Winded Lady, another memoir of a city. Kate Betts takes a broad view of Paris. She doesn't describe much, though the passing details that she does share are vivid and memorable. Her Paris is alive with characters and personalities, and her life there was so fast-paced and achievement-driven that she didn't have time for close observation of physical detail.

Though the books are quite different, My Paris Dream reminded me of  The Long-Winded Lady. Unlike the Paris that Kate Betts wrote about, Maeve Brennan's New York seems a very lonely place, populated only by strangers whom Brennan observed from a distance. But Brennan was very intimately acquainted with her tiny corner of the city, and makes the reader share her feeling of loss every time a building comes down or a restaurant closes or a quiet residential street is taken over by office buildings. Both My Paris Dream and The Long-Winded Lady were written by women who crossed an ocean to find the city that would shape their lives.

After Paris, I was at loose ends, deciding what to read next. I'm now three stories into Graham Greene's 21 Stories, and I'm completely absorbed. Our Man in Havana is the only other Graham Greene I've ever read, and the stories aren't quite as good as that, but they're very good.

It's the last day of the year, so this will be my last book for 2018, and my last blog post, too. This post isn't really finished yet, but I don't want to start a post in one year and finish it in another. Happy New Year.