Monday, January 21. Trump Shutdown, Day 31. It's a holiday; a lovely, paid holiday, and I don't have any work to do today. Normally, I'd have gone walking/running (lots of walking, with very little running) as soon as I woke up but it's about 50 degrees below absolute zero right now and I'm not stepping foot out that door.
Well, eventually I suppose I'll have to step foot out that door. But not at 7:30 in the morning.
I did eventually leave the house, to run some errands, literally. I went to several stores, running from my car to the store and back. Those mad dashes through the cold will count as my exercise for today. I made banana bread and there's chili cooking in the Instant Pot that I bought just about a year ago, and wrote about during another, much shorter government shutdown. I remembered writing about the Instant Pot, but I had forgotten that the other shutdown was going on at the time. Things change and they stay the same.
*****
Now it's Tuesday, Day 32. We are still funded, so I'm still working. I don't know how much longer that, or this shutdown, will continue, but I can't worry about that right now.
I suspect, though I don't know for sure (because I don't know anything for sure), that some Trump supporters are secretly sick of him but they can't give in now. They don't want to hear the I-told-you-so, the what-were-you-thinking. Of course, lots of Trump voters are still firmly with him. They think he's doing a great job. But I think that more and more of them are on to him by now; they're just not ready to say so just yet.
I have noticed that people who support (or used to support) Trump are hyper-sensitive to the slightest criticism or mockery of the President from any news or entertainment source. They're tired of constant Trump-bashing; so much so that even a slightly negative comment about him sounds to them like bashing.
And maybe they have a point. Maybe the media should shut up about Trump for a while. SNL's Trump sketches haven't been funny since Melissa McCarthy played Sean Spicer; and no one who watches MSNBC needs any more convincing that Trump is a heartless crook and liar. And as I mentioned here, what would be worse from Trump's point of view? More vitriol and satire from liberal journalists and comedians? Or stone-cold nothing--no attention at all. No SNL sketches, no MSNBC monologues or CNN panel discussions, no Washington Post editorials--nothing.
Of course it will never happen, but think how awesome it would be if Trump had no liberal bias to push back against, no convenient media foil, no Twitter fodder. What would he do during all of those hours and hours and hours of executive time? What would Sarah Sanders and Kellyanne Conway have to huff and puff about if no one attacked Trump? How would Fox News hosts fill their time?
It would drive Trump and his most vocal supporters crazy if his critics decided to just ignore him altogether, and that alone is a good-enough reason to try it. But there's an even better reason. Without any "bias" or "fake news" to complain about, the President's media enablers might have to defend him on his own merits. As they say on the Internet, how would that work out for them? How would Fox News and Sarah and Kellyanne and the Freedom Caucus explain why the administration didn't just get funding for the wall when the Republicans were in control of both houses of Congress?
Or how the tax cuts for billionaires will benefit the "white working class" whom they claim to love so much.
Or when we'll see an infrastructure plan.
Or why a President who claims to love the military can't get retired generals to remain in his cabinet.
Or how he plans to solve the opioid crisis.
Or how defunding the FBI, the Coast Guard, and the Transportation Safety Administration is consistent with the administration's alleged commitment to "national security."
I read today that Sarah Sanders stopped giving press briefings at the President's direction; because, as he said, the reporters are all rude to her. I suggest that they stop being rude. I would suggest that if she ever holds another press briefing, everyone in the room should treat her with great courtesy and respect, even deference. Don't ask about Russia--let Mueller worry about that. Don't ask about Cohen and Stormy Daniels. Don't call anyone a big fat lying liar. Just ask simple questions, which would force her to either answer them or not answer them. Either option would be instructive.
*****
The President has had two years to build a wall.
He's had two years to propose a solution to the opioid crisis.
He's had two years to propose a way to defund Planned Parenthood and divert the funding to free clinics that can provide healthcare to poor women.
He's had two years to come up with an infrastructure plan.
He's had two years to work on reforming the Veterans' Administration.
All the press has to do is to report on what the administration has done about any or all of the above. The answer, of course, is nothing. And that's because Trump doesn't care about any or all of the above (including--especially--the stupid wall). He cares about tax cuts for rich people and big corporations; and he cares about appointing judges who will protect the interests of rich people and big corporations. And of course, he cares about Trump. And those are the things that he has managed to take care of. Mission accomplished.
*****
Wednesday, Day 33. Oddly enough, SNL and CNN have not sought my advice, so I don't expect the media to change its Trump approach any time soon. I can't wait to not read the latest speculation about what might or might not be in the Mueller report, or when the House Democrats might or might not start impeachment proceedings. Tomorrow will be Day 34 , and no end in sight.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Friday, January 18, 2019
Rectangles, folded toward the middle
If you don't live under the proverbial social media rock and you have any female friends at all whatsoever, then you are probably aware of the existence of Marie Kondo, a tiny Japanese woman and exemplar of the 21st century phenomenon of organizing as a paid profession.
Professional organizers are nothing new. For about two decades, HGTV and Real Simple magazine and ten million blogs have proclaimed the life-altering power of cleaning and organizing and arranging. And I like to clean and organize and arrange. I am the prototypical suburban woman who can't function amid chaos. I'm a bit more compulsive about neatness than most people, but I'm a bit more compulsive about a lot of things than most people.If you are looking for mental health advice, you have come to the wrong place.
But much as I love a clean and well-organized room or closet or life, I don't like professional organizing advice at all. When it comes to cleaning up, it's my way or the highway. So when I heard and saw all of the buzz surrounding Marie Kondo's Netflix show and her earlier YouTube videos, I ignored it. I don't like to binge-watch, and I was also sure that the show would be exactly like every other before/after home renovation show.
I continued to ignore Marie and her joy-sparking, but she wouldn't go away. My friends on Facebook and Instagram continued to post before and after pictures of chaos turned to order. After I read an online review of the show that included the words "unmitigated kindness," I finally had to see it for myself. Unmitigated kindness is in short supply and if Netflix is handing it out, then I'll get in line. I watched a few episodes during the snowstorm last weekend, and although the show is produced and scripted just like lots of other before/after home improvement shows, it's quite different, even radical.
There's an episode in which a young family of four (the most delightful people you will ever see) is trying to organize and tidy their cramped two-bedroom apartment. During the entire 40 or so minutes that the episode runs, Marie Kondo doesn't speak a single word about eventual homeownership or the need to upgrade to a better and larger space. Nor does she just take a "do the best you can with what little you have, poor people" approach. Instead, she treats the apartment with great respect, showing the the viewer that this tiny apartment is a dignified and private family home, as important and worthy of care and attention as any HGTV after picture.
Speaking of the after picture, this is a big difference, too. In the episodes that I have watched, no new items are purchased or even suggested. Nothing gets painted or recarpeted or refurnished or resurfaced in any way. Marie uses boxes that are already in the house--shoeboxes, in one case--to arrange and compartmentalize belongings. The only difference from before to after is that a cluttered room or closet becomes clean and orderly, without the aid of expensive baskets or shelving systems or other organizing products.
The first step in what Marie Kondo calls the KonMari method is a huge purge of old belongings, by category, not by room. Although her Shinto-inspired Japanese approach is different from the American approach to organizing (she asks people to express their gratitude to each item before letting it go), the idea of purging old items is nothing new at all if you're an American woman who has been exposed to any form of media at all, any time during the past 20 years. What's very different is that Marie Kondo has no interest at all in making room for new things, which is the real reason why women's magazines and home improvement TV shows want us to clear our clutter. The KonMari method is focused only on clearing out belongings that don't bring beauty or happiness to their owners' lives. She calls it "sparking joy." If a thing doesn't "spark joy," you should let it go, and that's all. In the context of a TV show devoted to home organizing, letting go of a thing without any plan to exchange it for a newer or nicer thing seems almost revolutionary.
And it's lovely to watch. "Unmitigated kindness" is exactly the right phrase. Watching Marie Kondo is like watching Mr. Rogers, reincarnated as a smiling, beautiful Japanese woman in a twirly skirt and black ballet shoes.
*****
Just like the author of the review that I linked here, I watched for just a few minutes and was inspired almost immediately to do something, though not everything. There's no way on God's green earth that I'll ever follow the KonMari method exactly as it's prescribed because the sight of every piece of clothing in my house heaped in a pile will induce paper-bag-breathing hyperventilation that cannot be good for a person my age. I have to do it piecemeal or not at all. My way or the highway. I started with my spice cabinet and kitchen towels, and then moved on to a few drawers.
I spent part of my youth in the retail trenches, and I thought I knew how to fold. And it turns out that I do. I tried the KonMari folding method in my t-shirt and underwear drawers. The underwear folding method, I have to admit, is quite brilliant, and I will probably stick with it. But she's dead wrong about the t-shirts. They're much better folded flat. I mean it's nice that I can see which one is which, but I didn't have any trouble finding them before, and I'll probably go back to the old way. My sweaters and long-sleeved knit shirts are folded on shelves in my closet, and I'm going to leave them that way.
I have only watched a few episodes, so I haven't seen the infamous "30-books" episode. I suspect that the uproar about this episode is another manufactured social media controversy cooked up by grievance fetishists with finely tuned passive aggression skills. Anyway, I have a lot more than 30 books, by a pretty big order of magnitude. I might be willing to part with 10 or so. So in addition to t-shirt folding, Marie Kondo and I might also disagree on book collection size.
*****
The world is a little chaotic right now, even more so than usual. I think that it could get worse before it gets better. Maybe taking a few extra minutes to fold a shirt just so will make someone appreciate the shirt a little more. Maybe by appreciating things a little more, we will appreciate people, and life itself, a little more. That would be nice. But right now, I have an organized spice cabinet, and neatly arranged kitchen linens and drawers filled with stacks of compact little rectangles, folded toward the middle. And that's pretty good.
Professional organizers are nothing new. For about two decades, HGTV and Real Simple magazine and ten million blogs have proclaimed the life-altering power of cleaning and organizing and arranging. And I like to clean and organize and arrange. I am the prototypical suburban woman who can't function amid chaos. I'm a bit more compulsive about neatness than most people, but I'm a bit more compulsive about a lot of things than most people.If you are looking for mental health advice, you have come to the wrong place.
But much as I love a clean and well-organized room or closet or life, I don't like professional organizing advice at all. When it comes to cleaning up, it's my way or the highway. So when I heard and saw all of the buzz surrounding Marie Kondo's Netflix show and her earlier YouTube videos, I ignored it. I don't like to binge-watch, and I was also sure that the show would be exactly like every other before/after home renovation show.
I continued to ignore Marie and her joy-sparking, but she wouldn't go away. My friends on Facebook and Instagram continued to post before and after pictures of chaos turned to order. After I read an online review of the show that included the words "unmitigated kindness," I finally had to see it for myself. Unmitigated kindness is in short supply and if Netflix is handing it out, then I'll get in line. I watched a few episodes during the snowstorm last weekend, and although the show is produced and scripted just like lots of other before/after home improvement shows, it's quite different, even radical.
There's an episode in which a young family of four (the most delightful people you will ever see) is trying to organize and tidy their cramped two-bedroom apartment. During the entire 40 or so minutes that the episode runs, Marie Kondo doesn't speak a single word about eventual homeownership or the need to upgrade to a better and larger space. Nor does she just take a "do the best you can with what little you have, poor people" approach. Instead, she treats the apartment with great respect, showing the the viewer that this tiny apartment is a dignified and private family home, as important and worthy of care and attention as any HGTV after picture.
Speaking of the after picture, this is a big difference, too. In the episodes that I have watched, no new items are purchased or even suggested. Nothing gets painted or recarpeted or refurnished or resurfaced in any way. Marie uses boxes that are already in the house--shoeboxes, in one case--to arrange and compartmentalize belongings. The only difference from before to after is that a cluttered room or closet becomes clean and orderly, without the aid of expensive baskets or shelving systems or other organizing products.
The first step in what Marie Kondo calls the KonMari method is a huge purge of old belongings, by category, not by room. Although her Shinto-inspired Japanese approach is different from the American approach to organizing (she asks people to express their gratitude to each item before letting it go), the idea of purging old items is nothing new at all if you're an American woman who has been exposed to any form of media at all, any time during the past 20 years. What's very different is that Marie Kondo has no interest at all in making room for new things, which is the real reason why women's magazines and home improvement TV shows want us to clear our clutter. The KonMari method is focused only on clearing out belongings that don't bring beauty or happiness to their owners' lives. She calls it "sparking joy." If a thing doesn't "spark joy," you should let it go, and that's all. In the context of a TV show devoted to home organizing, letting go of a thing without any plan to exchange it for a newer or nicer thing seems almost revolutionary.
And it's lovely to watch. "Unmitigated kindness" is exactly the right phrase. Watching Marie Kondo is like watching Mr. Rogers, reincarnated as a smiling, beautiful Japanese woman in a twirly skirt and black ballet shoes.
*****
Just like the author of the review that I linked here, I watched for just a few minutes and was inspired almost immediately to do something, though not everything. There's no way on God's green earth that I'll ever follow the KonMari method exactly as it's prescribed because the sight of every piece of clothing in my house heaped in a pile will induce paper-bag-breathing hyperventilation that cannot be good for a person my age. I have to do it piecemeal or not at all. My way or the highway. I started with my spice cabinet and kitchen towels, and then moved on to a few drawers.
I spent part of my youth in the retail trenches, and I thought I knew how to fold. And it turns out that I do. I tried the KonMari folding method in my t-shirt and underwear drawers. The underwear folding method, I have to admit, is quite brilliant, and I will probably stick with it. But she's dead wrong about the t-shirts. They're much better folded flat. I mean it's nice that I can see which one is which, but I didn't have any trouble finding them before, and I'll probably go back to the old way. My sweaters and long-sleeved knit shirts are folded on shelves in my closet, and I'm going to leave them that way.
 |
| Yes, they all spark joy for me. Even the Capitals shirts. Even after the Nashville game. OMG. And no, I'm not going to show you my underwear drawer. Weirdos. |
I have only watched a few episodes, so I haven't seen the infamous "30-books" episode. I suspect that the uproar about this episode is another manufactured social media controversy cooked up by grievance fetishists with finely tuned passive aggression skills. Anyway, I have a lot more than 30 books, by a pretty big order of magnitude. I might be willing to part with 10 or so. So in addition to t-shirt folding, Marie Kondo and I might also disagree on book collection size.
*****
The world is a little chaotic right now, even more so than usual. I think that it could get worse before it gets better. Maybe taking a few extra minutes to fold a shirt just so will make someone appreciate the shirt a little more. Maybe by appreciating things a little more, we will appreciate people, and life itself, a little more. That would be nice. But right now, I have an organized spice cabinet, and neatly arranged kitchen linens and drawers filled with stacks of compact little rectangles, folded toward the middle. And that's pretty good.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
January
It's Saturday afternoon, and my house is full of teenage boys, gathered for what has become an annual playoff-watching chicken wing fest. I don't like football or chicken wings but my sons' friends are lovely and it's quite nice to sit by a fire and watch football players run around in the snow. Better them than me. But it's really really loud in here, and I think I'll retreat to a quieter room.
*****
Well. That's better. I can hear myself think. Better still, I can't hear Cris Collinsworth or the other guy. Al Michaels. I just looked him up. They're fine, I guess, but they're not Joe Beninati and Craig Laughlin. And football is definitely not hockey.
It's Day 22 of the now longest-in-U.S.-history government shutdown. I know that at least 30 percent of my fellow Americans agree with Trump's characterization of the Russia-collusion investigation as a "witch hunt" (or "Witch Hunt," I guess), but I think that investigation, when it concludes, will reveal that the President is is a paid agent of the Russian government. And whatever Putin is paying, it's money well spent.
*****
Enough about him. At least for today, I'm not going to write any more about Trump and his crazy tweets and his wall that he could have built any time in 2017 or 2018, except why would he when it was obviously a better political destabilization strategy to wait until the Democrats won an election to force the longest government shutdown in history? Putin is probably paying a by-the-day bonus.
No, I think I'll write a little more about this particular Saturday in January. I returned to my place of authority on the pool deck this morning, with my clipboard and my whistle and my favorite lanyard. Someone has to be in charge and it might as well be me.
I used to hate January, and I still hate winter, because it's cold and dark. But even though I don't like football, I like the festive mood that surrounds the NFL playoffs. I couldn't care less who wins any of these silly games, but I'm happy to have company and eat snacks and drink beer. On sunny days, I like the light in the afternoon. And we also have a three-day weekend in January, so it's not a month that's altogether without redeeming qualities.
But I still can't wait for summer.
*****
Sunday morning, Day 23. It started to snow yesterday and we have about six inches on the ground now, with more still falling. It's the first real snowfall of the year. I'm not sure if we'll make it to Mass this morning or not. On one hand, I feel that we should at least try to get there; on the other, I don't want to get stuck in the snow, and our street has not been plowed. So we'll see.
I finished Graham Greene's 21 Stories. 10 of the 21 were quite good. The other 11 were the kind of stories that I read all the way through because the writing is beautiful but then I wonder what the heck it was that I just read. And that's not a bad thing at all. I might re-read one or two of them. But probably not. I have a lot of stuff to read, and I'm not getting any younger.
Now I'm reading The Abolition of Woman: How Radical Feminism is Betraying Women, by Fiorella Nash. So good. Of course, me reading this falls under the heading of choir members listening attentively to the proverbial preacher. I already believe that abortion is terribly anti-woman. But in case I needed convincing, Ms. Nash makes the most compelling case I've ever read for the pro-life position as the only reasonable one for feminists.
(By the way, speaking of Day 23? In addition to having two years of Republican control to build his stupid wall, the President also had two years of a so-called pro-life majority, but Planned Parenthood remains fully funded. Weird, right? You'd almost think that they were cynically deceiving and exploiting pro-life voters during election years, and then just forgetting about them once they gain power.)
Among the most clear and logical of the author's arguments concerns the problem of maternal mortality in developing countries, which the abortion-industrial complex would solve by means of "reproductive healthcare," meaning abortion. Their real agenda, of course, is to cull the herd of poor people and non-white people. Nash asserts, correctly, that all of the causes of maternal mortality could be easily addressed as they have been in the West, in countries such as Great Britain where maternal mortality improved dramatically from the mid-19th century to the early 20th century, long before legalized abortion. It's a question of will, not capacity. If women and children were truly valued, we as a society would find a way to save poor women from preventable pregnancy- and childbirth-related deaths.
I would suggest that this argument could be applied to any number of issues that we treat as intractable and unsolvable. We are (for now, at least) the richest country in the world and we could easily make room for migrants and refugees. We have the most advanced technology and science in the world, and could solve the opioid crisis (how is that going, Kellyanne?) if we cared enough about the people who are suffering because of it. Our approach to most issues that affect poor people can be summed up in one sentence: There's just enough of us, but way too many of you.
*****
*****
Well. That's better. I can hear myself think. Better still, I can't hear Cris Collinsworth or the other guy. Al Michaels. I just looked him up. They're fine, I guess, but they're not Joe Beninati and Craig Laughlin. And football is definitely not hockey.
It's Day 22 of the now longest-in-U.S.-history government shutdown. I know that at least 30 percent of my fellow Americans agree with Trump's characterization of the Russia-collusion investigation as a "witch hunt" (or "Witch Hunt," I guess), but I think that investigation, when it concludes, will reveal that the President is is a paid agent of the Russian government. And whatever Putin is paying, it's money well spent.
*****
Enough about him. At least for today, I'm not going to write any more about Trump and his crazy tweets and his wall that he could have built any time in 2017 or 2018, except why would he when it was obviously a better political destabilization strategy to wait until the Democrats won an election to force the longest government shutdown in history? Putin is probably paying a by-the-day bonus.
No, I think I'll write a little more about this particular Saturday in January. I returned to my place of authority on the pool deck this morning, with my clipboard and my whistle and my favorite lanyard. Someone has to be in charge and it might as well be me.
I used to hate January, and I still hate winter, because it's cold and dark. But even though I don't like football, I like the festive mood that surrounds the NFL playoffs. I couldn't care less who wins any of these silly games, but I'm happy to have company and eat snacks and drink beer. On sunny days, I like the light in the afternoon. And we also have a three-day weekend in January, so it's not a month that's altogether without redeeming qualities.
 |
| Afternoon light in January. |
But I still can't wait for summer.
*****
Sunday morning, Day 23. It started to snow yesterday and we have about six inches on the ground now, with more still falling. It's the first real snowfall of the year. I'm not sure if we'll make it to Mass this morning or not. On one hand, I feel that we should at least try to get there; on the other, I don't want to get stuck in the snow, and our street has not been plowed. So we'll see.
I finished Graham Greene's 21 Stories. 10 of the 21 were quite good. The other 11 were the kind of stories that I read all the way through because the writing is beautiful but then I wonder what the heck it was that I just read. And that's not a bad thing at all. I might re-read one or two of them. But probably not. I have a lot of stuff to read, and I'm not getting any younger.
Now I'm reading The Abolition of Woman: How Radical Feminism is Betraying Women, by Fiorella Nash. So good. Of course, me reading this falls under the heading of choir members listening attentively to the proverbial preacher. I already believe that abortion is terribly anti-woman. But in case I needed convincing, Ms. Nash makes the most compelling case I've ever read for the pro-life position as the only reasonable one for feminists.
(By the way, speaking of Day 23? In addition to having two years of Republican control to build his stupid wall, the President also had two years of a so-called pro-life majority, but Planned Parenthood remains fully funded. Weird, right? You'd almost think that they were cynically deceiving and exploiting pro-life voters during election years, and then just forgetting about them once they gain power.)
Among the most clear and logical of the author's arguments concerns the problem of maternal mortality in developing countries, which the abortion-industrial complex would solve by means of "reproductive healthcare," meaning abortion. Their real agenda, of course, is to cull the herd of poor people and non-white people. Nash asserts, correctly, that all of the causes of maternal mortality could be easily addressed as they have been in the West, in countries such as Great Britain where maternal mortality improved dramatically from the mid-19th century to the early 20th century, long before legalized abortion. It's a question of will, not capacity. If women and children were truly valued, we as a society would find a way to save poor women from preventable pregnancy- and childbirth-related deaths.
I would suggest that this argument could be applied to any number of issues that we treat as intractable and unsolvable. We are (for now, at least) the richest country in the world and we could easily make room for migrants and refugees. We have the most advanced technology and science in the world, and could solve the opioid crisis (how is that going, Kellyanne?) if we cared enough about the people who are suffering because of it. Our approach to most issues that affect poor people can be summed up in one sentence: There's just enough of us, but way too many of you.
*****
Tuesday night, Day 25. I'm watching the Capitals take a beating at the hands of the Nashville Predators in what is likely to be their third straight loss. You can't win them all, and I'm not going to worry about it. At least I'm getting a paycheck, unlike a million or more federal employees and contractors almost a month into this ridiculous fight to keep Central Americans on the other side of the Rio Grande. Maybe it's part of a grander Russian-financed strategy to make the U.S. such a terrible country that no immigrants will want to enter. I'll leave with a few words from Fiorella Nash:
"It is the fatally disastrous blind spot in current human rights campaigning, the failure to acknowledge the rights of every member of the human family, but prolife feminism represents a human rights movement which excludes no human life under any circumstances."
The Capitals are losing 6-1 now. Until next week.
"It is the fatally disastrous blind spot in current human rights campaigning, the failure to acknowledge the rights of every member of the human family, but prolife feminism represents a human rights movement which excludes no human life under any circumstances."
The Capitals are losing 6-1 now. Until next week.
Friday, January 11, 2019
Dawn patrol
It's Monday morning, quite early (5:20 AM). I watched almost the entire Golden Globes broadcast last night. It was kind of boring, but I was still on the edge of my seat, hoping that no one would mention Trump. I applauded every Trump-free acceptance speech. It was like talking about a perfect game during a perfect game; I didn't want to jinx it, but I was too excited not to say anything.
Christian Bale had me worried for a minute, but he stopped with Senator McConnell (of whom I share Mr. Bale's opinion). Alfonso Cuaron expressed love for his native Mexico, and someone else (maybe the "Assassination of Gianni Versace" people?) said something about creating connections between people, rather than building walls around them or blah blah blah; and I'm sure that Trump and his little media minions will find a way to interpret those speeches as attacks on Trump. But for the entire time that I watched, I didn't hear a single direct reference to the President or his tweets or his 16-days-and-counting shutdown. I hope he's really disappointed. I hope that a whole bunch of Fox producers are scrambling to fill airtime that would have been filled with complaints about Hollywood bias against conservatives (by the way, Trump is not a conservative). I'm vindictive when I'm sleep-deprived.
Other than the Trump embargo, the show was pretty boring, but there were a few highlights:
Christian Bale had me worried for a minute, but he stopped with Senator McConnell (of whom I share Mr. Bale's opinion). Alfonso Cuaron expressed love for his native Mexico, and someone else (maybe the "Assassination of Gianni Versace" people?) said something about creating connections between people, rather than building walls around them or blah blah blah; and I'm sure that Trump and his little media minions will find a way to interpret those speeches as attacks on Trump. But for the entire time that I watched, I didn't hear a single direct reference to the President or his tweets or his 16-days-and-counting shutdown. I hope he's really disappointed. I hope that a whole bunch of Fox producers are scrambling to fill airtime that would have been filled with complaints about Hollywood bias against conservatives (by the way, Trump is not a conservative). I'm vindictive when I'm sleep-deprived.
Other than the Trump embargo, the show was pretty boring, but there were a few highlights:
- I love Carol Burnett SO MUCH and was so happy to see her receive this well-deserved honor. My children know who she is now, and they know how much people my age love her. I never watched "The Office" when it first aired, but I'm a fan now thanks to my children (it's on Netflix now and extremely popular among teenagers) and Steve Carell was a great choice as presenter. I choked up a little when he said that presenting the award was the greatest honor of his life. And my beloved Bill Murray was first on his feet for the standing ovation. This five minutes made the entire show worthwhile.
- Lady Gaga was the style star of the night. Of course, lots of women looked beautiful, but they're so scared of the fashion police snark-pundits that they don't take any risks at all. Lady Gaga doesn't care, and I love her for it.
- Mahershala Ali was lovely and gracious, and he was great in "The Green Book," which I saw with my sons. I wish that Viggo Mortenson had won, too, but I guess you can't compete with crazy Christian Bale. Satan? Really? Come on, man.
- I haven't seen "Beale Street" yet, but Regina King has been so underrated for so long, and I was delighted to see her get the recognition that she deserves. And her speech was great, too.
I fell asleep toward the end and missed the surprise wins for "Bohemian Rhapsody" (which I haven't seen yet, but will) and Rami Malek. And no recognition for "Can You Ever Forgive Me," which was a huge disappointment. Had it not been for Carol Burnett and Lady Gaga, I'd probably be mad that I missed a hockey game to watch this.
*****
Now it's Tuesday night (Day 18--I think my count was off last week) and I can't wait to not watch the President make his case about the "national emergency" on the southern border. I'm in the car on my way to Chinatown, where the Washington Capitals will face the Philadelphia Flyers at Capital One Center. Alex Ovechkin and Evgeny Kuznetsov are the only Russians I care about right now.
This is the first time I'll actually attend a Capitals game against my hometown team. I liked baseball when I was young, and I followed the Phillies very closely. My grandfather was a huge fan, and I was the only grandchild who was interested enough to sit and watch games with him (or listen, more often--we sat outside and listened on the radio). He taught me how to score games, a skill that I have lost altogether; and he taught me how to watch a baseball broadcast, a skill that I have retained. I still like baseball. I love the sound of it in the summer. I still miss Harry Kalas and Richie Ashburn.
*****
Now it's Tuesday night (Day 18--I think my count was off last week) and I can't wait to not watch the President make his case about the "national emergency" on the southern border. I'm in the car on my way to Chinatown, where the Washington Capitals will face the Philadelphia Flyers at Capital One Center. Alex Ovechkin and Evgeny Kuznetsov are the only Russians I care about right now.
This is the first time I'll actually attend a Capitals game against my hometown team. I liked baseball when I was young, and I followed the Phillies very closely. My grandfather was a huge fan, and I was the only grandchild who was interested enough to sit and watch games with him (or listen, more often--we sat outside and listened on the radio). He taught me how to score games, a skill that I have lost altogether; and he taught me how to watch a baseball broadcast, a skill that I have retained. I still like baseball. I love the sound of it in the summer. I still miss Harry Kalas and Richie Ashburn.
But even though Philadelphia was (still is) a hockey town and even though my grandfather also loved the Flyers, I didn't pay much attention to hockey. I remember the Broad Street Bullies, and I remember all of my neighbors pouring out onto the street to celebrate their 1974 Stanley Cup win (I don't remember 1975 for some reason). But for some reason, the game and the team didn't really speak to me. After the excitement of the Flyers' back-to-back championships, I don't think I gave hockey another thought in my life, until about 2010.
My husband has been a Capitals fan since 1980 or so. So for as long as we have been married (since 2000), I have been hearing and seeing games. But for years, the Capitals faded into the sports background, along with the Maryland Terrapins and the Washington Redskins and the Baltimore Orioles (pre-2006) and Washington Nationals (2006 and after) and all of the other sports teams that my husband follows.
Then in 2010 or so, I sat down with him to watch a Capitals game, and I found myself drawn in. Joe Beninati and Craig Laughlin were a big part of the appeal. They reminded me of Harry and Rich. The broadcast team is a huge part of the culture of hometown sports fandom, and Joe and Craig are a delight to watch and listen to. I started to watch more games here and there, and by 2014, I was watching games even when my husband wasn't home. So even though Philadelphia is and always will be my hometown, the Washington Capitals are my hockey team. And they beat Philadelphia on Tuesday night, after making the game more interesting than it needed to be, as they tend to do.
*****
It's really early in the morning on Thursday (Day 20). My son, who is 17, has high school swim practice on Mondays and Thursdays. For his first three years on the team, my husband drove him to 5 AM practices, and although I would wake up when they turned the lights on, I'd usually go back to sleep. Now, however, he is driving himself to practice, and I can't go back to sleep knowing that my son is out driving in the pre-dawn darkness. I have gotten used to having a child driving, and it's fine when he drives at night, but 4:45 AM is completely different.
So for the past two months, I've been up at 4:30 on Mondays and Thursdays, and I actually like being up this early. I don't like GETTING up this early, but I like BEING up this early. Given the choice, I'd still be asleep, of course, but since I don't have a choice, I can at least use the time to write a bunch of stuff that ten people will read. Time well spent.
*****
Friday morning (Day 21), 6 AM. I have no idea why I'm up so early this morning. No one is out on the mean early-morning streets; they're all asleep. But here I am.
It's not only Day 21 of the shutdown; it's also the first federal payday for about 800,000 feds who won't receive their paychecks. At least that many contractors will also go without pay, and there won't be any congressional appropriation to restore back pay for them. If anyone can explain to me how it's reasonable to shut down the actual government of the United States for any political reason at all, I'd be interested in hearing it.
Meanwhile, one of my retirement accounts lost $2,000 in one quarter. So thanks, Trump! Yes, I know it's not fair to blame him for the stock market downturn because I didn't credit him for the gains of 2017 and 2018, but it's 6 AM and life isn't fair.
I still think that they should just give him his stupid stupid wall. A wall is just a thing. It's not a policy, and it's not an immorality in and of itself. Forcing low-wage TSA officers to work without pay is an immorality. Ruining business for contractors and subcontractors and every food truck that sits outside a shuttered federal building for no reason other than political showmanship is an immorality. I could list 20 things worse than a wall without even thinking hard. Taking a job (President, for example, or Member of Congress) and accepting pay for it and then blithely refusing to do the work that the taxpayers are paying you to do would be one example.
Speaking of jobs, it's time for me to go do mine. Until next week.
*****
Friday morning (Day 21), 6 AM. I have no idea why I'm up so early this morning. No one is out on the mean early-morning streets; they're all asleep. But here I am.
It's not only Day 21 of the shutdown; it's also the first federal payday for about 800,000 feds who won't receive their paychecks. At least that many contractors will also go without pay, and there won't be any congressional appropriation to restore back pay for them. If anyone can explain to me how it's reasonable to shut down the actual government of the United States for any political reason at all, I'd be interested in hearing it.
Meanwhile, one of my retirement accounts lost $2,000 in one quarter. So thanks, Trump! Yes, I know it's not fair to blame him for the stock market downturn because I didn't credit him for the gains of 2017 and 2018, but it's 6 AM and life isn't fair.
I still think that they should just give him his stupid stupid wall. A wall is just a thing. It's not a policy, and it's not an immorality in and of itself. Forcing low-wage TSA officers to work without pay is an immorality. Ruining business for contractors and subcontractors and every food truck that sits outside a shuttered federal building for no reason other than political showmanship is an immorality. I could list 20 things worse than a wall without even thinking hard. Taking a job (President, for example, or Member of Congress) and accepting pay for it and then blithely refusing to do the work that the taxpayers are paying you to do would be one example.
Speaking of jobs, it's time for me to go do mine. Until next week.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
Ready and waiting
It's Friday, and I worked from home, with MSNBC as background noise and the shutdown clock counting up the days and hours and minutes. It's Day 13 now.
I was super-productive today. With far too much work to do and too little time in which to do it, I was forced to prioritize and focus, and I did. More work this weekend, but I have a plan and I'm going to stick to it, because I love when a plan comes together.
*****
Saturday morning; Day 14. It's 8:30 AM and I'm 10 pages into the proposal that I'm editing. The proposal manager emailed me last night to let me know that they're 8 pages over the limit, and they're hoping that I can help them figure out how to get rid of the extra 8 pages. Piece of proverbial cake. I can write ten pages on a subject that could probably be addressed in a single paragraph, but I absolutely excel at cutting the fat out of other people's writing. It's going so well, in fact, that I wish I didn't have to stop, but high school swim meets wait for no one.
*****
It’s almost noon now, and I’m in the spectator loft at the Martin Luther King Swim Center. Rockville vs. Einstein. I don’t have a job today, other than to sit here and maybe take some pictures, and cheer. It’s a nice change of pace. I do miss my whistle, though. But I suppose there’s no reason why I can’t wear a whistle around my neck. Who would dare to question such an iconoclastic fashion choice?
In the transition from parenting babies and toddlers to young children to school-age children to teenagers, many things change but still others remain much the same. You would think that teenage boys, having heard me explain the definition of “ready” so many times in their lives, would actually ensure that they are truly ready to leave when it’s time to leave, just so they wouldn’t have to hear me explain it once again. But it almost never fails. When it’s time to leave for a swim meet or any other need-to-be-there-on-time event, when I ask if everyone is ready, they will invariably say “yes,” all evidence to the contrary. Then, I will be forced to point out that people who claim to be “ready” but who are half-dressed, barefooted, and blissfully unaware of the location of their possessions, are not in fact “ready.”
There’s “ready” and there’s “getting ready to get ready.” They are two different things.
I was super-productive today. With far too much work to do and too little time in which to do it, I was forced to prioritize and focus, and I did. More work this weekend, but I have a plan and I'm going to stick to it, because I love when a plan comes together.
*****
Saturday morning; Day 14. It's 8:30 AM and I'm 10 pages into the proposal that I'm editing. The proposal manager emailed me last night to let me know that they're 8 pages over the limit, and they're hoping that I can help them figure out how to get rid of the extra 8 pages. Piece of proverbial cake. I can write ten pages on a subject that could probably be addressed in a single paragraph, but I absolutely excel at cutting the fat out of other people's writing. It's going so well, in fact, that I wish I didn't have to stop, but high school swim meets wait for no one.
*****
It’s almost noon now, and I’m in the spectator loft at the Martin Luther King Swim Center. Rockville vs. Einstein. I don’t have a job today, other than to sit here and maybe take some pictures, and cheer. It’s a nice change of pace. I do miss my whistle, though. But I suppose there’s no reason why I can’t wear a whistle around my neck. Who would dare to question such an iconoclastic fashion choice?
In the transition from parenting babies and toddlers to young children to school-age children to teenagers, many things change but still others remain much the same. You would think that teenage boys, having heard me explain the definition of “ready” so many times in their lives, would actually ensure that they are truly ready to leave when it’s time to leave, just so they wouldn’t have to hear me explain it once again. But it almost never fails. When it’s time to leave for a swim meet or any other need-to-be-there-on-time event, when I ask if everyone is ready, they will invariably say “yes,” all evidence to the contrary. Then, I will be forced to point out that people who claim to be “ready” but who are half-dressed, barefooted, and blissfully unaware of the location of their possessions, are not in fact “ready.”
There’s “ready” and there’s “getting ready to get ready.” They are two different things.
*****
Sunday morning; Day 15. It's 11 AM. I went to Mass last night and went running this morning, so now it's time to work. I forgot my Fitbit when I went running, which means that thousands of steps won't count. Fitbit steps for me are almost like to-do list items. I can't overemphasize how obsessed I am with the Fitbit. I'll write and tell you all about it, but another rime.
The Golden Globes are on tonight, and I'm not even looking forward to watching. If I had anything to do with the Golden Globes, I'd ask every single presenter, nominee, attendee--everyone--to not even mention Trump, or the shutdown, or the Mueller investigation, or Putin, or the fucking wall. Not a word, not a hint, not even a look to suggest that anyone is thinking about Trump in any way. What would bother him more--the usual biggest-resister competition, or nothing--no attention at all? Plus, wouldn't it be fun to screw up the Fox News producers' production plans for the week? They're all ready to spend the early part of the week complaining about Hollywood's bias against Trump, and they'll have to go back to the drawing board if no one plays along.
It's later now, about 7:30 PM. I'm watching E's "Live from the Red Carpet." Initial impressions:
Sunday morning; Day 15. It's 11 AM. I went to Mass last night and went running this morning, so now it's time to work. I forgot my Fitbit when I went running, which means that thousands of steps won't count. Fitbit steps for me are almost like to-do list items. I can't overemphasize how obsessed I am with the Fitbit. I'll write and tell you all about it, but another rime.
The Golden Globes are on tonight, and I'm not even looking forward to watching. If I had anything to do with the Golden Globes, I'd ask every single presenter, nominee, attendee--everyone--to not even mention Trump, or the shutdown, or the Mueller investigation, or Putin, or the fucking wall. Not a word, not a hint, not even a look to suggest that anyone is thinking about Trump in any way. What would bother him more--the usual biggest-resister competition, or nothing--no attention at all? Plus, wouldn't it be fun to screw up the Fox News producers' production plans for the week? They're all ready to spend the early part of the week complaining about Hollywood's bias against Trump, and they'll have to go back to the drawing board if no one plays along.
It's later now, about 7:30 PM. I'm watching E's "Live from the Red Carpet." Initial impressions:
- Lady Gaga was perfect, as always.
- When I exclaimed "Oh my God, Carol Burnett!" one of my sons asked me who she was, and I realized that I have failed as a parent. Failed.
- I have no idea what Henry Winkler is nominated for, but I can't help but root for him.
- Melissa McCarthy also loves Lee Israel, as of course she must to have played her so brilliantly. How am I supposed to make a sensible whom-to-root-for decision between Lady Gaga and Melissa McCarthy?
- Elisabeth Moss and Taylor Swift video-chatting? Adorable.
- No one is wearing a whistle. Probably just as well. A whistle is a lot of look, and few of us can pull it off. Not everyone can aspire to the fast-lane life and runway style of a high school swim referee. Don't hate me because you ain't me.
OK. I'm totally going to watch the show.
*****
Thursday, January 3, 2019
Bibliography 2018
January 1, 2019, 9:04 PM. Vacation is officially over, though I'm hanging on to the holidays with a nice glass of red wine. I don't mind going back to work. I worked a bit during vacation, so I don't feel completely overwhelmed. And i like my job.
But I'll miss the leisurely mornings. I don't sleep later than 7:30, even on days off, but the rest of my family does like to sleep late, and I love the quiet early morning with the sun streaming in through the windows and the luxury of a second cup of coffee. I'll also miss reading. Well, I read every day, but I'll miss reading for more than 15 minutes at a time.
*****
Speaking of reading, it's time for a new year and a new book list, soon to be handwritten in the back of my 2019 planner. Here's what I read in 2018. I thought that I read more books than this. Maybe I did, and just forgot to write them down. Well, if it's not documented, it didn't happen, so I'll only include the books that I remembered to write down. And they are:
Fire and Fury, Michael Wolff. Ha ha ha ha ha! Who knew that this was the good old days, amirite? In January 2018, Michael Wolff had no idea that shit hadn't even begun to get real. Ha ha ha!
Hillbilly Elegy, J.D. Vance. I wrote about this one here, and have not given it much thought since. That's not a criticism of the book so much as an admission of my tendency to become completely absorbed in something while I'm doing it and then to forget it completely the moment I walk away. I envy gnats their attention spans.
Is It Just Me? Miranda Hart. I wrote about this in the same post, and even found a way to connect Miranda Hart with J.D. Vance. They are both members of very small and exclusive clubs.
Textbook Amy Krouse Rosenthal, Amy Krouse Rosenthal. This was also covered here. I don't think there will ever be another writer like AKR, may she rest in peace.
Slouching Towards Jerusalem, Joan Didion. I am standing by my original post about this one, including my strong objection to "towards" rather than "toward" in the title. It's a small but important distinction.
The White Album, Joan Didion. Briefly reviewed here, almost a year ago.
Miranda's Daily Dose of Such Fun, Miranda Hart. I follow only four celebrities on Instagram: Katie Ledecky, Michael Phelps, Alexander Ovechkin, and Miranda Hart. I'll watch Miranda in just about anything, but I still can't believe that I wasted two hours on this silliness. I mean, it's not terrible or anything; it is just extremely uneven. Some of the daily tips are genuinely funny and original; many of the others read as if the author was facing a looming deadline and had to just get words on the page, no matter the words.
Going into Town, Roz Chast. Really wonderful. Not quite as good as Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant, but that's a high bar, even for Roz Chast. Going into Town is about New York City, past and present. It's both a practical guide to living in the city (where to eat, how to find an apartment, how to get from Point A to Point B), and an illustrated memoir of Chast's life there. Roz Chast grew up in Brooklyn and spent her young adulthood in Manhattan, drawing cartoons for The New Yorker. She moved to the suburbs when her children were young and wrote Going into Town for them. I hate calling any book or movie a "love letter" to a city, but the book's subtitle is "A Love Letter to New York," so I guess it's appropriate in this case. You should read this if you are one of those people who can't understand why people love New York so much. You should really read this if you love New York. I love New York, and I love Roz Chast. This was one of my 2018 favorites.
Bergdorf Blondes, Plum Sykes. So silly, and that's not even why I didn't like it. I like silly as well as (more than!) the next person. And I sneer at critics who dismiss any novel written by a young woman as "chick lit." But this book is ridiculous. I, however, am even more ridiculous; because apparently, I read it twice. I mean really.
A Gentleman in Moscow, Amor Towles. This list is in chronological order (not by date of publication, but by date of reading), which is the only reason that this book doesn't appear at the very top. It was my very favorite book of 2018; and in a year that included Joan Didion and Roz Chast and Graham Greene and Maeve Brennan, that is an accomplishment. I wrote about this one here and here and here. No, you don't have to read all of those posts; I mention them only to demonstrate that this book was special enough that I couldn't stop thinking about it, even when the Capitals were playing in the Stanley Cup final. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl, Mona Awad. I was certain that I mentioned this book at some point last year, but a search of my blog by the terms 13 and thirteen yields nothing. And now I don't remember very much about the book, other than the clever title, a play on title of the Wallace Stevens poem "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." You might think that a person who spends a third of her life reading and writing would be devoted to poetry, but you would be wrong, because I don't really like poetry very much. But I like this poem, and I liked this book.
Imaginary Friends, Alison Lurie. I mentioned this one here and here. And I never did finish it.
Leaving Home: Reading, Writing, and Life on the Page, Lynn Freed. This one was not on my handwritten list, but I remembered it when I was pulling old posts for this list. I wrote this post in Montreal, after driving past dozens of vacation trailers bearing the Je Me Souviens license plate.
Entering Ephesus, Daphne Atlas. I mostly hated this book, but I forgave it on account of a few great passages, including one about linoleum and Soviet Russia. You had to be there.
Lina and Serge, Simon Morrison. More Soviet Russians, some luckier than others. I don't have a strong opinion about the musical works of Serge Prokofiev, but I know for sure that I wouldn't have wanted to be married to him. Lina brought a handbag into the gulag. A woman after my own heart.
The Collected Stories of Louis Auchincloss, Louis Auchincloss. No Bolsheviks in this one, but still worth reading.
To the Barricades, Alix Kates Shulman. A so-so biography of an insufferable subject.
The Clancys of Queens, Tara Clancy. Another memoir, which I liked very much. After I read this, I saw a video featuring Tara Clancy and her mother and many of the friends she wrote about in the book. She asked the group why there are so few stories about working-class women, and her mother said that it was probably because they're too busy working to write about their lives. I also heard part of an interview on NPR, when Tara Clancy explained that she named her first son "Ray" knowing that people would automatically assume that a boy named Ray Clancy would be tough. There should be more boys named Ray.
Evita, First Lady: A Biography of Eva Peron. John Barnes. Another so-so biography of an insufferable subject. This was a coincidence, not a literary theme that I selected in advance. Eva Peron reminds me of someone. Who could it be?
The Long-Winded Lady, Maeve Brennan. Really, really good. I wrote about it here and here, and I don't think I'm done with it yet.
It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis. Well of course it can. Like most of Lewis's novels, this was considered very important and serious. And like most of his novels, it's not very good. Sinclair Lewis might have been an even worse misanthrope than Evelyn Waugh, and he wasn't nearly as good a writer. But the premise--that the United States could descend into totalitarianism after just one election--is entirely valid. This was published in 1935.
My Paris Dream, Kate Betts. My almost-last book of 2018. I was halfway through another book on December 31, but I think I'll count it for 2019.
*****
I wrote half of this after two glasses of wine, and the other half at 4:45 in the morning (I couldn't sleep). Maybe I should have noted this right at the beginning, as a disclaimer. I'll write more semi-literate book reviews for you in 2019. Happy New Year, and don't say you weren't warned.
But I'll miss the leisurely mornings. I don't sleep later than 7:30, even on days off, but the rest of my family does like to sleep late, and I love the quiet early morning with the sun streaming in through the windows and the luxury of a second cup of coffee. I'll also miss reading. Well, I read every day, but I'll miss reading for more than 15 minutes at a time.
*****
Speaking of reading, it's time for a new year and a new book list, soon to be handwritten in the back of my 2019 planner. Here's what I read in 2018. I thought that I read more books than this. Maybe I did, and just forgot to write them down. Well, if it's not documented, it didn't happen, so I'll only include the books that I remembered to write down. And they are:
Fire and Fury, Michael Wolff. Ha ha ha ha ha! Who knew that this was the good old days, amirite? In January 2018, Michael Wolff had no idea that shit hadn't even begun to get real. Ha ha ha!
Hillbilly Elegy, J.D. Vance. I wrote about this one here, and have not given it much thought since. That's not a criticism of the book so much as an admission of my tendency to become completely absorbed in something while I'm doing it and then to forget it completely the moment I walk away. I envy gnats their attention spans.
Is It Just Me? Miranda Hart. I wrote about this in the same post, and even found a way to connect Miranda Hart with J.D. Vance. They are both members of very small and exclusive clubs.
Textbook Amy Krouse Rosenthal, Amy Krouse Rosenthal. This was also covered here. I don't think there will ever be another writer like AKR, may she rest in peace.
Slouching Towards Jerusalem, Joan Didion. I am standing by my original post about this one, including my strong objection to "towards" rather than "toward" in the title. It's a small but important distinction.
The White Album, Joan Didion. Briefly reviewed here, almost a year ago.
Miranda's Daily Dose of Such Fun, Miranda Hart. I follow only four celebrities on Instagram: Katie Ledecky, Michael Phelps, Alexander Ovechkin, and Miranda Hart. I'll watch Miranda in just about anything, but I still can't believe that I wasted two hours on this silliness. I mean, it's not terrible or anything; it is just extremely uneven. Some of the daily tips are genuinely funny and original; many of the others read as if the author was facing a looming deadline and had to just get words on the page, no matter the words.
Going into Town, Roz Chast. Really wonderful. Not quite as good as Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant, but that's a high bar, even for Roz Chast. Going into Town is about New York City, past and present. It's both a practical guide to living in the city (where to eat, how to find an apartment, how to get from Point A to Point B), and an illustrated memoir of Chast's life there. Roz Chast grew up in Brooklyn and spent her young adulthood in Manhattan, drawing cartoons for The New Yorker. She moved to the suburbs when her children were young and wrote Going into Town for them. I hate calling any book or movie a "love letter" to a city, but the book's subtitle is "A Love Letter to New York," so I guess it's appropriate in this case. You should read this if you are one of those people who can't understand why people love New York so much. You should really read this if you love New York. I love New York, and I love Roz Chast. This was one of my 2018 favorites.
Bergdorf Blondes, Plum Sykes. So silly, and that's not even why I didn't like it. I like silly as well as (more than!) the next person. And I sneer at critics who dismiss any novel written by a young woman as "chick lit." But this book is ridiculous. I, however, am even more ridiculous; because apparently, I read it twice. I mean really.
A Gentleman in Moscow, Amor Towles. This list is in chronological order (not by date of publication, but by date of reading), which is the only reason that this book doesn't appear at the very top. It was my very favorite book of 2018; and in a year that included Joan Didion and Roz Chast and Graham Greene and Maeve Brennan, that is an accomplishment. I wrote about this one here and here and here. No, you don't have to read all of those posts; I mention them only to demonstrate that this book was special enough that I couldn't stop thinking about it, even when the Capitals were playing in the Stanley Cup final. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl, Mona Awad. I was certain that I mentioned this book at some point last year, but a search of my blog by the terms 13 and thirteen yields nothing. And now I don't remember very much about the book, other than the clever title, a play on title of the Wallace Stevens poem "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." You might think that a person who spends a third of her life reading and writing would be devoted to poetry, but you would be wrong, because I don't really like poetry very much. But I like this poem, and I liked this book.
Imaginary Friends, Alison Lurie. I mentioned this one here and here. And I never did finish it.
Leaving Home: Reading, Writing, and Life on the Page, Lynn Freed. This one was not on my handwritten list, but I remembered it when I was pulling old posts for this list. I wrote this post in Montreal, after driving past dozens of vacation trailers bearing the Je Me Souviens license plate.
Entering Ephesus, Daphne Atlas. I mostly hated this book, but I forgave it on account of a few great passages, including one about linoleum and Soviet Russia. You had to be there.
Lina and Serge, Simon Morrison. More Soviet Russians, some luckier than others. I don't have a strong opinion about the musical works of Serge Prokofiev, but I know for sure that I wouldn't have wanted to be married to him. Lina brought a handbag into the gulag. A woman after my own heart.
The Collected Stories of Louis Auchincloss, Louis Auchincloss. No Bolsheviks in this one, but still worth reading.
To the Barricades, Alix Kates Shulman. A so-so biography of an insufferable subject.
The Clancys of Queens, Tara Clancy. Another memoir, which I liked very much. After I read this, I saw a video featuring Tara Clancy and her mother and many of the friends she wrote about in the book. She asked the group why there are so few stories about working-class women, and her mother said that it was probably because they're too busy working to write about their lives. I also heard part of an interview on NPR, when Tara Clancy explained that she named her first son "Ray" knowing that people would automatically assume that a boy named Ray Clancy would be tough. There should be more boys named Ray.
Evita, First Lady: A Biography of Eva Peron. John Barnes. Another so-so biography of an insufferable subject. This was a coincidence, not a literary theme that I selected in advance. Eva Peron reminds me of someone. Who could it be?
The Long-Winded Lady, Maeve Brennan. Really, really good. I wrote about it here and here, and I don't think I'm done with it yet.
It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis. Well of course it can. Like most of Lewis's novels, this was considered very important and serious. And like most of his novels, it's not very good. Sinclair Lewis might have been an even worse misanthrope than Evelyn Waugh, and he wasn't nearly as good a writer. But the premise--that the United States could descend into totalitarianism after just one election--is entirely valid. This was published in 1935.
My Paris Dream, Kate Betts. My almost-last book of 2018. I was halfway through another book on December 31, but I think I'll count it for 2019.
*****
I wrote half of this after two glasses of wine, and the other half at 4:45 in the morning (I couldn't sleep). Maybe I should have noted this right at the beginning, as a disclaimer. I'll write more semi-literate book reviews for you in 2019. Happy New Year, and don't say you weren't warned.
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